My father, Robert Paul Curry, was a chief petty officer in the US Navy. The Navy was his ticket to a life outside of working at the steel mill in Pueblo, Colo., the only job available for a kid like him, a poor boy raised by a single mother. The war broke out; he was excited about doing something for his country; he joined the military. Later, he would have to go off on tours of duty, and because he has always been a huge force in my life, I remember how I missed him. And I can remember opening the screen door and seeing a flash of light and then seeing the long legs of my 6-foot-3 father, and his dress whites.