Many of you know last February my dad passed away. It was, without a doubt, one of the single hardest times in my life. But what you may not have know was that my dad wasn't my biological father. My biological father may have passed away last week, and been the man Gretchen found in the park, or he may be alive and well picking through the trash near Union Station. I don't know. I last had contact with my biological father at the age of 13. He called to talk to me and I handed the phone to my mom, telling him I knew who he was and didn't want to talk to him. He honored my 13 year request. No one has heard from him since. I don't know what happened in the call with him or my mom, and it's not my story to tell in any case. But this part is my story. I have lots of wonderful memories of my dad. I remember the time he hid by the couch and my 4 year old self screamed Daddy at finding him there. I rememmber girl scout meetings he led and long rides in his embarrassingly beat up blue truck to let the dogs run in the dry river bottoms. I remember someone who made me scrambled eggs with cheese, ironed my jeans, and taught me to make his mothers spaghetti sauce. I remember my dad. I ...

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