Here, I find myself writing once again. In part to thank in my condition of sobriety. It has been a long time since I have been able to do this so freely. Especially to write of a person so dear to me in my life. I have always feared lack of literary skills would mess this up, and not do justice to the greatest man I have ever known.   The person that is written about here is my father. If you are of faith, or have other imaginings of where we all go. I can safely speak for this man. He was taken back by God on March 27th, 2018 at the age of 74. In my limited views of this world I deem this all be true. Of my anger, and spiritual destitution, it has taken me years to work this thru. Personal baggage to shed, a humble tear of truth, and loss of the love that I have always had. My father died of MSA. It is one of the most terrible way's to pass from this world. In clinical definition (MSA) Multiple Systems Atrophy only effects four out of every one hundred thousand people. MSA is a kin to Parkinson's disease. However, it is much different due to the fact that your muscles do not tremor, or act independently of your body. You simply, over time loose your ability to connect your brain to your muscles. Conventional medication for a Parkinson patient would just not work for a MSA stricken person. My father was born in the fifties. A time when the world views were changing, as they are once again today changing in a very big way. As a young man he met my mother to be. They both were by todays standards, very young, wed, had their first child at the age of 20, and already resident in their first home. My mother, and father shared fifty five years together on this earth. Little Robert Jr. was third son of four, born in 1967, that's me, followed four years later by my younger brother in arms. Little needs to be said that four boys, all under the age of eight made for a very busy life. My parents, deeply devoted, and catholic, took to raising a good family very seriously. Our family went to Sunday mass at our local church every week. We were schooled in the ways of fellowship, religion, and brotherhood to one another. Unquestioning in the faith that was about our home there were no compromises. There was an air of respect to be followed, in life, and our choices as young members in it. This was all part of what was chosen for us. You can call it family. In times of strife I had always felt the pull of rebellion. My mother, and father in their own hearts of truth, and belief, never openly strayed from their chosen direction with God. Always, to be one of my points of contention. It turns out, that it is to be one of the greatest strengths. My parents never wavered in their beliefs. Despite all the havoc that surrounded them in a changing world. My father worked so very hard. Each, and every day. He would get up, and go out to do his work. For almost thirty years he worked shifts, and days at a time in the local rubber factory. He was a big part of a large tire manufacturing plant. Daily in his forties, he would put on jogging shoes, run to work, and back home. In the rain, the heat of summer, and the frigidly cold days of winter. For years up until he retired from that factory. From his workplace some would go as far to call him "The Horse". This was always in jest, for he was well liked by all, and had many admirable qualities. Many of these strengths he has passed along to his family. For many years money was tight in our lives. My mother, and father would save up their pocket change in a large tin can every year. My brothers, and I would take turns lifting the can as high as we could. It always brought our father such joy to watch our little muscles strain in the effort. Then that can, would at it's time be opened, and counted. We all took part in wrapping, and rolling of change. Sitting together, around our family table. Soon to spirit off to the beach, or a family vacation. Thanks to that shiny heavy can. Another strength of family, and love. My father was a gifted gardener. He received this gift when he was young. For his life he nurtured, and cherished the earth. He always did. He would grow beans as long as your hand was wide, tomatoes larger than softballs, peppers, radish, carrots, and beats. Every year he would stack his eight foot garden poles neatly in a pile. To be used for an ice rink, and put back up in the springtime for his garden again. Dad always had more than one use for anything. We never went hungry. If my father had to grow that food himself. That is what he was going to do. At times we must have even eaten things that were not considered food. At my fathers table, the plates were always full. Every single day. We also sat, until we had eaten everything on our plate. My mother, and my father together worked very hard. We would sit quiet before every meal, never touching a single morsel. Look to God, and say a word of thanks. I still remember that family prayer. "Bless us, Oh Lord". I never quite got all the meaning of that at the time. I only remembered seeing my mother washing, and cleaning. My father running, and digging that earth. I get it now. Another strength that has been given to me. Family was my Dad. It was his heart, and his weakness. He gave, and gave. He never really asked for much in return. We had rules to follow. We had chores to do. We had to be mannerly, and respectful. In return, we were given much, for the little that we did. We all had a decent go at life's ambitions. Thanks to my mother, and father. One at a time. In fair measure. A birthday, a Christmas, easter baskets, music lesions, sports, and much more. Time with Dad. He was always gracious in his time with us, my mom, and anyone that asked anything of him. Another quality that I am grateful to have witnessed. Time moved on, and so did we. To venture out, find love, or lust. To make of a home someplace else. My parents always held welcome, for any visit that was made. Anytime, anywhere, anyway. The rules always stayed the same, We all changed but learned to get along. Family.  My father had become "The KING of One Liners". I am sure it was his art. He loved to read, and many books he did. He held a passion for golf. Many, many holes he walked. Perhaps, this is where he came to terms with his profound meanings, in simplifying things in a way. My father would put a situation, no matter how grim, or complicated into a single sentence, that held merit, and strength of conviction. This was known as his "one liner". At times, his sarcasm was so subtle, so faint, you would not even know there was fun being poked at your troubles. Another great strength of this man. He loved his life, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and most of all he loved my mother unconditionally. He did not tell us how to love. He showed us. My father became ill. As you already know, struck with MSA. He fought the good fight. My poor mother, also sick dealing in this disease, long and hard she struggled. It had all started innocently enough. Just a little thing in his ancle it was. Grief slowly built over time. Soon over a few short years, it moved into all aspects of life. My father kept reading his books. He witnessed as his worldly possessions were sold, or given away, going, going, gone. He did all that he could do to fight this awful death sentence. Never once, did he ever complain of his troubles. He went through so much suffering. Mobility, chairs, walkers, aids, and still lost so much. It was tough for me to speak to my father. I found myself already missing the man that I loved so deeply, and he was still sitting right there in front of me. His mind was sharp, and brilliant. He just could not form the words for you to understand. He could not move his hands. He was so trapped inside that it broke my heart. I never wanted him to see pity. He deserved so much more, and so much better than that. I wanted to show him, that I had strength. A good son. My mother never left my fathers side. Even in the end times, she did all that she could possibly do, and not loose herself to grief. She fed, clothed, and washed him. Then the day came, my father had fallen. The best care in the world could not have stayed this day. My father made his one way visit to the hospital.  I took my daughters to see my father there, for one last time. They were better than I, and I look back on that day. I am so proud of them both. My father took my hand, and held it the best he could. He was trying so very hard to speak, but could not. I moved close to his moving lips. To him I whispered, "I know you are in there, but I can not make out what you are trying to say" My father did not stop speaking. He just held onto my hand, and kept at it. This is when I realized that my father was praying with me. Even on his last, he was still giving to me his gift. I miss him so much. I miss his strengths, and all that I still have left to say. Thank you for being such a great Dad, to a son like me.