Seventy Mays ago, shortly before my father left for Georgia boot camp and ultimately France to fight as a paratrooper in World War II, 11 months before I was born, my parents were married. And, just like children everywhere, I never grew tired of hearing the romantic story of how my parents first met.It was the summer before at Lake George in upstate New York. My mother and 3 of her female cousins were camping out on an island and none of them knew how to get a fire going to prepare dinner. My father, who had canoed up the Hudson River, was also camping out nearby. Seeing the damsels in distress, he volunteered to light their fire. As my mother used to tell it she was the only single cousin of the group so the rest was destiny. As I like to tell it, my Dad lit the fire and continued to light it until death did them part.
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