Pinor Noir in Room 111

Dad liked watching Edward R. Murrow.

Figgy is baby-sitting up the block tonight, and H. is working in NYC, hired to write 60-Second Novels for four hours on his old typewriter at a fancy party. [Kelly Ripa is there, he just told me when he phoned.]

So Sug and I went to visit Dad at Van Dyk Manor. We got there at about 7:50. I decided to take along the bottle of French wine H. opened last night when we went out to dinner with Figgy. One of my fellow boot campers gave me the idea of bringing some spirits to Dad--she pours her mom a little nip of something whenever she sees her in assisted living, which is often.

We only had an inch or two each, but we enjoyed it. After all, his dad, from Italy, made their everyday table wine down in their Bronx basement.

I lifted my Styrofoam cup to his and said To survival--for both of us. We laughed. Later, he had me transfer his wine to a plastic cup from the nurses' medicine cart, because the thick Styrofoam lip was causing him to dribble a bit on his clean white T-shirt. Meanwhile, Sug nestled right up against his legs, or on top of them. She loves him.

We talked. I shared some worries with him, and he gave me calm reassurance, as he always has. Channel-surfing between a rerun of "Married with Children" and a scary update about the journalists being attacked in Cairo, I asked him if he had favorite newscasters when he was younger, and he said yes--Edward R. Murrow and another man whose name I can't remember now.

You would have liked Edward R. Murrow, Dad said. He said the camera would come in from the back, zooming in on a cloud of smoke rising up from a chair, where Murrow was sitting with his back to the camera, smoking a cigarette. He's right, I would like that.

Who did you watch him with? Did you watch alone or with someone?

I don't know, whoever was there. It was a regular thing--every night. If Anthony was there, maybe I watched it with him.

It was very good to see my father tonight. I am grateful for my Dad.

Good night.