Dad taught me how to write. He’d revise and rewrite the take-home essays assigned to me in seventh and eighth grade. I’d—well, he’d—get A’s, and then I’d eventually attempt to mimic the stylistic choices he’d made and the flourish he’d peppered his sentences with. He taught me words like permeate, conniption, obtuse, and behoove, and I’d incorporate them at recess with moderate success (“I BEHOOVE YOU TO PASS ME THE BALL”). Mom
