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.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
My dad died when I was 15 and worked way too much.
My dad died of a stroke.
In the '70s, everybody was doing drugs, so long as you showed up and did your work, they'd use you until you died.
My father was a misanthrope who slept all day and stayed up all night so that he wouldn't have to see people. He ran a business with a large staff but would go there at night and leave things for them to do during the day when he wasn't there.
My mother Molly had a nervous breakdown after my father Chic died, aged 50. He was a very generous man who ran a shop in Dundee giving a lot of people tick. When he died, a lot of people hadn't paid their bills, so he died with a lot of debt. After he died, my mother went doolally.
My father worked all the time.
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.
My dad was a workaholic. I saw him work seven days a week.
My father, who was jailed for stealing on more than one occasion, just abandoned his fatherly responsibilities and disappeared. I grew up working from the time I was nine years of age. Money was a big issue everywhere I lived.
My father's whole life was work. He had a retail store in Ossining, New York, and I mean, he was down there at 6:15 every morning. The store didn't open until 9, but he hadda be down there. That's all he knew.