I will forever remember the Sunday afternoon drives with my Dad when I was a child. It was during these Sunday jaunts that this extraordinary man introduced me to the wonderful and exciting world of music.
             When I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds of musical icons such as Mozart, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky blaring from the speakers of our 1975 Cutlass Supreme. Rounding one corner after another, we followed the road wherever it would lead.
             "Who is this, and what do you hear?" he would ask. I loved this little game; it was the highlight of my week.
             "I see the sound of leaves falling," I replied with a smile on my face as I heard the notes falling in succession from the strings of the violins. It was pure delight and he was my best friend.
             "Now what do you see?" he would ask.
             "Two clarinets, an oboe and three violas," I would answer, grinning from ear to ear, anticipating his approval. We would play this little game for hours and hours, finding ourselves miles from home.
             It amazes me how this man who had not received any formal musical training could sit down, listen to and identify every instrument in a symphony orchestra. He could successfully determine the composition and accurately pinpoint the composer. He was, in the mind of this child, at the very least a musical genius.
             As I grew older, we continued our outings. One season would end, one season would begin, and still there would be music. Elementary school years passed, and as I entered junior high school our outings were fewer and less frequent. Junior high gave way high school, and we grew apart. I was the ever-rebellious teen, and I know it was a test for him to raise me. We parted ways when I was in high school. I am sure I broke his heart.
             In my mid thirties, I often find myself yearning for those carefree Sundays. The lessons that he taught me will last a lifetime, for that I will ever be grateful. I ca...