Father's Day has passed. I'm thinking of the men who were not my father but greatly influenced me. 

Amongst them is Joe Rober, the intellectually brilliant, ridiculously handsome, perennially irascible father of my equally gifted dear friend Bruno Rober.  Joe and I struck up a long-running email correspondence. Joe was never shy about sharing his opinions. Joe could be brutally snarky and seldom missed an opportunity to mercilessly critique my "bizarre grammatical idiosyncrasies".

Here's an excerpt from a small exchange Joe and I had about the correct spelling of chutzpah. Joe explained down to me that:

The "ch..." is pronounced not like an "h" but as though you are clearing your throat.  I'm sure there's a technical term, like glottal or something else.  The "c" is not silent; don't make that mistake as an excuse for your poor spelling; it's playing an essential role in the whole thing.

Joe played straight with everyone bold enough to write to him, so I took my punches on the chin without complaint.  I often struggled intellectually to keep up with Joe; fortunately, he indulged my failings and always honestly (forensically) responded to my clumsy questions on matters of the week or events of the day that had piqued our mutual interest. In many ways, Joe took me through various online courses at the Joe Rober Academy of Poetics. Joe passed away a few years back. His passing was sudden and too soon. He was intelligent and charismatic and always followed his own North Star. Each passing year reminds those fortunate enough to know Joe how singularly irreplaceable he is.