ABSTRACT
Late August, 1933. My father and I stood facing each other on a street corner in St. Paul, Minnesota. I would turn fifteen in three weeks; although he was no more than fifty-two, he looked much older, frowning and troubled. “I’ve got ten dollars,” he said, “and that’s all I’ve got.” He rummaged in his wallet. “Here’s five. I’m sorry it isn’t more.”
