Many people have commended me for all that I did for my father the past few years. I always felt that since it was I who signed him into the Delaware Valley Veterans Home (DVVH) that I was responsible to make sure that he was receiving the best of care. The night he came down with the shingles was after a heavy snow storm. I was supposed to be there for the snow removal. I never made it. The shingles led to nerve damage that became permanent.

I began writing my father's eulogy in November of 2013. That was the day I moved him into the DVVH. At that time, I knew that I was in "Heavens' Waiting Room" and that February 24th , 2018 was fast approaching. I had three objectives that I felt was important to convey in his eulogy.

First, I wanted to present a history of his life. There were many aspects of my father's life that his grandchildren did not know. I myself learned a great deal over the last 5 years that I was sure my brothers did not know as well. I used my countless visits to my father at the DVVH to listen to his story. Although his short-term memory had faded, I was impressed with his long-term recollection. He was able to recall events from his childhood with detail. I felt confident in the authenticity of his stories because he retold them many times and they were always the same. In addition, various family members collaborated his stories. However, I hesitated to use my father's account of his athletic prowess during a baseball and basketball game. In each version, he recalls the games ending in dramatic fashion based on his heroic deeds. His description seemed a bit far-fetched. This was understandable considering that his health was rapidly deteriorating. However, I spoke with my uncle who attended the baseball game. He verified my father's account.

The only knowledge I had of the basketball game was playing with a broken basketball trophy as a child. His cousin had broken the trophy shortly after my father received it seperating the base from player statue. I used it as a toy simulating superman flying. I don't remember the inscription on the trophy but I do recall that it was from Gimbels department store. My father never discussed the details of the game until a few months before his death. Therefore I was suspect of his description. However, his cousin was a player in the game and collaberated my father's description. Apparently, my father was correct and so these stories are described below.

Second, I felt I owed it to my mother to expose him for abusing her and fostering an environment of tension and at times violence in the household. I also wanted to get some of it off my own chest. To accomplish this I needed to be tactful. No one wants to hear bad things about the deceased at their funeral. Without being explicit, I referenced Pat Conroy's novel, The Great Santini to paint a picture of what life was like living under an authoritarian father. For a more specific account, I referenced Joe Torre's autobiography, Chasing the Dream. There is an episode in Chapter 2 that was very similar to one of my childhood experiences. I was aghast during the reading of the eulogy when my reference to Chiti Chiti Bang Bang was misinterpreted with laughter. For me this night was truly a nightmare.

Finally, I wanted to forgive him for his abuses and to show that I truly believed he was absolved. To convey this message I used George Strait's number one hit song in 1990 "love without end amen". Over the past five years, I observed him suffer physically on a daily basis with nerve damage as well as the mental torture of knowing that his condition would never be cured. This was a far greater penance than any amount of Hail Mary's and Our Father's could ever serve

To my father's credit, he "took his medicine" and never really complained about his situation. Nor did he ever make me feel guilty for signing him into a nursing facility. This guilt, however, was self-imposed.

While I wanted to thank the people who helped my father, I did not want to turn his eulogy into an awards show. The one person who I truly wanted to thank publicly was my wife for all that she had done for him. I knew that if I tried to do this openly I would become emotional and not be able to do her justice. Therefore, I did this symbolically by placing her next to Our Heavenly Father in the form of an angel. I followed this by making direct eye contact and mentioning some of the difficult times we shared. In this way, I revealed to all the identity of the angel I was referring.

Two weeks prior to my father's passing he had stopped eating. We thought this was due to his distaste for the special diet he followed. We began bringing home cooked meals that we knew he liked but he rejected them as well. The only food we could get him to eat was a cup of yogurt. As he began to shutdown, we knew his time was drawing near. On the night my father died, his room was very busy. He received visits from family and friends. Many of the staff of the DVVH who provided his care stopped in his room to say goodbye. One nurse even led us in a prayer vigil. Remarkably, the commotion never disturbed his roommate who slept the majority of the time.

That evening I spent the night in my father's room. I used two chairs for a bed. Surprisingly I was quite comfortable but I could not sleep. The Veteran's home was quiet and peaceful. The only noise came from an occasional nurse in the hall and the sound of my father's breathing which I paid strict attention to. As I lay on my improvised bed images of the past five years raced through my mind. I began to plan the next day's events. My brother would relieve me the next morning. My wife would arrive by 8 A.M. and we would go to the gym then out to breakfast. I had promised my aunt that I would pick her up at 10 A.M. and take her to visit my father so she could say her final goodbye. Then I would spend the remainder of the day at the DVVH.

