my father's memory seemed endless, once, now it is a sieve and going. it seemed like he had the history of both Cambridge and Provincetown in hand, in mind, for he grew up in both places and seemingly remembered everything. but. and yeah living with that change is hard. I remember stories, of his meeting famous people. I have hardly any such, but my father, ordinary as he is, has a few. my father went to see Gene Krupa's band soon after Krupa left Benny Goodman's band. a band member being indisposed (hmmm), Krupa borrowed a player from Glenn Miller's band. my father's up front listening to the band when who but Miller himself comes along to check out the band, and chat with my father. I think maybe Goodman (who played at my father's college graduation (Tufts 35)) also showed up. the time meeting a Robert Benchley feeling under the presumably bourbon-coloured weather on the ferry to Martha's vineyard. the funeral of a friend of my father's father found my father sitting next to and being consoled by Faye Wray. my favourite is when my father's flight was delayed for some important lardy pants. said lardy pants turned out to be Tip O'Neill (not the 19th century ballplayer but el speaker de casa). who sat next to my father and engaged him in talk about North Cambridge, where both grew up. all politics is local, as Tip is famous for saying. Beth and I remind my father of these stories, and he says oh yes, but cannot offer anything more. my father asks where the dining room is, where his bedroom is. even, once, my name. and the hurting resides in his recognition of the loss. and it's funny that his stories now are my stories.