My dad is important. He didn’t understand most people. He was strong. A farm boy. An independent man. He ran away from home in the Texas Panhandle at 14 or 15 to New York hopping trains with a cousin. I sat next to him, shoulder, hip and thigh with my head on his shoulder. He held my hand. When he spoke, everyone listened. He’d had adventures, and if you were lucky you might hear a story or two. When he told a story the room was silent. I wish I would have listened more. I was born a motormouth in a family of quiet people, but he was always my answer man. I didn’t google things I didn’t know. I asked my dad. The day he died I got shithouse drunk. I argued with my husband about tow planes. I said, I KNOW MORE ABOUT TOW PLANES THAN YOU DO AND I CAN PROVE IT- of all things to a career pilot. I picked up my phone and I asked my dad. He didn’t answer.