The mention of It Happened on Mulberry St. reminded me that he said it was his favorite book as a child. Don't think I ever read it and was amazed that it had been written by Dr. Seuss. I'd always thought his favorite was Mr. Popper's Penguins which is why I got you all a copy and why we went to a zoon with a large collection of them. Danny, you liked them too and didn't want to leave. Was in the middle of listening to the conversation with your parents when Angela came in for the weekend. When I went back to it as she wanted to hear it too, she moved the mouse and it all disappeared. What struck me most was the comment he'd made about not feelingloved as a child and I can't help but wonder if he didn't say that to make some sort of connection with your mother. In those days it was common for children to have nurses but the nurse was really for the older children. It was Mother who tooki care of the babies. It was terribly dificult having him and not being able to tell Mother and Daddy at dinner about OUR day. All he wanted to do was talk business. I sat to his right at the table and he used to drum his nails on the table. Years later I was playing bridge and when one of out opponents started doing the same thing, I told him that I was going to belt him if he didn't stop. We were very much loved as children but it was terribly hard for both Mother and Daddy. Don't know if you remember your father and me teasing Daddy about the stories he told us and the way he left us hanging for the next installment. The kids were being chased through a tunnel and were left facing a brick wall. Deb, you described it this way: "They walked and they walked and honestly, Aunty Andy, I think he was trying to figure out what came next." Sundays were out days with Mother and Daddy and we all played games like Bingo. He arranged it so that we each got a prize, though I never figured out how he managed to do it. We all had birthday parties and Mother came up with great games like spider web. She would make Jack Horner pies. These were hatboxes decorated with crepe paper (she made them) and there was a prize for each child. Most of the children at school came from very wealthy families and we never would have gone there if it hadnt been for Grandpa paying the tuition. They would come to school in their fancy rented costumes for Halloween parties and we won all the prizes with our home made ones. Years later when your father complained about the cold at the Bodleian Library, Mother went out and bought him a pair of woolen gloves. Then she cut slits in the thumb and forefinger of each, over casting them and then sewing snaps so he could fold them back and keep the rest of his hands warm. At some point he wrote Mother saying that he had been plagued with diarrhea and the doctors couldn't figure out what was the trouble. She went straight to the phone and called out family doctor who immediately said that they should test for salmonella which was just what he had. We were very much loved and our parents did the best job they could under the circumstances. Actually I always thought that your father was the favorite though Mother bent over backward not to show favoritism. She just about killed herself trying to make the money she spent on our Christmas presents come out even. These are all memories from my childhood and not things I was told as an adult. Got a copy of Dick's mail about his memories. Had totally forgotten about Rev. Lev and any influence he might have had. Hope you all enjoyed the DVD he made of our childhood movies. Don't think you ever heard that his childhood nickname was Cherry because., as I remember, his nose was red, probably because of the cold weather. I was Apple (red cheeks) and Dick was Boober, something he hated. Eventually figured it was because your father had trouble saying brother. Mother was a strict disciplinarian and there was none of "wait till your father gets home. Daddy would give us until the count of 5 and would tell us that it would be like whaPaddy gave the drum Years later I spoke to the principal of a school in New York for difficult children and he said that children need discipline and that in getting it they realized that the parent cared enough to do it.

Some things I remembered - Memories of Dan - Easy to begin with the two words he coined: “chirrun” - that is, kids, and “amn’t” meaning am not. Did anyone else ever use these? If so, I haven’t heard it. Not in our dictionary, either. I remember that someone, many years ago, told him that amn’t was not in the dictionary and I think he said something like “It should be” Some random memories in no particular order: When he was little, he had a little hard rubber figure from Snow White - Dopey - that he adored. One of the family films shows when I took it and ran off, much to his chagrin. When he was small (on L.I.) he got a clarinet for Christmas - and I think he even tried to play it for a while. While on L.I., during the year or two before we left, we (and Dan was the prime caretaker, as I remember) had chickens and ducks - a fair number of them, too. We had a bad winter night’s freeze and that was pretty much the end of our ranching efforts. Years later at the Lake, he used to disappear into the bathroom (did he do it all his life?) after lunch every day and would stay in there for a long time. We could never figure what he did there. Daddy got Mother a Cushman motor scooter and sidecar (this was during the war) so she could go into Canaan to get groceries and save gas during rationing. The only time she tried to drive it, though, she ran off the road into the brambles and swore she would never drive it again. And it sat in Middler until Dan got to be 16 when he took it over. This was when his nose would get cherry red from the sun and might have been when the pastel by Edna Candler was done and shows that cherry nose. He always loved boats, as you know. We had a number of them: the Jodianda (a combination of all our