My paternal grandparents’ Jan. 18 anniversary was a big deal in our family and elsewhere.

A decade ago, my 88-year-old dad lamented being forced to stop driving.

One of my least favorite bumper stickers is “Ask Me about My Grandkids” — for a couple of reasons.

Recently, during my 9-year-old Boston terrier’s second echocardiogram appointment, I was not, unlike the first appointment, focusing on the intimacy of Cookie’s beating heart tissue and blood flow on the screen.

As a grade schooler in the late 1950s, I really missed my dad on Saturdays. Dad would close down his dental practice at noon, come home, and then jump into a car with Grandpa and a few racing pals and head to the local horse track.

This past Chanukah I gave my 21-year-old son, Matt, a gift of a book. Compared to Matt’s other gifts of cool clothes and a Budweiser can candle, I feared that the book would be rated a distant third.