The picture to the right is Dad with my two sons, Joe and Jim, on his lap. The picture was taken when Dad was in his late 50’s.
In Deadly Portfolio: A Killing in Hedge Funds, Alan McAllister recalls receiving word of his father’s death in the following excerpt:
He was in San Diego when the call came. He returned to his motel room to find the message light on. It was from Rene. His father had passed away that morning. His brother handled all of the details, and when McAllister asked if he needed any money, his brother declined. The funeral was held in the Catholic Church in their Milwaukee neighborhood. A funeral Mass. He remembered serving as an altar boy, the standing, kneeling, genuflecting, and memorizing the Latin which was later dropped for English. Even in English, the service was rigid and unwavering. He tried to find something in the service that would help him honor his father’s life. Prayer wheels could have served. Droning on and on, the local choir struggled with the High Mass for the dead. Nobody spoke of love, of fathers and sons, of how they could be together, understand one another, or fail to understand, and yearn to reconnect. How they could cherish their times together—hunting, fishing, working in the yard. Nothing was said of those moments in a boy’s life that created a longing for more—more than his father could offer. They drifted apart—the father failing to understand the son’s endeavors and achievements; the son tiring of trying to explain them.
The passage was drawn in part from my own life. I was in Oak Ridge, Tennessee when word reached me in my motel room. My father did not understand my work as a consultant, but it did not matter. We were close. I think of him nearly every day and I miss him.