My father seemed indestructible, and we often thought he would outlive us all. On his 75th birthday, my cousin’s wife observed that the old man was still the one the whole family depended on in an emergency. She wondered what everyone would do when he wasn’t there anymore, and although she was not quite 30 at the time, she never got to find out.

He turned 21 exactly 100 days after the stock market crash of 1929, and economics forced him to pursue a career that began with long sojourns in the Far East. I’ve often thought he deserved a biography for the first half of his life, but it was the second half that inspired a tentative title: “Woodpile Rembrandt.”

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