Leon is dead. He fell on Sunday and broke a leg. Two days after his presumed rebound from surgery, he died peacefully in his sleep. He was one hundred years old. Short, Jewish, with a big nose and a huge presence, Leon was a maverick and something of a flirt. He lived in Southern California and until two years ago, drove an immaculate white Buick with powder blue interior. 

That he drove a car so late into his 90s was a bone of contention for his family, the family of my dear friend and best yoga buddy, Andy, Leon’s grandson. I did not get to have a vote in the driving dispute, but when Andy called to ruminate and kvetch a little bit about Leon driving, I asked him if the glistening white chariot had any dings or dents. “It’s pristine,” he intoned somewhat deflated as he vacillated about joining the license-revocation camp of the family...

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