As a kid, I always was fearful of my father. That's hard to admit, but true.

Size-wise, Samuel C. Adams Sr. wasn't an imposing figure. About 5-feet-11 and around 200 pounds. But he was the toughest man on our block. Everyone respected Daddy. When something was going down in the neighborhood, people sought his help.

Daddy wasn't an abusive parent, but he knew how to apply the pain with his belt whenever I did something wrong -- which was quite often during my childhood years.

I was a good kid, really. Always was respectful to my elders. Didn't miss school. Stayed away from the rogues and bullies. But I had a habit of committing stupid acts at home, stuff like blowing electrical fuses, breaking windows and clogging toilets. And when I broke something, I tried to repair it -- or went to the Yellow Pages to call for help -- before Daddy got home from work.

You had to be a glut for punishment not to learn the difference between right and wrong in our house. My siblings believed I was the family's chosen glut. Daddy's boiling temper, not to mention his budget, didn't have room for my random acts of stupidity -- or calls for help using the Yellow Pages. To this day I wonder how I escaped his wrath to reach adulthood.

We are fighting so many wars these days -- the war on drugs, the war on poverty, the war on terrorism . . . I often joke that Daddy fought the war on disobedience, and that he used weapons of "ass" destruction to win. These days some parents are prone to put their kids in "time out" for wrong-doings. Daddy used the "piece out" method of discipline -- do something wrong and he'd take a "piece out" of my rear end.

I was 25 years old and had not lived in Denver a full year when word came that cancer was inside Daddy's body. He was in a hospital bed the last time I saw him alive. The cancer weakened Daddy considerably, but he still had that steely-eyed, toughest-guy-on-the-block mystique. Nurses brought him a meal, but Daddy wanted me to eat it so doctors would think he'd put the food into his body.

Now, who offers hospital food to a visitor? Daddy didn't want to eat. He wanted to die.

There was nothing more that modern medicine from doctors could offer to save Daddy from cancer. He knew that. Not long after being discharged from the hospital, Daddy passed away in our family's home. He was 57 years old. My mother had lost the only man she'd ever loved. As I write this, it hits that today would have been their 58th wedding anniversary.

How's this for fate? When I arrived in Cleveland for the memorial services, I stuck my key into the front door and it broke inside the lock. Just the kind of thing I did as a kid, the kind of thing that made Daddy's temper boil. Even at age 25 I feared his ghost was behind me swinging that belt.

In 1988, three years after Daddy passed, I laid on my living room couch watching the Democratic National Convention. Jennifer Holliday, a talented singer with a rich, powerful voice -- she starred in the Broadway musical Dreamgirls -- took the stage and performed a stirring rendition of "Battle Hymn of the Republic." I'm talking about one of those old-school church-like renditions that places the body's heart and soul under siege from the first verse.

Holliday's voice pushed a button. Memories of Daddy started swirling in my head at a rapid rate, but not as rapid as the tears that flowed from my eyes.

See, from the moment Momma called early on an April morning and said the words, "Daddy passed", I felt I had to be strong -- not just for myself, but for Momma and my three sisters. Daddy always was the strong one. Now I had the reins and I refused to cry. I needed to be tough. Like Daddy.

As Holliday continued to sing, I kept crying, uncontrollably -- like that little boy who had been punished for blowing fuses, stuffing toilets and breaking windows. My grief, my sorrow, my pain finally decided to exit. I missed Daddy. I missed him not being alive to see that his mischievous klutz had become a man. I missed his voice and not being able to talk to him.

Tonight, in front of over 76,000 people at Denver's Invesco Field at Mile High -- and millions of television viewers -- Barack Obama, an African-American, will accept the nomination for president of the United States.

People often talk about moments they never thought would happen in a lifetime. For me, a 48-year-old African-American, Obama's acceptance speech will rank among the highest of those moments.

If you don't have a ticket to attend Obama's speech and won't be able to watch on television, I suggest you read the Rocky Mountain News' accounts of this historic event -- both in print and online at www.RockyMountainNews.com. We will have a stable of outstanding writers on site to offer comprehensive reporting and compelling commentary.

Me? I'll be at home watching from the couch. It will be an emotional night. Wouldn't you know it -- a singer named Jennifer (Hudson) who starred in a movie titled Dreamgirls -- is expected to sing the National Anthem.

I know I will think of Daddy. I'll think of lifetimes -- his and mine. I'm sure I'll shed some tears.