My father, Tommie O. Harris
                                                                                                                                                  (1923 - 1996)

All his life, all seventy-three years of it, he worked.

Barely more than a child, he worked in the fields in East Texas.

A man, he came to the city to work.

A husband and father of one spoiled brat only child (me),

he devoted 32 years as a public servant.

He retired from the City of Dallas,

a proud grandfather of my two children,

only to find himself, less than a year later,

going back to work.

All that working never made him a wealthy man,

Yet he passed on, to those he loved,

riches not measured or measurable in monetary amounts.

His job didn't have the glamour of a fireman or policeman

(although he raised a daughter who became a cop).

He never served his country in the military;

he was too busy supporting the family

(although he helped raise a granddaughter

who wears a Navy uniform).

He never had time for intellectual endeavors

or to pursue a higher education

(although he was the role model for a grandson

who just graduated from the University of Texas at Dallas

and is making plans to go to grad school)

My dad

kept the water flowing

while Mom kept the home fires burning,

and never turned his back on a friend

or a stranger in need of help.

My dad

was a simple man,

Simply the best and most decent man I've ever known.

He's gone

but we remember,

because inside our hearts,

and through the generations,

he lives on.

Daddy died one day before my forty-first birthday,
on the day that Tom, Kris and I were moving back to Dallas from Arkansas
to be closer to him and mom.
The moving trucks were all packed and ready to go
when I got the call
that the sun around which my world had revolved for four decades
had gone out.

COPYRIGHT 1998

DEB SHINDER