I don’t know if my parents naturally had more patience than I did, or if they came by their patience through long practice, but they somehow managed to resist the temptation to leave me at a gas station after the hundredth time I asked them, “Are we there yet?” on our annual drive to Lake Nicaboyne in northern Wisconsin.

While walking through my neighborhood the other day, I was stunned by how much I suddenly missed seeing TV antennas standing tall on every house, each as different from the others as the families who slept beneath them.

Grandpa Kerth, my father’s father, died when I was very young, so I have few memories of him.