My dad was a third-generation printer and linotype operator, by all accounts a fabulous ballroom dancer. He was jettisoned from the family before I was 2, and I have never met him and have no memory of him.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
My father was a very warm, gregarious, sociable person who had many interests. He lived his life very much in the present, full of activities and the next project. He had many hobbies. He was not given to retrospection.
My father was never around. It was almost as if he didn't exist. I would tell my friends he was in Cleveland, on business. Sometimes, every six months or so, he would come by for dinner.
My dad photographed a lot of beautiful dancers. My mom was a dancer.
When I was really young, Dad wasn't that well known. I don't remember when I realised he was a writer, but I do remember him leaving his full-time job at the Central Electrical Generating Board to concentrate on books.
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 dad was a jingle writer, and my mom was a jewelry designer and musician.
My father, an architectural photographer, was an incurable tinkerer, maker and mender.
My real father died when I was two years old, so I never knew him. He was a barber in Chicago.
My dad was this sort of avant-garde guy who did all kinds of weird things. He was a true original and anybody who met him never forgot him.
My dad was the baby. When he was born they were already successful. They sent him to business school - he probably would have loved to have been a poet or a writer or something, and he was very creative.