out of the poorhouse. His Dad was poor. An alcoholic, he didn't want to be like his Dad, a lazy drunk, who didn't work and who couldn't support his family. Yet, the older my dad got, the more he drank. Alcoholism is a genetic disease. Luckily, it bypassed me and if I was to ever have a son or daughter, I'd have them checked for that defective gene.

At least, unlike his father, he was able to still hold down a job and support me well enough to put me through college. I give my Dad credit for that. Moreover, he wasn't a bad man. I just didn't see much of him. I never saw enough of him, actually, to even form an opinion of who my Dad reallywas. When he wasn't working, he was sleeping.

He never played catch with me or took me to a ballgame and forget about Father and Son day at the park. He was never around to take me. He had to work. Because of all that missed bonding time, we weren't very close, an understatement, we were distant. It seemed to me that he cared more about his job and his co-workers than he did me, his only child. In effect, because of all the alone time we spent together, I was closer to Carol. She knew me as well as my Dad should have known his son.

At first I didn't like Carol. I figured she'd become a wedge between my Dad and me. We weren't close as it was,