The chairman of the Florida Republican Party had some advice: “Never apologize. Ever. This is my view. Other people have different views on this. I think apologizing makes you weak.” I begin my Impromptus today with this idea. I end with Léon Gautier, who was the last surviving French commando from D-Day. He has died at 100.

For that column, go here.

Some mail? First, the darkest of subjects:

Dear Jay,

The stories and pictures you show about Ukraine make me uncomfortable. I don’t like seeing them. They make my gut twist. BUT. I need to see them. I need my gut to twist. I need to be uncomfortable. I don’t like it, but I also don’t want to be so complacent in my own comfortable life that I hide my eyes from other people’s pain and suffering.

Something less dark, much — music:

Jay,

I greatly enjoyed your Independence Day episode of Music for a While [here] and I wonder: Next year, will you include some John Williams, either film or “serious”? So much to choose from!

You probably already know the story I first heard last year in an interview with Williams on Classic FM. He matriculated at Juilliard as an accomplished pianist, but after hearing his classmate Van Cliburn through the closed practice-room door, he called his mother and said, “Mom, I have to think of a different career.” Things worked out pretty well for him!

This reader closes,

Take care and I wish you a wonderful Independence Day from the aptly named Emerald Coast in Santa Rosa Beach, Fla.

His photographic evidence of the aforementioned emeraldness:

In a column last Monday, I pasted the below, saying, “Où sont les neiges d’antan? I remember these ladies well — or ones much like them.”

A reader writes,

Dear Jay,

I loved the classic photo of the Tiger Stadium concession ladies. It reminded me of this: I spent a good portion of the summer of ’68 sitting in the bleachers. When it was my turn to buy the beers one hot Sunday afternoon, I approached the beer stand (could it have been the one in your photo?) and confidently ordered four Stroh’s. The stern concession lady asked to see some ID.

Fumbling in my back pocket, I found the valuable item that my brother had gifted me after he turned 21. It was my fake Michigan driver’s license. In those days pretty much any scrap of paper would do. And this was just that: a soggy, dog-eared card (we’re talking pre-lamination) with something very official such as “State of Michigan Driver’s License” stamped at the top. For good measure, I think the card may have also featured the seal of our great state along with George Romney’s signature. My a.k.a. was “Eric W. Tulane,” a fictitious fellow beer-drinker who had clearly celebrated his 21st some time back. I nervously presented my “proof” to my friend behind the counter.

Chuckling slightly, she looked me in the eye and asked, “What is your middle name?” I was fully prepared on my date of birth, but this question temporarily flummoxed me. Fortunately, I was able to call up the visual image of the “W.” But now I needed to put a name with that. A few tense seconds passed before I blurted out the first name that came to mind: “Wayne!”

“So your name is Eric Wayne Tulane?” she asked in a purposefully sing-songy voice. “Yep, that’s me!” I detected just a hint of a smile from her as she poured me four Stroh’s.

For the rest of that magical Tiger summer I was known to my bleacher buddies as “Wayne Tulane.”

Marvelous. Thank you to one and all.