Some of my earliest memories of my dad involve waiting for him. Standing on the shady sidewalk outside our house, looking down the street for a glimpse of the massive black hood of his 1955 Chrysler sedan. Sitting around the dinner table, his empty chair conspicuously vacant. Lying in bed at night listening for the sound of the back door to open. My dad was a busy man, like most men of his generation. Coming back to the states after three years at war, taking advantage of a prosperous time in this country, he was building a business and an active social life and community life.