My father has said one thing about it, once, in four years.

He came to Madison in the November of that first year to help me move a chest of drawers, and he did not mention it all day, and at the door on the way out he said, without looking at me:

“Your mother says I should talk to you about it and I’m not going to be any good at it.”

And I said, “That’s all right, Dad.”