One never talks about politics, but I figure with all the flak my pal George Rostky is taking as a result of his jabs at our president in his "By George" column, it's time I fessed up. I'm from Chicago, which has always been a Democratic fortress; it was the Daley machine that sewed up the 1960 election for JFK. The question is often asked: "Why do Chicago folks who retire in Florida ask to be buried back in Chicago?" And the answer is: "So they can stay active in politics." Relax, it's a joke.

At the beginning of World War I my dad joined the Army and shipped overseas. When he returned nearly three years later he worked on the railroad and then started his own auto repair shop.

The business went down the tubes in the Depression, so he got into politics and became a Democratic precinct captain. And for the rest of his life he held a political job, all he had to do was turn out the vote.

My dad loved FDR and believed it was Roosevelt who turned the country around; the WWII economy was the engine that did it. In those day people would often say: "Republicans get us into Depression, Democrats get us into war." If you want to lose your job vote Republican, if you want your sons to go to war vote for the Democrats.

During the second world war, my dad organized the memorial services for the young men in the neighborhood who had been killed in action. There were too many gold stars in the windows on our blocks.

One Sunday, in the early spring of 1945, we were dedicating a plaque on the corner for Tommy Glynn, who had been killed in the Pacific, and Jimmy Ryan, who normally played taps on his trumpet, had taken sick. I was 11 years old and had been playing the clarinet for two years, so my dad asked if I could play taps.

In those days every kid who played an instrument could play taps. After the final prayer I got the signal to play and had hardly begun when I looked up at Tommy Glynn's parents. His mom was sobbing uncontrollably and his dad, a giant of a man, was holding her in his arms, the tears streaming down his face. I just about lost it.

My dad had always joked that Republicans looked different than regular folks, they had shifty eyes. Often when we'd be walking down the street and he spotted a registered Republican coming toward us he'd laugh and say: "Frankie, check out his eyes, he's a Republican." But at that Sunday afternoon memorial service, in the early spring of 1945, we were all Americans. We still are.

Frank sold his clarinet in 1947 for a year's garage rent; his dad stayed active in Democratic politics till his death in 1976 at the age of 82. You can reach Frank at fburge@cmp.com.