I began writing this column years ago in my parents' dining room, late one evening after another day of taking care of mom during her last months of life. A good majority of the time I watched her sleep and wondered what Dad was up to as he dealt with his emotions by shooting squirrels out the kitchen window. I went out of my way to avoid being around him – mostly because he'd speak the truth – and I wasn't ready to hear it, much less face it. It took losing his mind for me to change mine about the value of listening to Dad...
