The summer I graduated from college, I joined my father one Saturday night at his favorite hangout, Borders Books. Much to my brother’s and my embarrassment, our father treated it like a library. He would seat himself at a table with a muffin in one hand, a stack of books fanned out in front of him, and no intention of leaving within the hour. An amateur singer was torturing a guitar somewhere in the building; tinny strains filtered down to the cafe where we sat.

“You hear that?” I teased. “If you had given me just a little...