When I was a senior in college, I came home for Christmas vacation and anticipated a fun-filled fortnight with my two brothers. We were so excited to be together and we volunteered to watch the store so that my mother and father could take their first day off in years. The day before my parents went to Boston, my father took me quietly aside to the little den behind the store. He took out a cigar box, opened it and showed me a little pile of newspaper articles. “What are they?” I asked. Father replied seriously, “These are articles I’ve written and some letters to the editor that have been published.” As I began to read, I saw at the bottom of each neatly clipped article the name Walter Chapman. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d done that?” I asked. “Because I didn’t want your mother to know. She has always told me that since I didn’t have much education, I shouldn’t try to write. I wanted to run for some political office also, but she told me I shouldn’t try. I guess she was afraid she’d be embarrassed if I lost. I figured I could write without her knowing it, and so I did. When each item would be printed, I’d cut it out and hide it in this box. I knew someday I’d show the box to someone, and it’s you.” He watched me as I read over a few of the articles and when I looked up, his big blue eyes were moist. “I guess I tried for something too big this last time,” he added. “Did you write something else?” “Yes, I sent some suggestions in to our church magazine on how the national nominating committee could be selected more fairly. It’s been three months since I sent it in. I guess I tried for something too big.” This was such a new side to my fun-loving father that I didn’t quite know what to say, so I tried, “Maybe it’ll still come.” “Maybe, but don’t hold your breath.” father gave me a little smile and a wink and then closed the cigar box. The next morning our parents left on the bus to the railway station where they took a train to Boston. When I ran the store with my two brothers, I thought about the box. I’d never known my father liked to write. I didn’t tell my brothers. It was a secret between father and me. Early that evening I looked out the store window and saw my mother get off the bus—alone. “Where’s Dad?” We asked together. “Your father’s dead,” she said without a tear. She told us they had been walking through the Park Street Subway Station in the midst of crowds of people when father had fallen to the floor. A nurse bent over him, looked up at mother and said simply, “ He’s dead.” Mother had stood by father stunned, not knowing what to do as people tripped over him in their rush through the subway. Mother told us the shocking tale without shedding a tear. Not showing emotion had always been a matter of discipline and pride for her. We didn’t cry either and we took turns waiting on the customers. One steady patron asked, “Where’s the old man tonight?” “He’s dead,” I replied. “Oh, too bad,” and he left. I’d never thought of father as an old man. He’d always been healthy and happy and he’d cared for frail mother without complaining and now he was gone. No more whistling, no more singing hymns while stocking shelves. “The old man” was gone. On the morning of the funeral, I sat at the table in the store opening sympathy cards and pasting them in a scrapbook when I noticed the church magazine in the pile. Normally I would never have opened it, but maybe that sacred article might be there—and it was. I took the magazine to the little den, shut the door, and burst into tears. I had been brave, but seeing Dad’s bold recommendations in print was more than I could bear. I read and cried and then I read again. In the magazine I also found a two-page letter to my father from Henry Cabot Lodge, Sr., thanking him for the campaign suggestions. I took out the box and put them in it. I didn’t tell anyone about the box.