To the people who came to Christopher Morley Park in Roslyn, he had no name. To them, he was “the ice cream man”. He was just two hands and a smile handing back ice cream from the van（面包车）window. To me, he was my older brother, Andrew.

    Once, he worked on Wall Street. But later he spent his days selling ice cream to an endless line of kids, moms and dads in swimming suits, perhaps daydreaming of a beach faraway.

    All day long, while he sold bags of potato chips, cans of soda, and all types of ice cream, he would do this sort of robotic motion—turn to the right, stoop down, hand the item out of the window and collect the money.

    His drinking days were over now.Theyneared their end one night after he took a severe beating when someone followed him home and robbed him when he was drunk. It left him memories of pain and misery. He was determined he would never take another drink again.

    One day years later, I went to look for him. I slipped into the high driver's seat and sat quietly watching him work. Occasionally, he would ask me to hand him a diet root beer or a bag of chips for sale, all the time bending over as he worked the long line.

    As I watched him sell ice cream from a van window, he taught me something about living this life that we all pass through too quickly. It was a lesson about trying to live it with grace and dignity and style, no matter what.

    He died in March 1999. He had served in the Army for two years in Europe in the 1950s. They gave him a soldier's funeral with a folded flag.