My father did not golf or ski or train birds of prey to be dependent on him. He was a doctor who continued to treat people even when their insurance companies stopped paying—one of the reasons that when he was ejected from his 1993 aquamarine Chevy Cavalier at many miles per fatal hour, my mother and I were forced to sell his practice and, later, our home, before his ashes had settled.
Because everything is connected, I had just been telling Fox, my daughter, about the grandfather she has never met, about how he had passed along his unpropitious opinion of men who participated in the “sport of kings,” as we participated in such an activity over this past Thanksgiving weekend.
