Ten Father's Days have come and gone since my father's death. "Daddy" to us until the day he died and ever after, he was an old-fashioned gentleman, and the most charming man you would have ever met...but when his charm shined on you, it was not to sell you anything other than a reason to smile. Oddments of objects that once lived with him and have come to live with me since his passing: a reel-to-reel tape deck with reels and reels of jazz recordings; an out-of-my-league single-lens reflex camera, well-used and well-loved by the man who was trained as a photographer in the Air Force; and a well-read copy of Hardy's Return of the Native. He grew up in Detroit during the Depression, and never wanted to return to life in a city. His last years were spent in happy retirement in a house in the country, with day upon day of gardening. The fall before he died, he planted hundreds of bulbs that he would not live to see bloom. At his funeral, his sons-in-law cried as hard as his children.