In the beginning...

   I was born on a frigid winter night in Pennsylvania Hospital, the nation's first and oldest on the 28th day of February in the Year of Our Lord 1938.
   My father was absent at my birth due to his inpatient status as a alcoholic at the Philadelphia Hospital, then the nation's first and oldest mental hospital.
   Of note: Thanks to my parents' social status, I was delivered by one of Philadelphia's most prominent physicians.
    Oh yes.
    I am told my father was given a brief pass that enabled him to navigate the several ice-covered blocks that separated the two historic hospitals to see his newborn second son and namesake: John Keed Boniface deGroot II.   
    Early on, I asked my parents why they chose to make me a II rather than a Junior.
    But they were unable to remember how or why.  
    "I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time," my mother explained.
    Looking back after 77  years, I think most of my life has been governed by choices that seemed like good ideas at the time.
    This was certainly the case with my three marriages.
    As well as my career as a journalist.
    And also my intoxicated attempts to pick up  strange women while dressed as a Catholic priest.
    Sic transit woo-woo!