Dads

Every year at this time I remember growing up, our family and my parents, both of whom are no longer with us.

 Yesterday, I heard this George Strait classic.

 Bill C. Malone, one of my most influential professors when I was in graduate school at Tulane University, wrote a book entitled "Don't Get Above Your Raisin: Country Music and the Southern Working Class."  I guess that's why I felt the need to post the song.

Dads are very important.

Daddy

So, I've been thinking about my father today.

Had he lived, we would be celebrating his 90th birthday.

He was a good man.

I miss him a lot.

For some reason I've been thinking about when I was 16-years-old and he handed me the keys to our 1957 Buick Super 4-door hardtop, the family car. It became my car that day.

I painted it maroon, removed the hubcaps and painted the wheel rims black. He never said a word. It was my car. The '57 above is just like the car I first drove, except for the color and less 2 doors.

Great memories.

Life moves on.

Memories remain. . .thankfully.

Daddy

My father died Sunday night at 11:36 p.m.

He had been ill for several difficult weeks. He was 87-years-old.

Morris Franklin James was a decent man in every respect. And, as a result, he never lost my respect as his son.

Dad and mother celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary back in November. When I told my mom that we had lost dad, her first, tear-filled words were very simple: "Ohhhh! I've lost my best friend."

Over the past several months my folks have been turning their business affairs over to me. I've been learning a lot about their life together that I didn't know before.

Even today, as we made preparations for dad's funeral, I found two very interesting documents.

One was a letter to his uncle about a business deal gone bad in more ways than one. From the letter it was obvious that my father felt that his uncle was not making honest decisions. In fact, my dad feared that my uncle was involved in illegal activity with some of their struggling company's limited assets and inventory. He called the older man to task over it and resigned his position.

The other document contained his notes from a speech that he delivered to the Richardson Rotary Club on January 7, 1957. At that time dad served as City Secretary for the booming City of Richardson. The purpose of his speech was to report on the rapid, but well-planned growth of the city. In reading over the speech I could hear laughter ripple across the crowd as he joked about the early real estate developers and their important role in the growth of his city. I may decide to post this document at a later time. I was amazed at the way he regarded and emphasized the importance of a commitment to the good of the entire community, a theme I return to often on these pages.

The two documents have at least one thing in common: I never knew about them or about the events they describe.

My dad majored on quiet humility, especially when it came to his own accomplishments and struggles.

I cried Sunday night. I know I will cry again and often. No man could be more fortunate than I have been throughout my life, thanks in large measure to the role of my dad in my life. I know that even though his work is finished, he will never really leave my side. His influence, his manner, his values, his love--these parts of my dad's life will never be gone from my own journey.

On Sunday afternoon, during our last visit before he slipped off into a deep sleep, I asked him how he was doing.

His response was typical. "I'm doing wonderful."

You're right, dad. You did wonderful for a very long time.

[Funeral services for Morris James are set for 10:00 a.m., Thursday, December 20, 2007 in the Memorial Chapel at Restland Funeral Home. A gathering of family and friends will take place the night before from 6:30 to 8:30 p.m.]

Surgery for my dad

Today will be spent at The Heart Hospital--Baylor, Plano.

My 87-year-old father will undergo carotid artery surgery early this morning.

The care he is receiving here is nothing short of amazing. His doctors, nurses and all of the others attending him are the very best. We are most grateful for having access to such high quality care delivered by such caring people.

My experience here lines up with the experience we've had while working with the entire Baylor Health Care System in providing community-based health and wellness services in inner city Dallas to thousands of patients who do not enjoy the benefit of health insurance coverage.

Class and caring people, these Baylor folks!

Please remember my dad today.

Dads

In a game against the Colorado Rockies, on June 28, 2007, Houston Astros' Craig Biggio became the 27th player in Major League Baseball history to pound out his 3,000 career hit. The record hit came in the 7th inning of the game.

What caught my attention after his major accomplishment was a dugout photo, published in ESPN Magazine (July 16, 2007, page 20), of Biggio kissing his son, Conor, who serves as an Astros' batboy. I haven't been able to find that particular shot online. It is a classic.

Biggio has always been a great player with lots of heart, hustle and class, at least in my opinion.

But, photos following his 3,000th hit made it very clear that he enjoys a powerful relationship with his family. Conor; his daughter, Quinn; and his wife are all involved at the moment of his triumph. The photos included here, all shot by AP photographer David J. Phillip, document the sort of dad Biggio tries to be.

One thing I've learned in every community where I've lived and worked: kids need dads who care and who aren't afraid to make their love, care, commitment and concern known again and again. . . to the child.

But, it goes beyond the family.

Communities need fathers who care and who love their kids.

Need some proof? Ask a teacher or a police officer or a retailer or a community organizer.

Community health depends on strong fathers.

Suburbs.

Inner city.

Rural villages.

The nature of the geography or the demographics doesn't much matter. The needs and effects are the same.

Dads who love their families are prerequisite for thriving communities.

I suppose I am so sensitive to this reality because I've seen and known so many children and so many communities whose dads have let them down.

The reasons are important, and sometimes complex, often sad or maddening. But, the reasons don't matter much right here.

The facts are clear.

Dads need to step up the plate. They need to stay in the game. They cannot quit.

When committed to the joy of loving their kids, fathers will be champs with outcomes much more significant than 3,000 career major league hits! What we're talking here is "hall of fame" performance. . .day-by-day.