Sign Sign Everywhere A Sign

Now, I am not so naive to think that hearing the Train song could not purely be a matter of some mandated play list, dictated by some station executive, and merely a coincidence.

But my sister and I feel differently. Before you roll your eyes and decide we are both kooks, let me tell you, we both have seen plenty of signs that Dad started doing things he'd wanted to accomplish on Earth, but had had to wait until he'd gotten his wings before he could tackle them.

Dad had been a lively, social man for much of his life. A funny, entertaining prankster who prided himself on endearing the little people in the family with good natured teasing. ( I can remember him asking a nephew, who was 5 at the time, "Why did your mother buy you girl's shoes?") He also had a personal mission to prevent any kid in the neighborhood, girl or boy, from going through life throwing a baseball like Mamie Eisenhower. He was a good dancer. He could mimic how our firends walked or talked to perfection. He had the cleanest car and the greenest, most manicured lawn in the neighborhood. He read every word of the newspaper every night and got his hair cut every two weeks. Quite a character Dad was.

But his health had failed him early and just when the grandchildren were ripening into little beings he could have some fun with, he began to lose ground in some of his lifetime battles. Gone was the possibility that any Norman Rockwellian grandfather and grandchild moments could actually come to pass.

There would be no camping trips with instructions on how to start a camp fire or how to hook a worm so you could fish for dinner. No Bring Your Grandparent to School Days. No come-let-me-show-you-how-not-to-throw-like-a-girl backyard adventures. No long afternoons at the ball park sharing hot dogs and pretzels and icecream.

And a few years later, when he finally passed, along came the signs that he had not left us altogether, but had taken up the reigns where he'd had to let them go before.

My nephew suddenly became a prize baseball player, throwing strikes from the hill with alarming consistency and Poppop seeming to help the ball over the fence regularly in clutch at-bats. My daughter telling me in the most despairing time in my divorce that it would all be alright. That Poppop had told her it would be. At night. And no she was not scared. He was all around her all the time.

I've had signs of my own. Just to me.

They aren't always obvious. Sometimes it is a stroke of luck or a really good thing that happened and just when I am thinking, "Wow, that was unexpected!'' I get a sign from Dad. Tapping me on the shoulder. The old man letting me know he'd been there. Working his magic.

The Train song gives me a warning. "Pay attention. I am here." But "To Sir With Love" has made its rare appearances after Dad has evidently hovered over some situation I managed to get myself into. It stops me in my tracks every time.