Wonderful -- you've done your history so proud. Your essay reminds me of my father, a Man of the Fifties if there ever was one. My mom in a rebellious turn when I was 12, and against all desires of Dad, went back to work as a Labor & Delivery nurse at the city hospital. They required her to work every other weekend, hence a large measure of the source of my father's disgruntlement. The job of making weekend lunch for my father fell to the three daughters. It was a race between my sisters and I to make ourselves scarce at lunchtime, to avoid the sight of my father sitting silently at the kitchen table waiting for his sandwich, chips, and bread-and-butter pickles (just grocery store jarred I am sad to say, even sadder after reading your entry). One day, my sister made him the sandwich and the chips. No pickles. In his way, which anyone who has met him knows, he accused her of DELIBERATELY omitting the pickles. Last time she ever made lunch for him. Not to be confused with the cold toast at breakfast contretemps between him and my mom. Last time she ever made him breakfast (at least until he retired and they generally softened up.) Even now, if my parents come for lunch, I make sure we have the g.d. pickles. Somehow, I'm thinking that even if I did spectacular home-grown, home-put-up pickles, he'd be sitting, silently waiting at the table for the Vlasics...