My dear Dad, Harold Cleary.

Many many years ago- I was probably 11 or 12 years old and was staying with my sister Tina in Cincinnati during summer school break.  Father's Day came and my heart was broken- I missed my Dad so so much.  When I talked to him that morning, I cried and cried.  I just didn't know if I could stay much longer without him.  I can't remember what I said to him.  All I remember is crying- knowing it was going to be quite awhile before I saw him again.

Then hours later, I was outside playing with a neighbor when a familiar car pulled in the driveway.  My dad.  He came and got me.

To this day I remember the relief I felt when I woke up the next morning- in my own bed- looking out over our farm in Kentucky.  Watching through the window, my dear Dad walking to the barn.  Home.  My dad brought me home.