My dad, even in his 90s, had the mind of a steel trap. He remembered just about everything, and I am thankful for all the stories he told about his life. However, there is one thing he conveniently failed to remember.
When my sister and I were in high school and we were scheduling our classes, one of the requirements was two years of a foreign language. I remember wanting to take Spanish. I had heard it was the easiest to learn, and I deemed that it would be quite useful in my life.
Daddy was a strong figure in our family. He was kind, but firm. He made most of the decisions in our family, and my mother deferred to his judgements (most of the time). He advised us about our education and choices of classes, and he let me know in no uncertain terms that I would be taking Latin, not Spanish. My sister also took Latin. (When my brother, the baby of the family, reached that point in his life, he took German. I’m just saying.)