My parents were outgoing, hospitable people, their friends culled from among my father's associates at the office and from the women who along with my mother had helped to organize the Parent-Teacher Association at newly built Chancellor Avenue School, where my brother and I were pupils.

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Four nights per week Talk Time was with my mother and three nights with my father.

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Growing up I lived with my mother, my father, two older siblings and my grandparents, and I can truly say that I had the best experiences in life.

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To my father and mother, whose eyes were wide open with question, he showed the picture of my second brother printed in the morning edition of Kyoto Shimbun.

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He tried to do all of the right things for me in the time that we had together, but I was a quiet kid and like many boys related more with my mother than my father.

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My father, so thin and athletic, looked almost frail with shock, while my mother, whose beauty was still remarkable, and who was known on the reservation for her silence and reserve, had left off her characteristic gravity.

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Then my father went on a winter holiday to Cuba (my mother remarked on this with some surprise and maybe approval) and came back with a lingering sort of flu that caused the visits to lapse.

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My mother wrote letters to my father in the summer she rode with the Freedom Riders, and you know, I think that even as she might have imagined such a moment, I don't know if she would have believed that it could occur in her lifetime.

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