Dad

I've been thinking about my Dad lately.

Harold James Delaney 1932-1998

Thinking about the kind of person he was and how very much of who I am, I owe to him. I am very much like him, I guess. Mom always said that was why we couldn't get along when I was a young woman!

We both have a really goofy sense of humour. We both believe what we believe passionately. He taught me not to "let George do it", but to take responsibility for filling needs as they come to my attention, and that contribution is what it's all about.

I had five younger brothers before my sixth birthday, so Mom and Dad had their hands pretty full as I was growing up. Things were rarely easy for them, so it wasn't until I grew up and left home that I started to really get to know what was important to Dad.

As I was struggling to raise my first family on my own, Dad and I would talk on the phone from time to time. His tales were full of his projects to improve the world around him -- working in soup kitchens, organizing a neighborhood watch in his community to combat a growing drug culture and crime problem, cleaning up an abandoned lot on the street where he and Mom lived to create a park for the local kids to play in.

I was so proud of him. I admired his enthuiasm and his civic spirit. Instead of complaining that life in his neighbrohood wasn't perfect, as so many people do, he set out to find ways that *he* could make it better.

I don't know whether I ever thought to tell him how proud I am, though.

One of the most emotional moments of my life was at his funeral ten years ago. A woman came up to me and said "You must be Harold's daughter. I worked with your Dad at Home Depot." I was startled, because I had never lived in San Antonio with my parents and didn't get a chance to visit very often. Then she went on to tell me that my Dad was always so very fuill of stories about me and my adventures - - that he had been so proud of me and all that I had accomplished against what he saw as some very tough odds.

Imagie that! My Dad; proud of me! Telling my story to complete strangers just because... I burst into tears and wished vehemently that I had known how he felt while I could still hug him and thank him.

I still get teary just thinking about that moment.

I have decided not to let my own children have that experience. I try to make it a point to let them know when I am proud of them and what I like about them. Regularly. Because I am proud of them -- they, too, have managed to become good men against some pretty big odds.