The short answer is that "RB1940" was my parents' Illinois license plate number.
The longer answer is this:
My parents, Rochelle and Bernie, met, fell in love and married in 1940.
The actual explanation goes something like what follows, but if you ask me on a different day, you might get a somewhat different response.
I was my parents' only child. As their only child, I enjoyed --that was not always the best word-- a special involvement in my parents' lives, and they in mine. This involvement did not end when they died ten and eleven years ago, respectively.
No, I have continued to speak to them and they have continued to speak their minds through me.
They created in me a special way of looking at the world. My mother was deeply suspicious of all authority. My father loved a good argument almost as much as he loved a good joke. Both of them shared with me their deeply held sense that all people are created equal. They believed very deeply in the promise of America.
Let me tell you one story.
In November, 1948, President Truman was running for reelection. This was the election that the Chicago Tribune got famously wrong in its early editions. I remember walking to our precinct polling place in the basement of the red brick house in the middle of the block. It was evening and the November light was fading. I held my mother's hand as we walked. I was six years old. Mom voted. Dad introduced me around to the other poll workers. Mom and I went home.
Dad was the Democratic election judge, an up and coming bright light in the Jacob Arvey organization --the 24th Ward machine. Dad had a good job with a big insurance company, and he had mostly stopped have nightmares about his time in combat in Europe. The Arvey people liked him because he was articulate, good-looking, a veteran and a dedicated Democrat. The 24th Ward went overwhelmingly for Truman who won the election in an upset. There were always questions about the honesty of the tally.
After the polls closed, the judges began to count the ballots. The ballots were all paper with a pencilled "X" signifying choices. The judges counted and tallied votes by hand under the watchful eye of the Democratic precinct captain. Some ballots were disqualified because the voter had not placed the "X" in the right place.
It did not take long for my father to recognize that the right place meant within the circle after Truman's name. If the "X" was outside the circle, or perhaps in the circle after names like Dewey, Wallace or Thurmond, the precinct captain was quick to call out disqualification. The first few such ballots were discarded.
Then it stopped. My father stopped it cold. He told the precinct captain: "I didn't just fight a war so you could steal votes." The precinct captain said, in effect, "Who says I can't?"
It is possible that a few heated words were exchanged.
As an election judge, Dad had the power to have anyone removed from the polling place who was interfering with the election. He told the police officer who was sitting by the door to escort the precinct captain out. This was done. The count was completed honestly in this precinct and Dad's promising political career was over.
