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I was brought up largely by my grandfather because my father only returned from a prisoner-of-war camp in 1947 and worked in the nearest small town, so I hardly ever saw him.

My father was out of my life when I was pretty young - when I was 7 years old, he was gone. I didn't see him for the rest of my childhood.

I didn't know my father very well; I only met him a few times.

My father was never around, and my mother used to worry that the kids won't grow up to be connected to him.

I missed my dad a lot growing up, even though we were together as a family. My dad was really a workaholic. And he was always working.

My parents divorced when I was 3 years old. They had a lounge act in Las Vegas, where I was born. The band broke up and the marriage dissolved, and my mother, my sister and I moved to Southern California. And I didn't see my dad a lot growing up; he was on the road a lot. I'd see him every couple years.

I wish my father could be around.

Unfortunately, I never knew my father and when I did, it was very briefly.

My real father died when I was two years old, so I never knew him. He was a barber in Chicago.

For 20 years, my mother, my sister and I had seldom spoken of my father. If he happened to come up in conversation, pain and embarrassment entered the room and stayed until he disappeared back into the silence with which we all felt more at ease.