. . . and posts have already begun to appear on Facebook, people sharing memories along with a special photograph of either their “Dad”, or their “Pops”, or their “Pa”,  or their “Father”, or their “Daddy”. I and my three brothers and two sisters stuck with “Daddy”.

For one hundred and twenty-three years, we have lived in the same Doylestown house where my father was born in May 1900; and where he chose to spend the last few weeks of his life when he passed on April 7, 1993. Weeks later at his memorial service, here are the words I spoke:

When a person leaves this Earth, their last piece of legacy is defined on a line printed on the death certificate. So it seemed appropriate that my brother Chris chose to have written on Daddy’s certificate 

“A MUSICIAN AND A GARDENER”

Grayson Savoy (Sid) Stratton

Throughout my father’s life he was many things to many people. He was a printer, an elevator operator, a factory worker, a film extra, a writer, a custodian, a Chauffer, a Civic Activist, a tennis player and an orchestra leader.

After he retired, he spent many hours tending to his home, mostly the grounds and gardens he loved so much. His flowers were the envy of the neighborhood. His vegetable garden burst with edibles, and he would boast, “Me and God made this”.

For awhile after retirement, he continued playing music at weddings and special affairs. One memory I still hold is how, every Saturday afternoon, late in the day, he would practice scales on his saxophone. If it was a warm day like today and if you were outside sitting on the grass or patio, you would be able to hear the mellow sighs of his saxophone floating down from his second-floor window.

For several weeks before his death, he was confined to his bed in his room. During the last week of his life, while sitting with him one day, I looked around his room and covering the walls was the saga of our family. A History of his life. Looking at the old marriage license of his parents, photographs of my Grandmother and Grandfather; and my Father’s Brothers; and pictures of our home covered in snow and another flooded with summer light.

Then also there were the hospice nurses who came to care for Daddy—they are truly Angels on Earth. He would tell them stories from those framed mementos, stories about the Life of my Family.

Almost two months ago, Daddy asked that we get all the Family together. My brothers and sisters did have the chance to see Daddy and say their Good-byes. Four days before Easter Sunday, Daddy left us to meet his Creator.

He made his Peace.

Because a Family is also a Community, I know that he knows all of us are here at this memorial to say our Good-Byes. He would like that.

Daddy planted his gardens with the music of Life. Although my brothers and sisters are as different as flowers in a Spring garden, and the tunes we sing are in different keys, we have in us a Sense of Family. The pictures on the bedroom walls give us the music of hope that we can sing to our children and grandchildren. Their roots are deep in the soil at our Ashland Street house.

My father was a musician and a gardener.

Daddy, may you spend this Father’s Day in Heaven with your brothers, sisters, and ‘JB’ and Lily.