First Christmas

Grandma, like the rest of us, dreads Christmas this year. She's already lost my grandfather. To lose Mom, her one and only child, is nearly unbearable.

Last April, when the doctor tells us Mom has only 24 hours, I collect Grandma from Beatrice, the little town in which she's resided most of her life, and drive her to Grand Island to say goodbye to Mom. We say almost nothing during the three hour trip to the hospital. I worry it will all be too much for my tall, striking grandmother who's not only diabetic but suffers from an ailing heart.

At the hospital, Mom wakes briefly, sees Grandma, and smiles. "Hi, Mama!" she chirps like a ten-year-old before instantly falling back into unconsciousness.

Grandma stops still then staggers and grabs the rail of the hospital bed. Concentrating very hard on something just outside the window, she pleads without looking at me. "You have to take me home."

So we drive all the way back to Beatrice.

"Goodbye, Grandma," I sob when I drop her off at her house. We cling to each other. The next time I see her, Mom will be gone.

Backing out onto the street, I watch her climb the stairs of her porch. Every step is a monumental effort, and she appears all at once decades older than her 72 years.

But now it is Christmas.

Nothing about it resembles last year. Dad's been commuting to Omaha for his new job during Mom's illness. After her death, we clean up the house, put it up for sale, and Dad and my youngest brothers and sisters move to Omaha in August. Joe and Rick are finishing school at Kearney State, Mick remains behind in Grand Island to work, and I move into a small efficiency apartment in Grand Island to get ready for my second year of teaching at Central Catholic. It's the first time I've ever lived on my own, and I miss Dad and my siblings in the very worst way.

Christmas caroling. From left: Carry, Tommy, Mary, Jeff, Terri and Deb

It's the little kids, however, who really struggle to adjust to their new lives. Dad enrolls them in their new schools. Coping with all the bewildering changes without Mom and her tender assurances makes it enormously difficult.

Thankfully, we are all together under one roof for Christmas. The new house in Omaha is a big split level that boasts a deep carpeted pit in front of the fireplace with room for all of us to sit. I sail into Beatrice in my little Pacer to pick up Grandma, and we arrive in Omaha two days before Christmas just shortly before my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick do.

"Your dad needs a wonderful gift," Grandma thinks aloud the next day after Dad departs for work. "It's Christmas Eve, and that poor man's been through the ringer."

The stress of losing his wife, becoming a single parent to ten children, and trying to save the dairy in Omaha has taken its toll on Dad. To top it all off, he's fighting off a bug which instantly alarms us.

"I'm fine!" he assures us before he leaves for work. "Stop worrying!"

Fiercely protective of our overworked father, we observe him closely. Deb and Mary fear he doesn't get enough rest. That's when we decide to pool our money together to buy him a waterbed for Christmas. Dad's always wanted one, and a local store in Omaha advertises a Christmas special - waterbeds for 199 dollars. Together, we come up with nearly 150, and Grandma offers to chip in the rest.

With no time to waste, we pile into my Pacer and hurry to the store.

"Sorry," the man at the store shakes his head. "That price is for a queen size only. The king is a hundred bucks more."

Crestfallen, we drag ourselves back to the car. Without question, our 6 foot, 7 inch father requires a king size bed.

"I could sell my plasma," Tommy suggests hopefully. "I saw a sign."

But it's not necessary for my ten-year-old brother to part with his blood. Grandma comes through.

"Let's go back to the store and buy that bed," she says determinedly.

It's shameless the way I zip the car around to take complete advantage of my wonderful grandmother's generosity.

"We'll expect you to bring that bed to the house today and set it up for us," she wags her finger at the waterbed man. Our sweeter than syrup grandmother can be formidable when she chooses.

"Yes, ma'am," the man nods obediently.

We can hardly wait for Dad to come home. Because it's Christmas Eve, he arrives earlier than usual, and we frantically make up the bed as soon as the waterbed guys depart.

"Merry Christmas, Dad!" we shout and laugh when he walks into his room and sees the new bed.

In his suit and tie, Dad stops dead in his tracks and stares at the new waterbed. Then a big slow grin creases his face. "What have you kids done?" he laughs.

Dad loves his new waterbed so much he won't even wait for it to warm up. Spreading a mountain of blankets over the top, he crawls onto the mattress, flops on his back, and growls in contentment as his body undulates with the gentle waves.

