My father grew up on a farm. When he was older, he moved to town.
He went home to the country on the weekends. He had a car that had something that was called a “mile away horn.” He said when he blew the horn, it could be heard from a mile away.
He recounted how when he was about a mile away from home, he would blow the horn. His mother would hear it and be waiting for him at the gate with arms outstretched.
He loved that memory, but always told it with a trace of sadness for a time gone by that would not come again.
His mother died at a young age of cancer.
I told Daddy that I imagined that St. Peter would sound the trumpet when Daddy was getting close to his heavenly home, and his mother would be waiting at the gate.
He liked that thought. At age 96, when he was nearing Home, I reminded him of that special link between what he had once known and what he would soon know. He smiled in joy.
I now cherish that thought that he and my mother will be waiting at the gate for me one day!
