I remember coming home from University of Chicago one time. My parents met me at the airport. I was flush with the happiness of having completed the first quarter, or whatever, of the graduate program in Linguistics. My Dad was nearing the end of his life: his laryngeal cancer had recurred and I think he was getting, or was about to get, further chemotherapy treatments. He could still drive, though. He was thin, but his mouth was set in a determined line as he drove us home. I remember being in the front seat of his car, next to him as he drove on the freeway, looking over at him and seeing his concentration, his determination to keep the car going straight on the road.