Jeff receives a much longed for Raggedy Andy for Christmas.

Even though Dad's waterbed is a huge hit, we fear that Christmas itself will be unutterably sad. The move to Omaha, however, in spite of its tribulations, somehow makes it better. If we have to celebrate without Mom, it's easier to do it in a new house that holds no painful memories of her laughter and warm presence.

Nevertheless, we uphold the yearly traditions. On top of Mom's piano, Mary and Baby Jesus are still guarded protectively by Joseph who's been headless for many years - since the time Tommy and Jeff played catch with him in the living room and Harry the Dog pounced to gnaw his head off.

The little kids draw each other's names and present each other with the same giant candy canes, giant suckers and books of Lifesaver candies which they will suck continuously all Christmas day and night.

The last gift to be opened is Uncle Carl's big box from Pittsburgh with the standard gift of stale peanut butter balls he prepares months and months beforehand and a fruitcake that will be crammed far back into the freezer until we discover its rock hard remains the following Christmas.

Christmas dinner is the big challenge. Mom was never known for her culinary skills, but she always insisted on mashed potatoes. Deb, Mary and I try, but our potatoes are a sodden, lumpy, milky mess. Finally, Dad hands us a box of instant mashed potatoes.

"New tradition," he says. They don't taste like Mom's, but they're not half bad.

We set the table with mismatched silverware and Mom's Christmas candles burned to nubs because nobody's thought to buy new ones this year. Dad brings out the turkey, and we fall silent to say grace. It's the only time emotion threatens to overwhelm us. We soldier through, however, and at the end, Grandma breathes tearfully, "Dear God, thank you for watching out for all of us this past year, and thank you for taking care of Patti."

We stare painfully at the table.

"No problem, Marge." Mary, clowning in a comically deep voice, saves the moment. Even Grandma laughs.

This first Christmas isn't great. But it's okay. We survive, and we'll remember it for its own special flavor.

Christmas 1979 will be the year that Tommy was willing to sell his blood for Dad's Christmas present. The year that we made instant mashed potatoes for Christmas dinner. The year that Grandma nearly fell into the pit in front of the fireplace. And the Christmas that Dad finally got his waterbed.

It was the first Christmas without Mom.

But thankfully, because we were all together, Christmas 1979 wasn't bad at all.

After Mom

At the church dinner after Mom's funeral, a nice lady from our neighborhood leans close to place a sympathetic hand on my arm.

"God needed your lovely mother more than you did," she shakes her head sadly. She is kind and well intentioned and doesn't realize what she's saying. I thank her for coming but then tactfully turn away to find my family.

God needs Mom more than my little brothers and sisters do?

From left: Mary, Carry, Rick, Terri, Tommy and Jeff

I don't understand which prayers God decides to answer or not answer. If a single good reason exists for God taking Mom, I can't think what it would be. Maybe God has nothing to do with it at all. Maybe he allows all our lives to simply march along - appalled as the rest of us when tragic events knock us sprawling to the ground.

In the early morning hours right after Mom dies, we return from the hospital. Dad gently wakes the little kids to break the terrible news that Mom is gone. Even though it's 2 o'clock in the morning, good Father Kurtenbach comes to be with us. My little brothers and sisters lean close to Dad on the living room couch while Joe, Mick, Rick and I sprawl on the floor. Harry, Mom's little mutt of a dog, climbs on my legs, circles twice and plops on my lap. The weight of his warm little body comforts me, and I wonder if poor Harry is as bewildered as the rest of us.

Long after Father Kurtenbach has departed, we lie in our rooms in the dark. I know my brothers and sisters are awake because I hear soft sniffles and occasional choking sobs.

In an instant, however, we all bolt up in bed. Harry the dog abruptly screams in the darkness. It's the only way any of us can describe it later. If a dog can scream, Harry does.

Curled up and asleep in Mom's recliner in the tv room, his favorite sleeping spot, he suddenly screams and flies through the house from one end to the other yelping in utter terror. At first we're too terrified to move, but in a second we're on our feet bumping into each other in the dark and scrambling to Dad's room. Rick flicks on the light, and the little kids leap into bed to frantically slide themselves under the covers next to Dad.

Harry hides under Dad's bed. My brother finds him and yanks him out. With the light on and all of us together, I tell myself there is a rational explanation for Harry's sudden and disturbing behavior.

