Philander Chase Knox resigns in June, 1904, when he is appointed to fill the Senate seat made vacant by the death of Matthew Quay, late of Pennsylvania.  Knox is known for his famous words to Teddy Roosevelt, "Mister President, do not let so great an achievement suffer from any taint of legality," made in regards to securing the Panama Canal for the U.S.  



Me and Dad.  My hand in his pocket, looking for stars or grains of sand.

Like Knox, Dad was a Pittsburgh man, born and raised.  They were also both in steel -- Knox was counsel for Carnegie Steel and instrumental in the forming of U.S. Steel; my Dad worked for Woodings-Verona.  They were both members of the Duquesne Club too, believe it or not.

When I look at this picture what I want to tell this man is that everything he might have been worried about in that moment holding me would never happen.  I want to tell him he can relax, that most of the problems he could have imagined would end up phantoms, evaporating without ever being more real than most daydreams in that long ago time and place.  I did not contract an incurable disease, I was not hobbled by Polio; I did not fall and break, I did not get run over, I was never to be afflicted with any permanently disfiguring infirmity or unsightly scar.  I have managed to retain all original fingers and toes.  I did not die young by starving or freezing to death or perishing in a fire.  I was not swept away by a cyclone or crushed by a boulder.  I did not fall down a well.  I have not yet been convicted of any major crimes or misdemeanors, nor served time in prison nor died in battle, either in front of or behind enemy lines.

So I want to tell the man he's off the hook.  I want to reassure him that his worst fears failed to materialize.  In fact, very little turned out the way he might reasonably have expected.  The hard part, however, is letting him know that although what did transpire was not his fault, not by a long shot really, I have managed at various times in my life to blame him for pretty much everything.  I've given him the credit for my failures, disappointments, hurts, lapses, lacks, indiscretions, slips, slights, even casual injustices and accidents of Fate. 
 
Do sons always do this to their fathers?  I don't mean to trivialize the struggle for either side, believe me, but I can tell you in my case it was always so easy to see where he'd gone wrong; so blatantly obvious to me how he failed to understand what I was going through or appreciate how very far short he was falling in being the kind of father I needed him to be.  

I don't want to taint the past by getting sentimental, but lately I've found myself wondering (genuinely, because I'm older today than he lived to be) whether I judged too harshly.  Unfair or not, I can see how I could have put more of an effort into the relationship.  Ironically, when so many opportunities are long gone and far behind, it doesn't seem like that big a deal to have tried a little harder to be the kind of son he might have wanted or needed or hoped for.  Or at least I could have been nicer about it.  Now it doesn't seem like all that much to ask.