As the night progressed, I began to dose off listening to the peaceful sound of my father's breathing. Ironically, I would awake when the sound of his breathing slowed. Then I would examine his chest to make sure that he was breathing. Shortly before 12:45 A.M. Saturday morning, I awoke to the sound of my father's roommate murmuring. It was as if he was being annoyed. Simultaneously, my father began to gurgle. This continued for a short period. At 12:45 the gurgling stopped, I knew that my father was gone. I looked up to the ceiling and waved goodbye.

Perhaps Ernest Hemingway said it best, "Every true story ends in death."

This is a true story.

Before I begin I'd like to thank Cousin Reno for his many phone calls and visits. I always enjoyed listening to your conversations. It was a tremendous learning experience for me and I gained an appreciation for the great friendship you shared with my father. Do you know what else I appreciated? The tastykake pies you would bring my dad. I always knew when you visited because his top drawer would be filled with pies. Believe me I had my share. Blueberry was my favorite. It was my serving of fruit for the day.

In the last few days I've seen some sad faces, especially in my own household. I think we should be reminded that death is where the pain ends and the memories begin. Today I'd like to share some of those memories with you. Before we visit the back roads of my memories, I'd like to tell you about a dream that I had.

I often share my dreams with my wife but she hasn't heard this one. I can see her rolling her eyes now. She must be thinking, "Oh no, not another one of his crazy dreams - here we go again."

I had a dream that my father had died. As he stood before the pearly gates, he could not help but wonder how he got there. He began to worry that if they knew half of the things that he had done, they might never let him in. Then a voice on the other side spoke to him.

My father was born of Marie Desiderio and Attilio Pascali on a cold day in Philadelphia on the 27th day of December in the year 1928. His mother, Marie, one of six children, was born in the United States. Her family immigrated to the United States from a town called Chieti in Abruzzi, Italy. His father Attilio, also known as "Atti", was from Ascoli Piceno, Italy. Atti was proud of his newborn son. He would go on to father three more children - boys all. He was a good father that thought the world of his four sons. Wherever he went, he brought his boys with him. My father recalls at time when he took them to the bar and let him sit on the bar stool alongside of him; giving each a small taste of his beer.

Atti was talented and a hard worker. He would purchase a home; install a radiator heating system that is used today and complete a correspondence course through the mail. He could fix almost anything. He was artistic and could paint or draw down to the finest detail. To earn his citizenship, he served our country in the Great War. Sadly, he would never see any of his children reach their teenage years.

My Father was named after an Italian professor (teacher), Dominico Pascali, his paternal grandfather. He spent his early childhood attending Saint Barnabas catholic school and playing outside with his friends.

Children were not hypnotized with "texting boxes" and "dot-com machines". Organized sports were an anomaly. Baseball was played in the street with a broomstick and an air ball. When the ball deflated, it was split in two and the game continued as half ball. Games like Kick the Can, Hide and Seek, tag, and his favorite - shooting marbles were popular "street" games. Everyone knew how to skip rope and "go around the world" with a yoyo. If you fell down you got back up. Fighting was clean and forgotten the next day. You could walk to the store, or the park, and stay all day and never worry about safety. Manners and reverence for others and their property were displayed. Most of all parents demanded and received respect.

My father shared a close relationship with his dad. One Sunday morning he heard a group of teenagers talking on how they were going to go to the Eagles football game. My dad mistakenly thought they were inviting him to the game. After hurrying home to get money for a ticket he returned to the corner only to find that the older boys were gone. He ran home crying. Upon seeing this, his father promptly took him in his truck to Municipal stadium with money for a ticket. At 8 years old my dad had witnessed his first Eagles football game. Unfortunately, the birds were crushed by the Bears. My how the times have changed!

The family will soon face a tragedy.

In 1939, Atti was admitted to the Naval hospital on South Broad Street to be treated for an enlarged heart. My grandmother would say the rosary daily as well as pray to St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. She took my dad and his brothers on the bus for visits. On their last visit, a strange feeling came over my father as he walked to the bus stop on South Broad Street. He turned and looked up at the hospital. Their stood his father by the window - he was waving goodbye.

His father's condition did not improve. He was moved back to his home on Lindberg Blvd. Shortly thereafter, my grandmother summoned my father and his 3 brothers to his bedside where he would see his father for the final time. His father's last words to his 10 year old son were, "Dominic you are the oldest, you must take care of the family." Two days later his father died.

After his death, my grandmother declined an invitation to move back to Italy, opting instead to relocate her and her 4 young children to a modest apartment on Warnock Street across from the Moyamensing prison in South Philadelphia. My father attended 6th and 7th grades at the Annunciation school on Wharton Street in South Philadelphia. Here they would be closer to her family where her mother and father, Verino and Aida Lepre, ran Desiderio's bakery at 13th and Reed Streets.

