past stories

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A family portrait probably taken by my mother with her Leica using the delayed shutter. We are outside on the terrace of 1 East 87th St in Manhattan, the first home I remember. I guess that I am 2 which means that my sister Ann is 4. I idolized my sister because she dared me to do neat stuff. For instance, she taught me how to make water bombs out of folded paper; when filled, we threw them over the terrace fence. One day, I discovered some basic physics: targeting a lady in a big hat who was innocently walking up the street, I let go just as the lady passed below me; aided and abetted by gravity of 13 stories, the water bomb exploded onto the pavement; however the lady was now so far in advance that she did not even turn around. In later years, I often pondered what might have happened if I had the slightest inkling about the integral. My sister claims that she hit me on the head with a brick at about this age. I don't remember this, but I do remember when I was about five being severely punished when, perhaps on a dare, I climbed over the fence that separated us from 14 stories of thin air. I carefully eased my self around to where I could look in the living room window and wave at a guest who had come to dinner. As my parents later told the story, the guest I waved to that night was my fatherís boss at Time-Life, Henry Luce. My father was truly angry. Later I learned that fear and anger are often intertwined. 
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