There is probably not much my dad loved more than patriotic celebrations, especially when they came with a parade. Every Memorial Day and 4th of July I remember sitting on the cement curb in Thornton, Illinois, or neighboring South Holland, with my skinny legs stretched into the street waiting for the parade to begin. Even though the sun was blazing, we always arrived early, which was okay with me. After all, you needed to be up front and center to catch the wrapped tootsie rolls they would toss out of the cars. The parade always began with local celebrities like the town mayor perched in the back of classic cars. My dad could care less about the people, his eyes were only on the cars. He could name every one: "Yep, Fifty...Two...Ford....Galaxie. Sharp...Sixty...Nine...Vette." Each word would be emphasized and deliberate. When one passed by that he loved, he'd let out a long, slow whistle. I intravenously absorbed car knowledge just sitting by his side. Next ca...