my father died unexpectedly in his sleep.
Please click here for a song that reminds me of him, particularly the line:
As a boy he’d take me walking
By mountain field and stream
And he showed me things
Not known to kings
And secret between him and me
Like the colours of the pheasant
As he rises in the dawn
And how to fish and make a wish
Beside the holly tree
We never made any wishes beside the holly tree, but I spent the better part of my childhood walking by mountain, field and stream, following the salmon and the trout. Dad would read the rivers, stopping at every bridge and crossing, always able to tell at a glance whether the fish were biting, or if the evening would be better spent with a cigar on the porch and the writings of St. Augustine or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
I have many memories of him, but one is pushing its way in front of all the others, tugging at my elbow and begging, "Pick me! Pick me!"
The details are hazy, but my parents and I were away in upstate New York, and, for some reason, we had slept late and missed Mass on the Feast of the Assumption. It was no problem, said Dad, we would go to the next church. After finding Mass already over in two or three churches--all of which were miles apart--most people would have given up. After all, we had tried.
Not Dad (or Mom for that matter). No that would never do. "I've never missed Mass on a holy day of obligation in my life, and I'm not going to start now," he declared, searching for a church with the intensity of a person looking for a hospital in an emergency.
He found a Mass bye and bye--through sheer determination--but more than that he left a lasting impression on the little girl in the back of the car.
So thank you, Dad! I love you!