"What's wrong with him?" Dad barks. The little kids cower next to him.

Harry shakes violently. He attempts to come when I call him, but his hind legs, weak with fright, collapse beneath him. My brother and I take turns consoling and hugging him then carefully check his paws for stickers or other injuries.

But there's nothing wrong with Harry except that he's scared to death. As soon as we release him, he crawls trembling back under the bed and refuses to come out. We all stare at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Every one of us thinks the same thing.

"It's all right now, kids," Dad says. "Everybody go back to bed."

It will be many weeks before we speak of the terrible night Harry the Dog screamed in the dark after Mom died. However, not long after that, Harry disappears. Carry and our small brothers Tommy and Jeff scour the neighborhood for days. But Harry is never found and never comes back.

Tommy flings himself on the couch after an extensive and fruitless search. "I think Harry went to find Mom," he cries disconsolately.

It would make sense. Harry adored Mom.

"Or maybe," Tommy wipes his eyes, "Mom came to find Harry."

When we are finally able to speak of Harry's bizarre behavior the night Mom died, even the little kids suspect Mom came home to say goodbye. Harry must have seen her, we decide.

"But did she have to scare us to death?" I wonder aloud. Dad says it would be just like Mom to have one more laugh before she went.

We will never know exactly what happened that trauma-filled night. Perhaps it was all coincidental and Harry merely had a horrible nightmare. Whatever happened in those early morning hours, Harry's terrible fright strangely helps to propel us through our grief. Mom is somewhere, we conclude. We hope it's wonderful and that she's not worried about us. Well, maybe a little worried. We hope that she's once more her happy, healthy, funny, quirky self. Most of all, we dare to hope we will see her again.

One May night a month or so later, just before school is out for the summer, a beautiful starry night beckons us outdoors. Joe and Rick have long ago returned to Kearney State for their finals, and Dad must finally go back to his job in Omaha but promises to come back in time for Deb's high school graduation. For the first time in our lives, it's just us without either Mom or Dad.

The night is too warm and inviting to waste, and none of us feels like going to bed. I am the oldest - a school teacher, for pete's sake - and should know better. Nevertheless, we all drift outside into the front yard. The little kids run and laugh. Carry turns cartwheels and Terri chases Tommy and Jeff under the light of a full moon. For the first time in months, my little brothers and sisters romp without a care like small wild animals. We sing and tell jokes and finally sprawl on blankets in the grass to look up at the stars.

Lounging in the mild warmth of approaching summer, we quite suddenly dare to be happy. Deb and Mary give ridiculous names to the constellations and search for planets.

"I'm trying to find Uranus," Deb giggles. "Get it?"

We lie close to one another, and the nearness of my brothers and sisters is a comfort I have never appreciated so much.

"Maybe Mom's up there looking down at us right now," Jeff yawns sleepily. It's almost 11 and very late for my seven-year-old baby brother.

We fall silent staring at the starlit sky feeling close to Mom and God and whatever it is that constitutes eternity. Jeff sighs and nestles close to Mary who draws him close.

"Maybe she is," I say.

It would be nice to think Mom hovers close above in the warm night sky watching over her kids.

Maybe Heaven is much closer than any of us realizes. In that moment, huddled together on a blanket under the sky, we feel without a doubt that Mom is near with the devoted Harry close at her heel.

And that one day, we will most certainly see them both again.

Last Days

We nearly make it to the cash register when Mom realizes she's forgotten the coupon for a Christmas turkey.

"Oh, nuts," she groans. The two of us have been standing in line forever. Skagway is packed to the gills with holiday shoppers. We're tired and cranky. Then Mom spies a frail, elderly gentleman two aisles away clutching a precious turkey coupon in one hand and wielding a cannister of oxygen in the other.

She whispers to me. "If you're very, very nice to that old man, I bet he'd give you his coupon." 

Preparing the Christmas turkey - Mom's last Christmas.

I stare at her. "You've got to be kidding."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Oh c'mon. How do you think I met my husband?"

We laugh so hard we cry. Mom leans on me, and I lean on the grocery cart, our knees weak with laughter. Nearby shoppers smile in sympathy. 

It feels good to laugh. 

Almost two years after her diagnosis, Mom's cancer spreads to her spine. It's a devastating blow. And the timing couldn't be worse. Dad's business has transferred him to Omaha to save the sinking Robert's Dairy. Because of Mom's illness, there's no question of moving Mom and my little brothers and sisters. Dad commutes back and forth from Omaha to Grand Island. He leaves at 4 a.m. Monday morning for Omaha, lives in a motel all week, then drives back to Grand Island Friday evening. 

