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Stretched out on the couch, his berry-brown arms and legs looked warm and perfectly tanned. The calf muscles bulged from years of running everywhere he went. Dad was always late, often making us late for our Sunday dinners at my grandparents’ home in Coopersburg to the great annoyance of my mom and my grandmom. His jet black hair slicked back by some kind of hair tonic, jet black at 59 from a Grecian formula rinse. Dad prided himself in looking young. Most people would have guessed, “Forty-five?” That always pleased him.
His eyes closed, revealing long lashes and beautifully sculpted eyebrows that arched gracefully under a broad brow. A strong chin with a face that wore the map of Israel in a rather large nose, five o’clock shadow – no wrinkles – except for a few at the corners of his mouth created from smiles and laughter. Dad believed you couldn’t get by in life without a sense of humor and was always telling corny jokes and laughing at them.
His skin was smooth and silky to the touch. Chocolate eyes, deep and dark, could pull you in like a magnet. He lost an inch or two over the years but stood every bit of five foot eleven inches (although he would insist he was six feet tall!). High cheekbones gave him an aristocratic look, especially when he wore one of his Italian suits made of silk and a Fedora pulled low over his forehead. My dad could have passed for a Greek god.