Polly Mae Cashin

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It Is Never Too Late

Something sad happened—my 94-year-old father died. Something wonderful happened too—he taught me a final lesson.

When Dad first moved into the nursing home, I was troubled. I pictured long lonely days ahead for him. But I soon realized I was wrong. He spent time with the other residents and took a particular interest in the lives of the staff. They’d come in and ask him if they could do something for him and before they knew it—with his quirky sense of humor—he was giving them advise—whether they wanted it our not. He thanked them for their care, told them to take care of themselves and to keep looking up.

The day my father died, I stood in his small room with my brothers and sister. The sun shone in the window and cascaded across his bed. The chaplain was there to say a few words before the funeral home picked up the body and ready it for burial.


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