A portrait of my pop
grew up in the fifties, through the fits and starts of adolescence, the revealing mysteries of puberty and the inculcation of ambition all Jewish boys are indoctrinated with before leaving home. Growing up I never thought of my father as handsome or ugly. He was just “Pop.” He was good to me as a kid, but was afflicted with a terrible depression that permeated his personality and behavior and prevented a close relationship between us. His perpetual sadness limited his sharing of his life’s experiences and wisdom gained that might have guided me from making some of the mistakes I made later in life. [Ira Spector]
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Lifestyles, USA








