My dad passed away one year ago today - one week before Father's Day, one month before his 80th birthday. In the morning, he was pulling through my driveway to take my oldest son to the gym - eyes flashing with good humor and mouth smiling wide with grandfatherly affection. In the afternoon, he was gone. A drizzling, wet rain, an overcast sky, and an accident that blessedly spared the lives of all others involved. Except for Pops. Pops was gone.

Over the past year, I've spent more than my fair share of time thinking about the life my dad lived. His was a life lived always to the fullest - the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, but always, always, a dogged perseverance to embrace the moments with passion and enthusiasm. He lost his oldest daughter to cancer, experienced crushing financial and professional disappointments, and lost both his parents and a brother before his time here on earth came to an abrupt end.

But he also married the love of his life, raised three pretty decent kids if I do say so myself, and enjoyed every moment spent with his seven grandsons and one granddaughter. He traveled the United States and the world with the woman he loved best, my mom. He was a newspaperman, a politician, an educator, an advocate for those less fortunate and a passionate supporter of the arts. He took piano lessons throughout his 70's and worked out at the gym a minimum of three times per week. He waterskied, swam and sang in the church choir. He laughed loud, and he laughed often - so very often.

And somewhere along the way, he taught his children by example exactly how this life (no matter how long or how short) is meant to be lived.