To my children, he was their godfather and Uncle Del. To me, he was a near-constant presence in my life since I was four years old; a neighbor who became family.
He introduced me to his German Shepard, Princess, and shared stories about her when she was a puppy.
He let me clean his work truck before I was old enough to get a real job, paid me a little, and let me keep any change that I found. I don't know how he had any change left because he also paid me a quarter every time he said a bad word around me.
Graduations, birthdays, Christmases, wedding, divorce, school performancs, sports games, he was there.
He taught me to drive, practicing down at the Berkeley Marina after my mom resigned from the roll following one practice lesson on the freeway.
When we needed someone to help transport something from the Bay to my school in Southern California or anywhere for that matter, he was there.
He had an uncanny way of showing up right at the moment that my mom and I needed help with something. No call needed, he just knew.
His visits to LA were cherished, as were visits with him in the Bay. My son in particular still remembers visits to the Bay and Uncle Del letting him fly his giant kite and ride with him on the buggy. Terrifying for me, the coolest thing ever for my son.
Growing up, whether we were at the Berkeley Marina or grabbing food in a café, there was ALWAYS someone that knew Del. If you commented on it, he just lifted his eyebrows and chuckled.
Graduations, birthdays, Christmases, marriage, divorce, school performancs, he was there.
Del had endless stories about his travels to Belize, Honduras, Guatemala, and beyond, and the beautiful photos that helped bring life to the stories. When we didn't hear from him for a few weeks or more, we knew we would eventually get a postcard or message letting us know that he was off on an adventure, diving, doing construction work abroad, or climbing a volcano.
For my mom, I think he was like a little brother, cherished despite his antics. For me, he was like another father.
Rest well, Del. Thank you for showing us what it looks like to LIVE.