Eight and a half years ago, in the pregnant stillness that characterizes this sanctuary on Christmas Eve, I told you of my mother’s birth. It took place in New York City in July of 1915. She was the first child born to Agnes and Anton Meyers. Her last name should have been Markesich, but my grandfather changed his name at Ellis Island, figuring that “Meyers” sounded less foreign than “Markesich.”

As Laura Simms tells it, there is a Norwegian fairy tale which features a hero at an intersection looking at three signs. The first reads: “He who travels down this road will return unharmed.” The second: “He who travels down this road may or may not return.” The third: “He who travels down this road will never return.” As the fairy tale tells it, the hero chooses the third.

Every man should have a wife who is as easy to please as mine. When I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, she said: “You don’t have to buy me anything. All I want is a day of your time.

From time to time, I have both revealed my true age and tested the outer limits of your memory by talking about the games I once played as a child. But, to my knowledge, I never once mentioned that grand old standby of playgrounds everywhere, “Red Rover.”