"Imagine you've got a large, cardboard box," I told him. "The kind they use to ship clothes dryers. Fold back the flaps and place everything you enjoy inside, like your Sony Playstation, your bicycle and electric guitar. Gather abstract things as well, like uninterrupted football games, free time on the weekends and the sense that you actually can do something you want to do, when you want to do it. Toss it all in. Don't worry, it will fit. That's why we got the big box.

Next, get some packaging tape and seal it tight. You may hear some whimpering, but don't stop. That's just the media room you planned to build in the basement calling out to you. Ignore it.

Place the box and a shovel into the back of your truck and drive deep into the woods. Dig a large hole and toss the box inside. Again, ignore the muffled sobbing. Cover it with dirt and get back into the truck. Put it in gear and drive away. Don't look back, just go. It's easier that way, like pulling off a Band-Aid."

"Honey," she says. "That's a lot of money. I could stop working."

"I know," I say. "I'd miss them so much...I don't think I could handle it. I don't want to be the dad who is never around. I will not be That Dad..."

Here's the news. My employer of 14 years is closing for good. Done deal. Lights out, lock the door and throw away the key. Frankly, it's horrifying. One hundred and ten people have lost their jobs...including me.

We've got 12 months.

The kids were eating breakfast as I assembled their bags, rushing around like a crazy person, wondering why I hadn't done this the night before (oh, that's right — I just HAD to watch Big Brother 8). I heard William's voice:

"Apple juice."

"Yes, William. Apple juice."

"I have apple juice."

"Yes, sweetie. I know," I say. Thanks for the update, Captian Obvious, I think to myself.

"Uh — ohhhhhhhhh..."

"I know, mom," I say. She's shoving cold weather clothes onto my body — hat, gloves, scarf — as if they're needed to bind me together. My sister leans on the wall, confined by her own winter restraints.

My mother puts her own coat on with the dexterity of a quick-change artist, then opens the door. The cold air hits us like a board.

"Into the car," she says. "Go."

The car was an ocean blue Ford Galaxy 500. It had no hubcaps, fist-sized rust holes and discolored patches of unsanded Bond-O. We called it "The Embarras-mobile." It was huge — with a hood as large as a helipad and bench seats half a mile long.

Sitting in the front set, I look at the windshield. It's a sheet of ice. With three minutes to complete the ten minute drive to school, there is no time to clear it. So, with the defroster on full blast, my mother drives, peering through the expanding, shoebox-sized hole in the frost.

She turns on the radio. We hear "Another Saturday Night" by Sam Cooke. "Ugh," my mother says. "Your father's music."