Earlier this fall, my wife and I were settling in for a relaxed evening. I’m typically immersed in early season hockey this time of year, but noticed that Lauri was particularly quiet.
"What’s up?" I asked.
"I was just thinking about Patrick," she replied. "It was a year ago that we lost him."
"Patrick" was Patrick Keough, one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever met. I didn’t know him well, but I knew him well enough to realize that I’m enormously indebted to him, and the life lessons he taught my daughter, Brynne. He died suddenly, of a heart attack, doing what he loved most — riding one of his horses here on Boston’s North Shore.
