A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small Ohio town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.
As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger...he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries, and comedies.
Upon being denied, in the 1950's, membership in the exclusive Hollywood Country Club, because he was a Jew, Groucho Marx (whose father was a Jew, but whose mother was not) wrote a letter to the club's membership asking to be admitted.
We were standing in line outside a busy restaurant. The harried hostess was checking to find out how many people were in each group. "Party of two," the woman behind us said to her, "and could we please have Michelle?"