names) which was a big 4 oared boat; Dan’s Penguin, a two oared smaller boat; a sailboat, which was Dan’s as well; one cedar strip canoe and another canvas one. We needed something to get these - especially the sailboat - out of the water at the end of the summer. I think it was Dan’s idea to buy what had been the wheels and chassis from an old horse-drawn hearse and convert it to a boat trailer. It worked. It wasn’t pretty. The Penguin takes me to a part of his personality: the desire to help people without any thought of reward. In at least one case it was at some personal risk. As you know, he had at least a couple of bouts of osteomyelitis (if you don’t know about it, I can tell you since I had it as well, that it’s one of the most painful diseases you can have). Treatment is simple now, but was less so then. He was in hospital, then recuperated at home. The second time, I think, he heard someone calling for help out in the lake at night. He went out in Penguin and rowed out to help the person. Hauled him into the boat. Penguin was a small boat and easily could have been upset - I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to him had the incision gotten a dose of lake water. Twin Lakes day was always held on ours and Pechin’s/Atmore’s beach. It was a great deal more involved then than it is now with many races for different kinds of boats, canoes, swimming and so on. Dan always won more ribbons than the rest of us combined. When we were kids at the lake, he was the only one who never got into trouble - I was the worst offender, of course. During the war, when Mother was trying to handle us all by herself when Daddy was in service, she instituted a spot/check system to reward us for doing good things (checks) and punish us (spots) for doing something wrong. We had a scoreboard she hung on the back of the linen closet door. The results determined how much allowance we got. One week Jack got so many spots he didn’t get any allowance at all (much to Ann’s and my glee, I might add). Dan got only checks, as far as I can remember. I mention this as an indication of my memories of him as a little kid - as far as I know, he just didn’t do anything wrong! He was a complete little boy, though. He loved to nail things together and try to build things. He and Jack built a little play fort out in the woods - but they wouldn’t let me play in it As you know, Jack was born with a physical problem. Mother did everything she could to get him to use it and so encouraged us in any sort of physical activity in hopes that these would help him strengthen it. This might have been the basis for Dan’s love of such things. He played a bit of cricket at Haverford and was on the JV soccer team, though he did play a couple of varsity games. He played some golf, too, but I don’t think he could stand the frustration and gave it up. I used to say he shot in the low damns and hells. At Exeter and a bit at Haverford, he was involved in photography (we both caught it from Mother and Daddy) and had a 4x5 Speed Graphic camera. I guess he did some pictures for the paper and yearbook. At Haverford, his primary extracurricular activity was the radio station. He was Station Manager (President) and had a high-end tape recorder and loved to tape college activities. For years he recorded class night shows and had LPs made for those who ordered them. He taped the Queen’s coronation ceremony, too. I remember, it must have been during his senior year since I was involved, he became involved in an evangelical group called Faith that Works. I remember they went to other college campuses to preach. I don’t remember any particular religious streak in my family. Mother and Daddy went to church (don’t know how often) when we lived on L.I and often when Frank Cotter took over the church. in Sharon. As far as I was concerned - and this was when I was somewhat religious - it was his personality that kept much of our family there. It was not until he got to Exeter, I think, that his beliefs started to evolve. That was when he met Leverett Davis (Rev. Lev, as he was locally called) and things apparently evolved from that. I do remember when he first started to talk about going into the ministry, I expressed some concern to Mother who told me that he had also considered going into the Marines. I have no idea if that was true or just something she told me to somehow “make it OK”. I’m sure that he has talked to you more about his spiritual journey - we never talked about religion much except for having an ongoing discussion about the definition of the word “Christian”. We went away to school in 1943, I think. Dan and I went to Emerson (in Exeter, NH, and presumably a gateway to Exeter Academy- though it didn’t work for me) - he for a year and I for four. As expected, we didn’t have a great deal of contact there. Upperclassmen don’t with their juniors in any school I’ve been a part of. I can’t think of anything of note to tell you about that time. One summer when he was in college he was a counselor at an Episcopal church summer camp, teaching lanyard making and the like. I only remember it because he asked me to come up and replace another counselor. When Dan graduated from Haverford, Mother and Daddy sent us all to Europe (at least partially a graduation present for them). I’m not sure who set up our itinerary but we seemed to visit most of the great cathedral cities of England. The one that impressed us the most strangely, or perhaps not, was Durham. History does tend to repeat itself. During that trip Dan did most of the driving (Ann didn’t want to, they didn’t want me to drive much, and Jack had a terrible tendency to swerve to the wrong side in an emergency) but he would occasionally let someone else drive so he could sit up on the top of the front seat with his head and shoulders out the sun roof so he could take pictures. During vacations we would be together at the Lake. We were all social to varying degrees and dated now and again (well, perhaps I was more than occasional), and went to socials and dances - the kind of “learning to be an adult situations” we used to have and which kids now seem to skip over. I don’t think it was of much interest to him, though he seemed to enjoy himself. I do remember he had a blind date for some dance around Christmas who was just drop dead gorgeous but he really had no interest in her - obviously she made an impression on me. Ann loves to tell about Clare James - we all had crushes on her - but it was when we were much younger. ` Our house on L.I. was physically at the beginning of the road, so just over the fence (wall?) there were other houses which had, presumably, other kids living in them. But I do remember Mother telling us we should not go over there - it was somehow not appropriate for us. I don’t remember any of us having sleep-overs with friends nor, with a few exceptions, friends coming to visit. I think we were all a bit stunted socially. We were all treated completely equally. As an example, we would have a bingo game in the living room on Sunday afternoons. Prizes were candy bars. The first game was won by whoever really won - the others were fixed so no one won more than one game. With this conditioning, I always tried to do the same thing with my own kids and probably your Dad did, too. Your Dad, as much as I knew him as an adult and perhaps even as a child, gloried in his “alone time”. He visited us in Santa Monica, perhaps in 1985, for a few days. We spent the days working and found him at home at the end of the day, completely happy to have been there with his books, my music, and his thoughts. It was a wonderful time. I think that was the time he told us that he could only read sitting up - if he lay down he was like a baby doll and his eyes would automatically close. We both miss him a lot. . .

Jen showed the video birthday greeting from Amanda, Sarah and Matt to Dad on the evening of Dad's 77th birthday. Dad was pretty out of it by that time, but he touched the computer screen as if he was talking to each of them in person. He said the following: Matt, you've grown up so much. Sarah, you're so sweet. Amanda, you're such a lovely girl...

A Tribute to my Father – the Revd. Professor Daniel W. Hardy November 9th 1930 – November 15th 2007 Thank you very much for being here with us today to celebrate Dad's life; to mark his death and share in committing and entrusting him into God's hands for the new life he is entering into. We have been deeply touched by the outpouring of love we've recieved since his death on Thursday. One of the first cards to arrive expressed how “...we shall all miss his kind face and gentle words” - and other people have helped to articulate very beautifully some of the things we cannot yet find words for amidst the shock of grief. I suppose I'm biased, but I loved Dad's face – his rich, warm brown eyes and the loving smile and light that was in them: that 'apple of my eye' look. Light was a big theme for him– and it heightened in recent months. He had a remarkable gift and capacity for seeing the light and potential in other people and situations– that 'spirit that searches everything – even the depths of God' (I Cors II:10) - and to somehow anticipate the light: to hope, believe and trust in it, and to discern and nurture it in such a way that things and possiblities you never dreamt were in you could come into being. Last week, just days before he stopped being able to speak he told me how it wasn't just 'white light' this light that he saw in other people – it was colour – colour in its full and glorious range. He asked me “How do you see colour in the people you work with and meet?” And as I'd never thought about it quite like that before, I had to say “I don't know – I'll have to think about it...” That was the day when he said “I think I probably am dying – and when I asked “Are you ready then?” He said “Yes – I think I am – I think I am ready to slip away.” Even then, he provoked in me new ideas which I'm left to explore and wonder about in the presence of his absence. What a Dad. He had such integrity – he had no time for the 'games people play' - he always had just as much (if not more) time for the 'outsider' or 'underdog' as hs did for the many high status people he engaged with. He was humble; endlessly generous and giving of his time and energy (and money!) – he was always 'there' if you needed him – especially at the end of the day when he often worked late into the night. And no matter how ordinary or insgnificant something might seem to you to be bothering him with, whatever mattered to you mattered to him. He never made you feel small or ignorant or stupid – he listened and attended to you in a way that raised you up to a fuller dignity and stature. But he was pretty rubbish at small talk; and although he could be endlessly patient in some things, he also had quite a temper – and would occasoinally completely lose it (especially on the tennis court!). He could also be very stubborn and had extremely high expectations of himself. I often wished he could be more gentle with himself – but he did change and mellow quite a lot in latter years. He became less dogmatic, less rigid and abstract (and) - more embodied and accepting of his own and other people's limitations. When he was particularly touched or tickled by something – he had a special smile: we called it ' the Hardy smirk'. Quite early on I discovered that the best way to spend time with Dad was to talk about God. He could never get enough of that. Sometimes I used to wish 'Why, when I ask a simple question can't I just get a simple answer?' Why did he always have to reconceive and rethink for himself from the start absolutely everything? And not only did he always have to reconceive of everything but he also had to think of a new word for it. Never before had I heard of such things as: 'informational theoretical demarcation'; 'entropic and negentropic interaction