THIS IS AN ARTICLE MY SISTER WROTE ABOUT OUR DAD WHO PASSED AWAY TWO YEARS AGO. I ALWAYS NEW SHE HAD THE TALENT FOR WRITING BUT BECOMING A MOM AND RAISING A FAMILY HAS KEPT HER FROM WORKING ON HER KRAFT. IT WOULD WARM MY HEART IF SOME OF YOU OUT THERE COULD LEAVE A WORD OR TWO ABOUT WHAT YOU THOUGHT. tHANKS

Thursday's With Dad - 'A Visual'

Every Thursday I visit my dad. And every Thursday I drive across a reservoir that through each season seems to retain its boundless beauty. Right now it is Fall. A time when all the trees are decorated by a rainbow of colors. Leaves dance behind school buses that race by. The water to each side of me glistens as each ripple is being kissed by the sun's rays. In the morning the fog lifts like a curtain on a stage, the beginning of its fascinating show. By nightfall the encore continues with father's teaching their sons to fish, a bond, a tradition, a simple thread in their relationship that will be one tug tighter each time the custom continues. The drive over this reservoir takes no more than five seconds, but in those five seconds I am reminded that life is truly a gift.

The crossing of this very reservoir is more like a bridge that brings me to the most peaceful place I know. It is my father's resting place and though I once feared its very existence, today I find it to be more mystical and magical than anywhere I've ever been. The setting is out of any classic 18th Century English Literature text ....stone walls, pebble pathways, a forest of trees that ever so gently tuck away the quaintest Chapel you will ever lay your eyes upon. Each blade of grass stands at attention and each strand is perfectly manicured. The grounds are leafy and lush, framed by evergreens, birch and cedar. A tribute to any visitor.

There's a moment in the day that changes with each season, but at this precise moment, when you are centered on the grounds looking up to the heavens, you can see (what seems like) every single ray exploding from the sun or as I sometimes picture, a ring of angels praying for the souls beneath them. It is divine. And it is entwined by blue birds chasing robins, squirrels chasing acorns, winter chasing fall and me chasing my dream to keep my father proud. In the distance I hear the church bells chime to their orchestrated melodies, these sounds resonate with passion and conviction, a powerful reminder to be joyous and glad, even in your darkest hour.

The location of this sanctuary is superb. Never was I made more aware of this until my father's untimely passing. For my entire childhood and into my adulthood I was a frequenter of every Sunday Mass, a weekly guest who came and went never really giving much thought to the backdrop that reflected through my backseat window. It would take thirty-three years for these portraits on my window to be revealed and unveiled. The irony of it all is that in order for me to be awakened by this oasis, I had to experience the worst day of my life. Dis-irregardless (as my father would say), when I now allow myself to be welcomed by this environment, when I study it's every inch and listen, I mean REALLY listen, I am presented with a confirmation from above that, though it may be hard to believe, validates the true existence of something more.