Well.

The Old Man died a little over seven years ago. It's cliche to say that it doesn't seem so long ago, but it doesn't.

I miss him still in odd ways that I didn't expect. I miss all that he knew that I will never know. I read an alleged African proverb that said "When an old man dies, a library is lost." Ain't it the truth.

When I wrote my book, I gave some of my father's attributes to the father in the story. Certainly, he is more brutal than father ever was or every could have been.

But we are all products of our times. My father was born to sharecroppers during the Depression. He ran moonshine and worked in the mills.

He evolved, which we all do. He made sure that my sister and I were better off than he was. He was adamant about having good credit. He was my guide on so many things, leading me to be the person I became.

He was not always pleased with me. I was sometimes if not often ashamed of him. And I regret that more than anything.

The last few years of his life we had lunch together every Thursday. It was not always perfect, but we learned what not to talk about and which jokes would still make us both laugh.

I don't believe in an afterlife anymore. I think my father is just gone and that is a sad thought.

Someday I will be gone, too. I guess I wish the Old Man could help me along that path, too.