t must have been hard for my father to believe that he was really home, at last. So much had changed. He had been apart from Minnie almost as long as they had lived together. Linda, who was barely crawling when he left, was now almost three years old, walking and talking. After he had been home for about a week, she climbed on his lap and said, "You're my Daddy, aren't you?"

Medically, he felt a little rusty. For 10 years he had spent five mornings a week in medical clinics, before serving in World War II. While overseas, he spent more time as an interpreter, than he did actually providing medical care.

He decided to delay returning to his practice. Instead, he enrolled in a program in internal medicine at Cornell Medical School, on the lower-east side of Manhattan, to expand and upgrade his medical knowledge. He and Minnie and Linda lived in an apartment on 158th Street in Harlem.

1946 was an exciting year for him. He was revamping his medical skills, re-establishing old friendships, making some new ones, and getting re-accustomed to family life. Family life was developing in other ways, as well. Minnie was pregnant with their second child.