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I thought my dad was out of work, because my friends had fathers with briefcases who'd go off somewhere with bow ties on. But my father would finish breakfast and go back to his room.

Dad was a retired chemist who, in his 60s, fathered and fed me and my two sisters while Mum worked as a secretary. He made us curries, Chinese meals and strange concoctions. He was often unsuccessful.

I remember opening my dad's closet and there were, like, 40 suits, every color of the rainbow, plaid and winter and summer. He had two jewelry boxes full of watches and lighters and cuff links. And just... he was that guy. He was probably unfulfilled in his life in many ways.

Mom and Dad were bibliophiles. Dad shared his father's love of westerns, Mom favored the likes of Zelazny and Heinlein, Howard and Burroughs. We owned several hundred books stored in trunks that comprised our portable library.

The old man sold beer after hours on weekends. And that was something that he probably did to top up his earnings as a truck driver. Mum was the traditional housewife. Loving, caring, sharing - always the keynotes of the family.

Some men's memory is like a box where a man should mingle his jewels with his old shoes.

Family dinner in the Norman Rockwell mode had taken hold by the 1950s: Mom cooked, Dad carved, son cleared, daughter did the dishes.

My father was the funniest guy I ever met. I'm not sure if I stole his stuff or if I inherited it.

My father thought of himself as a tradesman. A craftsman.