On April 3rd 1999, we scattered my father's ashes in a small wooded area at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. He'd died a week or so earlier; but my mother took the fancy to do this on his birthday. He was just shy of 88 when he died.

If he were alive today, he'd have just turned 115. Which obviously not, of course—but, boy, how time flies!

My sister has just posted a reminiscence about him. He was a fascinating man, far ahead of his time in many ways.