My Father

 Tomorrow, September 18th, it’ll be 25 years. My father died on September 18, 1985. It is such a long time ago and so much (good and bad) has happened, to us the survivors. I love him very much and when I think of him I admire him as I did when he was alive. My father was an immigrant in 2 countries, first Argentina in the late 40s, then America in the mid 60s. In both, he did very well. He was a self made man twice, though during the second time he was not a young man. My father was a generous man—he would buy my mother gold jewelry and other nice things . His favorite color was red (he loved watermelons and rubies) but he was no communist. The communists had confiscated the family’s property after the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917.

My father loved his accordeon and he played Russian songs on it when we had guests.

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