"Capture Life Stories" founder Barb Sherf of Flourtown and her late father, Charles, are seen riding in the Wissahickon Valley several years ago. This photo served as the cover to a book the two wrote together capturing their memories. (Photo courtesy of Capture Life Stories)

by Barbara Sherf

Sometimes you just have to listen for a sound that is a sign. That’s the lesson learned on the one-year anniversary of my father’s passing on Oct. 27, 2017.

Dad would have been 89 on Monday, Nov. 27, but with dementia taking hold and his quality of life slipping away, he made it clear to those at the Veterans Memorial Home in Vineland, New Jersey, and to me that he wanted to go. His actions spoke louder than words. He would put a fake gun to his head and pull the trigger.

Flash back to last April when I bid on a silent auction item at The Center for Contemporary Mysticism’s Mystical Feast Fundraiser and walked away the winner of what was described as a long weekend retreat during leaf-turning season in the Pocono Mountains.

When I followed up a week or so later with the generous Ken Class, a board member and active volunteer of the Center, I learned of the actual location of the property: Eagles, Mere, PA, in what are known as the Endless Mountains. Eagles Mere was the spot where my father and his buddies from The Philadelphia Bulletin enjoyed a hunting lodge for many years. Twice a year the men opened the lodge to the wives and children to enjoy. To a city kid, it seemed like paradise.

Thus, on Oct. 27, I got up and gathered in front of a little memorial of photos of my father. Many of the photos show the two of us riding horses in the Wissahickon Valley. I took out the book that we had written together titled “Cowboy Mission: The Best Sermons are Lived…Not Preached” and read some of his funny passages. Watching the video I had produced for his 85th birthday, I asked my father to give me a sign that day that he was okay. The sign came in a most unusual way.

At 2:30, a friend who does not drive and walks with a cane asked if I could pick him up from his doctor's office that is around the corner from my Flourtown home. In a panic, he asked if I could stop by the Giant Supermarket for his prescriptions and food and then drop him back off at his apartment in Ambler.

At first I hesitated but then packed up my laptop, figuring I would do some work in the food court. By the time we got to the Giant, it was nearly 4 p.m., and I was hitting a wall, so I dropped my friend off and decided to go do some “free hugging” at the Dollar General store in the Flourtown Shopping Plaza.

For those who have not followed this, I joined the “free hugs” movement following the 2016 presidential elections as my small way to try to make America kind again.

As I opened my hatchback to put my “free hugs” sign away, I heard this whistling. I dropped my things, turned, and saw this man whistling away while walking toward me from the far end of the parking lot. This was not just any whistle. This whistle had the same tone and pitch of my father’s whistle. Tears came to my eyes.

This African American man did not look like my father, but the resemblance to his whistle was uncanny. I looked at him and he at me. We had a moment.

I told him about the anniversary of my father’s passing and shared with him that as a little girl, I would sit on the front stoop of our Northeast Philadelphia home listening for my father’s whistle. His whistle could be heard blocks away as he got off the bus from his overnight shift in the composing room. I would announce to the rest of the family, “Daddy’s home, daddy’s home,” even though he was still at the top of our street walking toward us with two fresh newspapers under his arm.

The whistler in the parking lot took my hands in his, said a prayer and told me my father was fine and whistling away on the other side. The journalist in me wanted to take a photo or get this man to whistle into my phone or capture his name to keep in touch.

But it was such a precious moment that I simply let him walk away, savoring the sounds of his whistle. It was a moment. It was our moment. Just listen.

Flourtown resident Barbara Sherf tells the stories of individuals and businesses through www.CommunicationsPro.com. More information: 215-990-9317 or CaptureLifeStories@gmail.com.