WhenIwasaseniorincollege,IcamehomeforChristmasvacationandanticipatedafun-filledfortnightwithmytwobrothers.Weweresoexcitedtobetogetherandwevolunteeredtowatchthestoresothatmymotherandfathercouldtaketheirfirstdayoffinyears.ThedaybeforemyparentswenttoBoston,myfathertookmequietlyasidetothelittledenbehindthestore.Hetookoutacigarbox,openeditandshowedmealittlepileofnewspaperarticles.“Whatarethey?”Iasked.Fatherrepliedseriously,“ThesearearticlesI’vewrittenandsomeletterstotheeditorthathavebeenpublished.”AsIbegantoread,IsawatthebottomofeachneatlyclippedarticlethenameWalterChapman.“Whydidn’tyoutellmeyou’ddonethat?”Iasked.“BecauseIdidn’twantyourmothertoknow.ShehasalwaystoldmethatsinceIdidn’thavemucheducation,Ishouldn’ttrytowrite.Iwantedtorunforsomepoliticalofficealso,butshetoldmeIshouldn’ttry.Iguessshewasafraidshe’dbeembarrassedifIlost.IfiguredIcouldwritewithoutherknowingit,andsoIdid.Wheneachitemwouldbeprinted,I’dcutitoutandhideitinthisbox.IknewsomedayI’dshowtheboxtosomeone,andit’syou.”HewatchedmeasIreadoverafewofthearticlesandwhenIlookedup,hisbigblueeyesweremoist.“IguessItriedforsomethingtoobigthislasttime,”headded.“Didyouwritesomethingelse?”“Yes,Isentsomesuggestionsintoourchurchmagazineonhowthenationalnominatingcommitteecouldbeselectedmorefairly.It’sbeenthreemonthssinceIsentitin.IguessItriedforsomethingtoobig.”Thiswassuchanewsidetomyfun-lovingfatherthatIdidn’tquiteknowwhattosay,soItried,“Maybeit’llstillcome.”“Maybe,butdon’tholdyourbreath.”fathergavemealittlesmileandawinkandthenclosedthecigarbox.ThenextmorningourparentsleftonthebustotherailwaystationwheretheytookatraintoBoston.WhenIranthestorewithmytwobrothers,Ithoughtaboutthebox.I’dneverknownmyfatherlikedtowrite.Ididn’ttellmybrothers.Itwasasecretbetweenfatherandme.EarlythateveningIlookedoutthestorewindowandsawmymothergetoffthebus—alone.“Where’sDad?”Weaskedtogether.“Yourfather’sdead,”shesaidwithoutatear.ShetoldustheyhadbeenwalkingthroughtheParkStreetSubwayStationinthemidstofcrowdsofpeoplewhenfatherhadfallentothefloor.Anursebentoverhim,lookedupatmotherandsaidsimply,“He’sdead.”Motherhadstoodbyfatherstunned,notknowingwhattodoaspeopletrippedoverhimintheirrushthroughthesubway.Mothertoldustheshockingtalewithoutsheddingatear.Notshowingemotionhadalwaysbeenamatterofdisciplineandprideforher.Wedidn’tcryeitherandwetookturnswaitingonthecustomers.Onesteadypatronasked,“Where’stheoldmantonight?”“He’sdead,”Ireplied.“Oh,toobad,”andheleft.I’dneverthoughtoffatherasanoldman.He’dalwaysbeenhealthyandhappyandhe’dcaredforfrailmotherwithoutcomplainingandnowhewasgone.Nomorewhistling,nomoresinginghymnswhilestockingshelves.“Theoldman”wasgone.Onthemorningofthefuneral,IsatatthetableinthestoreopeningsympathycardsandpastingtheminascrapbookwhenInoticedthechurchmagazineinthepile.NormallyIwouldneverhaveopenedit,butmaybethatsacredarticlemightbethere—anditwas.Itookthemagazinetothelittleden,shutthedoor,andburstintotears.Ihadbeenbrave,butseeingDad’sboldrecommendationsinprintwasmorethanIcouldbear.IreadandcriedandthenIreadagain.InthemagazineIalsofoundatwo-pagelettertomyfatherfromHenryCabotLodge,Sr.,thankinghimforthecampaignsuggestions.Itookouttheboxandputtheminit.Ididn’ttellanyoneaboutthebox.