On the bookcase below the foot of my bed is a blurry black and white picture of my father, my brother, and me.
My father is crouched, smiling rougishly with his Clark Gable mustache and ears, wearing his CAP uniform, white gloves, spats, and all.
I am wearing his white helmet liner.
Chuck and I, tiny, are sitting against the hillside on either side of him in our maternal grandfather's driveway, and behind us three are a lawn and pine trees.
At a guess, it's the spring or summer of 1955.
23 Electric Street, Worcester, Massachusetts.
I am 6 and Chuck is 3.
Dad is 38.