My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
We had thought it important to make a contribution, to somehow give a gift to the world, to bring about a better society, and almost always it was on a grand scale. Over time, it has seemed smaller and more intimate gifts are better ones.
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