My beloved father died earlier this month at the age of 92. Thank you to all of you who prayed for Dad and sent condolences on his passing. My mother, who turns 91 in a few days, is doing as well as can be expected. She is very settled in their apartment and has lots of attention from her extended family as well as devoted aides who love her and loved Dad, too. Dad’s life is proof that people who are happy and kind spread happiness and kindness in all directions throughout their lives. I am hearing from people I’ve never met who remember that he always went out of his way to be encouraging and caring. We honored him with music, old-time Methodist hymns, and storytelling. I believe Dad’s playfulness with words and his nonstop, ironic sense of humor comes from his Scottish side of the family, and so it is fitting that he is buried beside his parents and grandparents in the family plot started by his Scottish great-grandfather in a leafy section of Queens, NYC. The plot is on a hill and beneath one of the oldest red oak trees in NYC. The tree is several hundred years old and seven stories high. As I am mourning his presence on this earth, I take great comfort in the fact that he was here for 92 years, that he made the most of that time, and that he was the best father a daughter could ever ask for.