Robert, the name my father adopted when he came to America, never lost his European formality. Typical dress was a pressed white shirt with cufflinks, a somber suit, Florsheim wingtips, and a homburg hat. His hair was slicked down with Eau de Pinaud, a Portuguese hair tonic, and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. His outfit reflected his demeanor: he was a serious man – which is why it was so wonderful to see him relax or laugh. Seeing photos of his younger days, you can already see his sense of purpose. My mother was a light spirit by comparison, and that optimism may have buoyed him more than he realized. When she persuaded him to wear casual shirts or branch out into pale blue, it was a banner day.
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