Nobody in our Midwestern town would have admitted to seeing a psychiatrist. “Psycho, nut job, loon” were terms thrown freely about, only a few years removed from Eagleton’s ambitions derailed by electroshock and Muskie’s presidential bid coming unglued by his tears. Those were the days when Nixon slept in a suit and tie, though he made the concession to Pat of untying his shoelaces before crawling into bed. Many of us still grieve for those old-school dads who quietly and discreetly gave themselves coronaries, drank themselves to death, or blew their brains out rather than simply admit to human frailty and need.

Bio: Tim Hawkins