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Today is Christmas Lights Day. As readers of my “classic” – that is, outdated –columns know, Christmas Lights Day can also be called, although only silently, my dad’s birthday.My dad looks like a string of lights without the lights. I like to watch him untangle the long strands, skinny legs in green sweatpants lost among the loops. Or so I imagine: I haven’t spent Christmas Lights Day with my dad in some time.Vladimir Nabokov once commented, not about my dad, but about someone more theatrical*** writing “the way one person relates to another the most important things in his life, slowly and yet without a break, in a slightly subdued voice.”Steven LeVan might not write that often, but as my father, he has of course been, several times, the one to relate to me the most important things in life.He has a gruff, but also Gund-soft voice. He taught me how to watch football, how to work and how to forgive. His rule, always, was no whining.I can’t count how many of his tiny, invisible violins I wanted to bust up.
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