Desiderio's bakery was known for the tastiest bread in all of South Philadelphia. Grandpa Desiderio was an expert on wheat. He could identify the grain type by merely rolling it in his fingers (winter, spring, summer, and fall). At times my father helped out by tossing dough and accompanying his Uncle Frankie on the bakery truck that proudly displayed the inscription - Desiderio's Delicious Bread. Perhaps his most important function was staying out of his grandfather's way and keeping quiet while he slept after a hard night's work. The bakery is still in operation today under the name of Faragalli and they are still using some of the same equipment that Grandpa Desiderio used many decades ago.

At the age of 12 my father was enrolled in the Scotland Military School for Veterans' Children. Founded in 1895, Scotland Military School was the only residential school in the nation, specifically designed and accredited to educate and care for the children of Pennsylvania military service veterans. He was eligible to attend Scotland because his father was a veteran of the First World War.

He always spoke highly of his years at Scotland where he was affectionately known as "lefty". He was a good athlete and participated in many varsity sports including: football, baseball, and track. Although track was his best sport, his proudest memory occurred during his last varsity baseball game in his senior year. The score was tied in the bottom of the seventh. Behind in the count 0-2, with two of his brothers in attendance, my father ripped a fly ball over the right fielder's head. By the time the relay through reached the infield, dad was crossing home plate for the winning run. He was recognized at the Monday morning meeting by the school superintendent and received an ovation from the student body.

Shortly after graduating Scotland in 1948, he enlisted in the United States Navy and served for two years. He spent the earlier part of his enlistment at Jacksonville, Florida. The majority of his final year of service was spent at the Willow Grove Naval Base working in security police. Being at Willow Grove enabled him to help his mother who was home living by herself.

After being discharged from the Navy he was hired as a sales clerk at Gimbel's department store at 8th and Market streets. While working at Gimbels he competed on the store's basketball team. The highlight of his career at Gimbels was winning the basketball championship against an undefeated John Wanamaker team. With seconds remaining on the clock and Gimbels down by one point, my father intercepted a pass in the back court and took it to half court and made the game winning basket as time expired. Working at Gimbels was his first job as a new decade began but not the last.

Enter the 50's - and the age of steam.

Locomotives transported goods and passengers across the country on magic carpets made of steel. It was around this time when my father accepted a job working as a brakeman for the B & O Railroad. He was responsible for assisting with braking a train when the conductor wanted the train to slow down. At times he would be assigned to several cars, and be required to operate the brakes from atop the train while the train was moving. This was a dangerous job and these tasks are no longer utilized today. Automatic air brakes have eliminated the need for the brakeman to walk atop a moving train to set the brakes. However, It was not the dangers of the job but the inability to gain full time employment that forced my father seek opportunities elsewhere. What a pleasure it was to visit the B&O Railroad museum 20 years ago. My dad came with us and it was as if we had our own personal tour guide. This one even sprang for dinner!

In 1955 he joined one of the oldest police departments in the nation, the Philadelphia Police Department. Although he scored higher in the Civil Service test for fire fighter, he felt he was best suited for police work. During his 30 years of service, he was assigned to many important departments including: police radio, K9, and stakeout unit. However, his first assignment was the 19th district in West Philadelphia.

The 19th is a microcosm of the city, it extends from some of the most expensive homes in the city in the north to hardcore urban neighborhoods in the south (Vick, Karl, Time 8/24/2015).

Police work can be a dangerous job. On an early afternoon while answering a call in the 19th, he was the recipient of a gunshot wound. According to my father it was no big deal. But it was a big enough deal to make the Evening Bulletin. After a short hospital stay he was back on the street.

There were many other interesting moments as well. One morning he observed an African American youth sprinting down Lancaster Avenue. There was no mistaken this young man, he was easily recognized throughout the streets of West Philadelphia and would shortly be known citywide. Quickly, my father went into pursuit. Within seconds he maneuvered the patrol car behind the young man. As he made his approach he realized that his efforts were in vain. He would not be able to offer the tardy student a ride to Overbrook High on this day. You see, all 7 feet one inches of Norman Wilton Chamberlain was simply too big to fit in the patrol car.

My dad had many friends in the police department. One of his closest was Chuck DeRaven. Chuck and his wife Nancy set my father up with a date with one of Nancy's friends, a girl named Louise Brown (my mother). Shortly thereafter, they would be married on February 20th, 1961. On April 8th of that year they would purchase a twin house in the Bells Corner section of Northeast Philadelphia for the whapping sum of $17,500. This is where they would raise three children residing there for almost thirty years.