Just graduated from college and employed by my old high school, Central Catholic, I am grateful to be home and near Mom and my siblings. 

This Christmas, we are a family in denial. None of us, not even Dad, will speak aloud of our fear that Mom may leave us soon. Instead, we joyfully decorate the tree and observe every tradition just as if this Christmas is like any other. After Mass, we tumble into the living room around the tree. Since I'm the oldest, I read aloud the wondrous story of the Nativity from the Bible, and we sing "Silent Night" then "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" because it's Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff's favorite. The eyes of the little kids shine with excitement. Mom is determined that this should be a happy Christmas.

Nevertheless, reality hits with a bleak thud right after the New Year. Mom's cancer grows with a vengeance. She's hospitalized twice and returns home weakened and pale. Getting out of her recliner or bed is such an ordeal that my brothers and sisters each take turns staying home from school to care for her.

Terri, Tommy and Carry

One day in fifth grade, Carry, who is 11, suddenly lowers her head onto her desk and begins to sob. Her kind teacher at Engleman Elementary gathers my little sister into her arms and ushers her out to the hallway.

During one of Mom's hospitalizations, I find seven-year-old Jeff in Mom and Dad's bed hugging Mom's pillow and weeping.

Deb and Mary, only teenagers, take over the cooking and the laundry. Terri and Tommy rub Mom's sore back, and Joe, Mick and Rick - my tall, handsome brothers - sit close to Mom talking softly and sometimes teasing her to make her laugh.

One night when Mom is struggling terribly, I crawl into bed with her to administer her medicine and massage her sore back. When at last she dozes fitfully, I wrap my arms around her. Maybe, I think, if I hold her tightly, I can keep her with us forever.

Pain jolts her awake, and she moans and sobs in agony. The pills don't work any more. Desperate, I half carry her to my little car and drive her to the hospital.

"Dad?" I call my father as soon as the nurses wheel Mom off. "I think you need to come home."

He walks through our door that very night. My brothers and sisters and I are weak with relief to see him. For the first time in his life, he doesn't worry about the dairy or what will happen if he's not behind his desk. Day in and day out, he sits with Mom, and we all take comfort in his bigger-than-life presence. Dad can fix anything, we tell ourselves. But he can't fix this.

Time stops still at our house. Mom fails noticeably every day. Easter Sunday arrives, and we barely remember to arrange baskets for the little kids.  Early Monday morning, Dad calls the doctor himself and after a long time comes to us with red rimmed eyes. "It's time to tell Mom goodbye," he chokes.

It's the day after Easter, a beautiful afternoon in April. Birds sing gloriously outside the open windows. But we are mutely staring at the floor. My four little brothers and sisters crawl into Dad's lap clutching him and sobbing. My own hot tears drip onto the carpet, and I want to throw a brick at those freaking birds.

Aunt Patty and MaryLee, Dad's sister and cousin, both arrive from Colorado - two wonderful women who have loved us all our lives. At the hospital, we all file quietly into my mother's room. Father Harold Kurtenbach, our parish pastor, arrives at the same time we do and quietly consoles us.

"Patti?" Dad whispers to Mom who has been semi-conscious for the last several hours. "Look who's here!"

She opens her eyes in confusion to see Father Kurtenbach's kind face leaning above her.

"Do you know who I am, Patti?" he asks softly.

She blinks. "The Easter Bunny?"

Father Kurtenbach laughs and warmly clasps her hand. Struggling, she gazes up foggily until she recognizes him.

"Am I going to die?" she whispers.

She asks it like a little child. Dad and all of us are caught off guard. Not one time have we ever talked to Mom or each other about her impending death. It hurts me now to think how much Mom needed to talk about the end of her life.

"Are you afraid to die, Patti?" Father Kurtenbach says gently.

Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head. "No," she says. Her gaze fades, and she falls asleep.

It's the last time Mom ever speaks. After that, she lapses into an enduring unconsciousness. All around her bed are cards and flowers from neighbors and close friends. A magnificent Easter lily fills the room with one stubborn blossom that refuses to open. I stare dully at it. The Easter message of resurrection fails to rouse my hope while Mom lies pale and silent.

