“Hope I die before I get old.” That was then. Now my role model is Uncle Hank, who died this month at 98. At lunch over a fish sandwich and a beer, he’d talk with wonderful lucidity about everything from politics to the theory of relativity. We’d drive through Cherokee Park and visit his parents’ grave in St. Michael’s. “I’m going to be up on that hill,” he’d say, “though I don’t know exactly where.” I still don’t, due to the plague. I’ll find it soon—hopefully after a fish sandwich and a beer in his memory. RIP Uncle Hank.