There’s a saying: The older I get, the smarter my father gets. I’m embarrassed to say it’s taken me nearly 60 years to figure that out. Somewhat hard-headed. Like him. For my father, being on time meant arriving early. In his mind, if you were on time, you were late. I did not inherit this gene. Even in his last days, Dad kept one eye on the clock. “They’re late,” he said on the Sunday before officially departing this life, visibly ticked off at the tardiness of death’s knell. “Those guys in the dark suits. They’re supposed to be here.” But they weren’t. Not yet. It had been a difficult…