I was never an athlete like my father (Dick) or my brother (Tom) were. If a sport required sticks or balls or pucks, it generally required more skill and coordination than I had. I could run, though, and I ran track throughout my junior high and senior high school years. On a damp, cold day in the spring of my junior year at Harding High School, the track team had a meet at the home field in late afternoon. It was drizzling rain and I looked up at the bleachers as I stretched before my race. Among the five people seated there was my father, in his trench coat over his shirt and tie. I walked over to the fence and said to him, “Nobody comes to a track meet on a cold, rainy day.” He said, “I was in the neighborhood, and I wanted to watch you run today.” My father was always there for my brother and me. He was scoutmaster of my troop in the fifth grade. He played tour guide of the Pepsi Bottling Plant for my classmate Tom and me on Career Day in eighth grade. In high school, my friend Bill would drop by the house on Saturday mornings when I was sleeping in late, and Bill would spend an hour chatting with my dad in the garage before I woke up. (I secretly believed that Bill enjoyed hanging out with my dad more than with me.) My father was always there for his kids and their friends. Rest peacefully, Dad. And thank you for everything. Love, Tim