IN the autumn of 1950 George McPherson Hayes, Jr. returned home early from a business trip to Chicago, suffering from what was thought to be a bad case of the flu. The doctor told him not to worry, to take plenty of fluids, but the next morning he fell to the floor while trying to climb out of bed and was unable to pick himself up again. Just before the ambulance attendants wheeled my father out the door I saw him for what turned out to be the last time. He didn’t say anything. And yet the look he gave me still burns eloquently in my mind. I was only six years old. But suddenly I found myself towering above the uncharacteristically still body of my father. He was buckled and strapped into a stretcher, his arms and body stiff and shrouded by a navy blue blanket tucked tightly up to his chin. He looked up at me for a long quiet moment. Those trapped blue eyes which said nothing said more to me than a six year old is ready to hear.