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My father ran a corner drug store where he worked night and day, seven days a week, until he died of a stroke. He literally worked himself to death.

My dad was a workaholic. I saw him work seven days a week.

Most of my friends - when I was five, six, seven years old - their dads were working in an auto plant in Detroit until 5:30, and then they were sat in rush hour. They weren't around as much. My dad finished at three o'clock, so he was just around more.

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 dad took on every job he could get. He worked like mad. But then, at some point, he had saved up enough to open his first pub.

I had an amazing childhood, lots of love. But my dad worked his tail off, getting up at 4 in the morning and going off at 5, 6 o'clock, yet he always had time to spend with his kids and his wife.

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.

I grew up in a broken home. My dad was out of the home when I was five years old. I never knew him very well.

Mom was 50 when my Dad died. She got on a bus every weekday for years, and rode 40 miles each morning to Madison. She earned a new degree and learned new skills to start her small business. It wasn't just a new livelihood. It was a new life.

My dad died when I was 15 and worked way too much.