Not to say that my father, with all his astuteness, was a reliable narrator. He’d had to change history to live with it, and he did so resolutely. He’d been raised powerless, now he would have control. He could laugh at the darkest things, it was gentler ones he had more trouble seeing the humor in.
“He hated to see us laughing,” my sister once observed. And it was true. If we were laughing at something he said, it was fine. But if he came upon us and we were just laughing, for reasons he didn’t know, that was upsetting to him, somehow.
Of course, you must rely on my representations about my father. I knew him as well as anyone could, he told me that as he was dying. He regretted very much that he’d been too obtuse to let people closer to him. It was one of those terrible things you can hear people muse about as they lay dying.