One summer during college, I returned home to find my father stooped over the kitchen table, carefully divvying up cherries among at least a dozen Ball jars, which he had lined up in perfect rows. He was wearing his signature around-the-house ensemble: white karate pants, a Yankee's shirt (frayed at the seams), and decaying brown loafers. (When I was younger, he constantly wore a pair of suede moccasin booties with tiny beads on the toes—a fact I can barely believe now, although I... More >>>