When you have a policeman for a father you knew that you aren't going to get away with much. To know my father was to know of his quick temper. It was his way or the highway. At times I was living with the Great Santini. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang would become my nightmare. I would live inside chapter II of Joe Torre's childhood that he vividly recalls in Chasing the Dream.

I did escape his wrath on one misdeed. When we were young we often played ball in our back driveway. Occasionally we would break a window. This prompted my father to install a Plexiglass window in our basement door. One day I was standing atop of our drive holding a nerf football. I said to my friend, "see that window, it's Plexiglas, you can't break it, watch I'll show you." I then reached back and fired the ball right into the window - the ball simple bounced off. Then I retrieved the ball and said to my friend, "Watch I'll do it again." This time I reached back and threw a perfect spiral right into the center of the window. Smash, the window shattered into a thousand pieces. Just then my father pulled up in the car. I turned to my friend - he was gone. To my surprise, my father did not notice the broken window as he went into the house. When I came home from school the next day I saw my father at the bottom of the steps cleaning up the broken glass. I sheepishly asked him what happened (as if I didn't know). He said, "I'll tell you what happened, one of your friends broke my window and when I find out who did it I'm. . . No need to repeat the rest of this.

After 30 years of police service my father retired from the police department in 1985. He developed new hobbies such as reading, exercising and vitamin therapy. His medicine cabinet was filled with every vitamin from A to Z. His favorite books were the Holy Bible and the medical dictionary. In a short period of time he was able to quote scripture, interpret the Book of Revelations, and make his own medical diagnosis. He cherished his retirement years spending time with his grandchildren and enjoying the extra hours of sleep while listening to the early morning sounds of automobiles as they hustled down Summerdale Avenue on their way to work.

Unfortunately, as he approached his mid-80's his health declined. He spent the past few years in the care of the Delaware Valley Veteran's Home. We thank the staff at the Veteran's Home for the excellent care they provided my father. When I moved my father into the Veteran's home in the Fall of 2013 I knew that I was in "Heavens Waiting Room". If anyone is every having a bad day or feeling down I invite you to take walk through the corridors of the Veterans Home. It is a humbleing experience. I would also like to thank the people who helped us along the way with visits, gifts and phone calls. I won't mention any names because I am likely to forget a few. Believe me when I tell you that I can be quite forgetful. Just ask my wife how many times I locked the keys in the car . . . with the engine running . . . and the dog in the back seat.

I would like to remember those who helped my father that are no longer with us. My grandmother, for raising 4 small boys on her own. My dad's father, for his dedication to his family. My mother, Louise Pascali, for the hardships she endured. She remains "ever gentle on my mind". His friend Harry Duffy for his loyal friendship. Maurice "Cap" Heckler for providing discipline and being the father figure that was missing in his life. Most of all, I would like to thank our Heavenly Father for sending an angel . . . that looked over my shoulder . . . being forever near . . . speaking to me in times of trouble . . . making sure every "I" was dotted and each "T" crossed, being present for late night hospital stays and critical medical procedures. It will be remembered always.

We shared some tough times together (addressing my wife Diane). There were many late night hospital stays, broken pipes, flooded bathrooms, moving heavy furniture. But we had some good times as well. We dined on the finest of hospital cafeterias. You can always remember how I manually started my father's sump pump after a heavy thunder storm.

Now we have come full circle.

Time marches on - but memories last forever.

When I awoke from my dream the alarm sounded and a George Strait song began to play. The words that were spoken to my father sang out to me loud and clear. They said, "Let me tell you a secret, it's about my father's love, it's a secret that my daddy said was just between us. Daddies don't just love their children every now and then, it's a love without end - Amen.

Memorial Day is the unofficial start of the summer season. It has become a day of barbeques, fireworks and celebrations. However, it is much more than that. It is a day for remembering the people who died while serving our country's armed forces.

Today we returned to the Delaware Valley Veteran's home for the first time since my father died three months ago. We were there to pay our respects to the residents who have passed in the last year as well as to all military veterans. The morning services began with a band of retired military playing patriotic songs. As the band played, "Anchors Aweigh" residents of the DVVH exited the facility filling the front rows of the reception area. Ironically, I caught myself on several occasions looking for my father.

As the ceremony progressed, the commander of the local American legion read the names of the 50 former residents who died in the past year. A bell rang after the reading of each name. Following the ceremony, we attended a barbeque at the facility with the rest of the residents. It was nice to see some familiar faces and old friends. There had been a few changes at the DVVH in past few months. Flags for each branch of the military line the road that leads to the facility. The letters "DVVH" display in stone covering the hill below the auxiliary parking lot. In addition, a new wing will be attached to the facility providing care for 50 more residents.

Time marches on, memories last forever.