Relatives visited the farm. Outside, the temperature was -25F. High winds swirled snow devils NW>SW across the south field. We had returned from X-C skiing. He picked up a book on Soviet intelligence operations in mid-twentieth century America.
“That proves Joe McCarthy told the truth,” I said.
A mathematician with advanced degrees from the finest American universities, he responded, “Bulls**t,” an acceptable opening to erudite family discourse.
“Have you read the f**king book?” came my witty riposte.
“Can someone open this wine?” The call from the kitchen aborted the debate.
Two months later, I return to the discussion, sans beau-frère [Read more…]