JULY 4, 1995, SHOULD HAVE been a happy day for me. It was not only our nation's birthday, it was mine as well. I turned 45 that day. But it was also the day my father died.
In the week prior to his death, my wife, Pat, and I visited my parents. While Mom and Pat chatted, Dad and I did the same. At 77, he wasn't well, suffering from diabetes and congestive heart failure.
After some small talk, Dad looked into my eyes and said, “Joe, my road is short. I'll be leaving here soon.”
The words hurt, but I tried not to show it. Then he came to the point, as was his way: He wanted his casket draped with an American flag. That right, he said, is…
