I was having dinner at Bucky's bar at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, Alabama, when I saw an older distinguished man sipping a martini and staring through the back window at the horizon of the Gulf of Mexico as the sun set. And I knew him-not his name or the name of the woman he was missing and privately toasting with his small sips of that martini. But I knew him, and the concentration of his memories filled the space around him and drew me...