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" Of all the family flashbacks that can make my sister and me laugh, the winner would be our father&amp;#039;s annual interaction with the Thanksgiving turkey. If that tableau had a title, it would be &amp;quot;Dad crawling into the oven with the bird,&amp;quot; driven by his baseless fear that the breast meat would parch itself into sawdust. And how did he make his diagnosis? Not with a thermometer or a timer, but by vigorously shaking the trussed drumsticks in search of a certain &amp;quot;give.&amp;quot; (PS: Undercooked, pink thigh joints were the unappetizing result.) My mother, characteristically, sighed and put up with it. My sister and I did, too. He was our comic relief, our smart, unconventional, and, above all, doting dad. He&amp;#039;d married late, rescued my mother from what was surely seen, in 1946, as spinsterhood (she was 37; he was 39). They wanted and loved children, and my sister and I were the lucky recipients of their very good instincts. Even in an era when parents spanked their kids, ours neither hit us nor banished us to our rooms. &amp;quot;Never embarrass a child,&amp;quot; my father later divulged as their child-rearing philosophy. Once, a neighbor asked my aunt if her brother-in-law \u2014 my dad \u2014 was all right, meaning, did he have all his marbles? The reason: She&amp;#039;d seen him pushing his firstborn&amp;#039;s carriage and exclaiming at regular intervals, &amp;quot;I love you!&amp;quot; As a child, I overheard a loudmouth ask my father if he was sorry he had no sons. His answer was so thoughtful and heartfelt that I never worried about my failure to be a boy: &amp;quot;When I got to the hospital and heard it was another girl, for a few seconds I was disappointed,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;But then I took one look at her, and that was that.&amp;quot; Fifty-plus years later, I still remember and still believe every word. As good a dad as he was, he was an even better audience. We four ate supper in the kitchen \u2014 my mother serving, my father presiding, Mr. Gusto in all matters. His own days at work were unfulfilling \u2014 he was a salesman with a Harvard degree, having graduated in the doomed year of 1929 \u2014 but career frustration was not something he talked about. Thus my sister and I had the mike at mealtime \u2014 and we could&amp;#039;ve been comedians on The Ed Sullivan Show, judging by the degree to which our prattle seemed to entertain. (Decades later, at an event sponsored by the Women&amp;#039;s National Book Association, I described my dad&amp;#039;s delight in his daughters&amp;#039; anecdotes. A fellow panelist turned to me and said, &amp;quot;A study of successful women showed they all had one thing in common: fathers who listened to them.&amp;quot;) My sister and I do solemnly believe \u2014 no, we insist \u2014 that each of us was, unquestionably, her father&amp;#039;s favorite child, the shiniest apple of his eye. The argument, as foregone as our dad&amp;#039;s turkey tussles, goes like this: &amp;quot;I was Daddy&amp;#039;s favorite child.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No, sorry, you&amp;#039;re wrong. I was.&amp;quot; We smile as we present the evidence of his devotion made visible. Finally, we agree to disagree, recognizing what a sweet and lucky argument ours is. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/inspirational-stories/a18934/daughters-remembering-their-father/>