I’m dragging out one of my favorite photos of my father and me on Revere Beach, a few decades ago.

He was born on December 3, 1908 and did his best for me.

He told the story of going to school on the first day of the first grade. He had no shoes. The teacher took him out after class and bought him a pair of shoes. He was too embarrassed and never went back. At least, that was his story. I hope that wasn’t the reason. It would mean that an extraordinary good deed by a teacher backfired. I’d like to think he just didn’t like school.

Without benefit of teachers or books, he remained curious all his life, about history especially. He taught himself to read a few words but relied mostly on radio, and later, television programs. He had an innate sense of measurements and math and taught me at an early age to figure out the size of a room, or a house, and determine how much paint would be needed, or how many nails or slats of wood. How he did that without knowing 2 x 2, I wish I’d asked.