rather than collision'; 'God as the autoregulative centre of exchanges'; his particular use of 'intensity/extenstiy'; 'sociality'; 'communicative order' and the 'prevenient of language: the vestigium deii, vestigium trinitatis'.... Even the medical term 'granulation' (which he learned in relation to a recent leg infetion), took on new depths of theological significance – God's process of healing us from the inside out. But it wasn't in his nature to simple: I'm sure I'm not the only one here to whom he said more than once,“I'm afraid things are just not asas that...” He had a yearning for truth – and always (then) for fuller and depper truth – stretching the limits of language itself as his mind stretched and discovered new capacity and categories for things. It wasn't that he couldn't say things in plain English – I often used to say to him, “But what do you , Dad?” and after a few minutes he could usually explain well what he (or someone else) meant in simple language. But creatin gnew words and redfining 'old' ones were an inherent part of the ongoing expansion of his heart, mind and soul – vital to him. And I grew to realise what a gift it was: to think with such freedom, openness and boldness. The Episcopal Church (into which he was baptised) has in its baptism service: 'Give him (or her) an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and ro persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works...' Dad always made you know that you were part of something much, much bigger. And in the last weeks of his life things seemed to become clearer and simpler in their complexity. One of the last things he said to me was 'That's what it's all about love: passion.” And he loved simply, profoundly and unconditionally. One of my earliest memories of Dad is of playing a game with him where we would stand facing each other, take hold of each other's hands; then he would invite me to stand on the arches of his long, narrow feet, and allow me to gently find my balance before stretching out his enormous legs out into giant strides walking me 'backwards'( as it were) and carrying me with him (sometimes all the way up the stairs!). When I first heard that he had a terminal condition and that he would die, all I could think was “I want a pair of Dad's shoes....” Another thing I remember is how surprised I was that when we moved to Birmingham when I was five and went to a new church, lots of people started coming up and calling him 'father' (and how indignant I felt about it – this was my father – not their's!); but I learnt fairly quickly that it was OK - there was so much of him that there was plenty of him to go round: he could be fatherly ('God-fatherly') to many, many people all at the same time and still be utterly mine. I always knew he was someone who'd been an inspiration in the formation of many people, but until this week I never realised exactly how many. It has been a profound six months since Dad's brain tumour was diagnosed. The prospect of having to accompany him through his dying and death sometimes seemed as if it would be too much to have to endure. At the beginning it felt like the reversal of roles would be unbearable, but somehow Dad was able to prepare and resource us for his departure, culminating in a series of astonishing 'Farewell Discourses' over recent weeks. He was not frightened of his tumour or of dying. He even found it very difficult when certain letters arrived saying 'We're praying for a miracle'. He said it wasn't right – “How can we expect to be excused from our humanity?” He saw cancer and suffering as 'normality' in the world as it is now– and that “tumours happen and need to be received.” And yet he chose to live as fully as he could for as long as he could, opting for radical surgery, radiotherapy and finally chemotherapy in order to give him the clarity to do what he still wanted and needed to do. He faced it philosohically but not stoically – perhaps theologically is a better word - seeing his role as needing to be open to whatever God wanted to work in and through him for as long as he could. He had a profound glimpse of glory – which began and then grew out of his Easter pilrimmage to the Holy Land, and for which he was full of wonder and gratitude. He said to me only a few weeks ago “I am so grateful for all that's happened through all of this – I wouldn't have not had it – I've seen and understood things I'd never been able to before....And my role has been to articulate the wonder as fully as I can...I only wish I could show people more of it.” That's when I suddenly recognised what he was saying: that if this was his task – to articulate praise – then it could never be completed – in this life or the next – only ever begun – and then carried on throughout all eternity. He said “This continuous awareness of God's glory and being given the chance to articulate it is the beginning of the next life.... I hope the last words I speak in this life are words of ” He'd glimpsed a continuity that went far deeper than the radical interruption of death and he had no doubt at all that he would be carrying on blessing us just as hs already has been for so many years. Of course leaving this world is hard work and his last 3 days were like the labour of giving birth, but it was peaceful in the end. Early on Thursday morning, his breathing sudenly changed and then stopped as dawn broke and the sun began to rise. (Deborah Ford, 20.11.07)

*The week before, a former Muslim student of Dad's had a dream about kneeling at his beside and crying. In the Islamic faith, dreams are considered prophecy. *Days before, Dad's dear friend and colleague Peter Ochs finished the outline for Dad's final book. *Hours before, I prayed the Lord's Prayer and General Thanksgiving with him as he lay there. He taught Chris and I those when he put us to bed each night. *I gave him a farewell kiss from me, my wife Kristen, and one from each of his grandchildren Amanda, Sarah and Matthew.