My father—my father was one of my heroes. When he came home for lunch (almost always a late lunch at 4 in the afternoon), he would have his meal with a glass or 2 of Chianti wine. I see the bottle of Chianti, the old fashioned bottle, in its straw-like basket on top of the white tablecloth. The white glass with the red liquid was by his plate. I sat next to him and we would talk. That was the only time during the day I got to be with him. My father worked long hard, often 12 or 14 hours per day. I didn’t need to eat my own lunch. Being with him was enough.