This is a horrible thing to admit, but the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Harry Callahan isn't the work he made over many productive decades. Instead, I always think of a silly anecdote.

As anyone familiar with Callahan's output knows, he made from seven to nine million nude portraits of his wife Eleanor. A friend who visited Callahan a number of years ago had an awkward reception. Eleanor, not Harry, opened the door. This momentarily confused my friend. There was an awkward silence as my friend tried to think of something to say other than the first thing that came to mind: "Oh, you must be Eleanor. Sorry; I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

"You know the word I've never seen anyone misspell? 'Fuck.' I've never ever seen it misspelled."

"Really?" (When it comes to fact-checking, I'm nothing if not rigorous.)

"Really," she replied. "A friend of mine was teaching in a new school, and after class a kid came up to him after class and asked how to spell the teacher's name. 'It's T-a-n-e-n-b-a-u-m,' he replied. He knew the kid had picked up the spelling correctly when he later caught the him writing 'Fuck Tanenbaum' on the sidewalk."

Of course, ever since she told me that story I've seen the word that's never misspelled misspelled everywhere.

"Hold it," I said. "So there's an Old Delhi as well as a New Delhi?"

"Of course," she replied. "How could there be a New Delhi unless there was an Old Delhi?"

I must have been thinking of the United States, where everything is new: New England, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, New Orleans, et cetera. I don't think there's an Old England, Old Hampshire, Old Jersey, Old Mexico, Old York, Old Orleans, et cetera, although I'm too lazy to check.

Every time Ivan tells me about his latest proposal, I imagine a scene in Minsk a century ago. There's a miserable serf scratching out his nth petition to the tsar that, like all the other ones, will never be read by anyone but him.

The syrup reminded me of Harriet Hammer, my first Serious (with a capital S) girlfriend. She introduced me to the sugary Mexican concoction when I was--when we were--teenagers.

A drunk driver killed Harriet twenty-some years ago.

I remembered her fondly last night. Memories are about all that's left of her. When I and her few contemporaries are gone there'll be nothing. And soon after that there'll be no trace of me either.

That's love; that's life.

I told Frank that I'd never heard the word "pragmat" before.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "I just made it up."