It grows late, and Dad orders the little kids home. Mom's good friend, Sue Wisnieski, assures us she will go with them and get them to bed. The rest of us stay. Wonderful Father Kurtenbach refuses to leave us. He chats softly with Dad and Aunt Patty and MaryLee.

My brothers and sisters and I sit quietly. Once in a while, when Mom grows agitated, I brush her hair. It always quiets her. But now, she becomes unusually restless, and the adults in the room are instantly attentive. Mom shudders with a deep breath, and suddenly we are all on our feet surrounding her bed. I have never watched anybody die. That the first person I will watch leave this world is my sweet mother takes my breath away.

A nurse slips into the room and makes a quick assessment. "There's nothing else we can do," she tells Dad.

Mom's breathing grows shallow. Suddenly, she releases a tremendous gasp and seems to stop breathing. We think she is gone until her eyes fly open and she looks for Dad. He reaches over to close her eyes, but she instantly opens them again and stares intently at him. Dad takes Mom's hand, and the two of them gaze at each other for a long, long time until Mom gasps again. Finally she closes her eyes for the last time and is gone.

"Goodbye, Patti," Dad sighs raggedly. "I love you."

Last photo of Mom.

My brothers and sisters and I reach for each other and hold on for dear life, hardly able to absorb the events of these past hours. We cry and cry around my mother's bed.

Father Kurtenbach gently makes the Sign of the Cross on Mom's head then quietly comforts Dad who still holds her hand. At last, he and Aunt Patty and MaryLee gather us together towards the door of the hospital room.

"Go," Father instructs us. "I'll stay with her."

With great effort, we pull ourselves together, and as Dad leads, we file out of the room one at a time. But before I step into the hall, I look back at the still form of my mother. Father Kurtenbach prays softly over her body.

And on the table beside her bed, the last Easter lily has finally bloomed.

Girl on the Wall

My little brothers and sisters are busily collecting Bicentennial quarters.

"These are gonna be worth a lot someday," my 7-year-old brother Tommy proudly displays a fistful of quarters. "Maybe a million dollars."

Everybody's excited about the Bicentennial. Our neighbor Ted George presides over the dedication of our brand new Capital Heights Park and announces the very first fireworks' display. "Wasn't THAT a good one!" he oohs and aahs into a tinny sounding microphone as explosions of color light up the Nebraska night sky.

This summer of 1976, I'm finishing my junior year at Kearney State. Joe completes his freshman year there, and Mick's just graduated from Central Catholic High School. We're all home and together for the 4th, but even as Dad grills burgers and we troop over at dusk for Ted George's fireworks' show, a cloud hovers over our own Bicentennial celebration.

Mom's discovered a lump in her breast. One afternoon she's reading an article in Reader's Digest about Happy Rockefeller's diagnosis of breast cancer and is compelled to examine her own breasts when she discovers the marble sized hard lump.

Mom

I am 21 and old enough to recognize fear. Her beautiful brown eyes are wide and strained, and she's unusually distracted and irritable.

"Stop sighing, Patti!" Dad snaps with impatience ."Everything's fine!"  I'm old enough to know he's scared, too.

Delving into medical books from the city library, I memorize the encouraging words of cancer experts. "The vast majority of breast lumps, more than 80%," I read in volume after volume, "are benign,"

I hold up the words in small black print for Mom.  "See?" I am trying to reassure her as much as myself.

Nobody can believe Mom is the mother of ten. Elegant and beautiful, she walks into church, the grocery store or a basketball game, and all heads turn. Seemingly oblivious to the admiring glances all around, she disarms her friends and us with her quick humor and loving laughter. I am always proud of my lovely mother. Right now, though, I am frightened for her, too.

A biopsy is scheduled for the middle of July. Mom and I are carrying laundry in baskets to the little boys' room when, for some reason, the portrait of the old-fashioned young woman that has hung on our living room wall as long as I can remember catches my eye. Her dress is ruffled and scooped at the neckline, and there is an air of familiarity about her. I don't remember a time that she hasn't gazed soulfully out of her frame at whatever it is in the distance that fascinates her. From time to time I wonder about her.

"Who is that girl, Mom?" I finally remember to ask.

"My grandmother," Mom says. "My dad's mom."

Mom opens her Christmas present, 1972

I'm shocked. So the young woman on the wall is not, after all, some nameless stranger.

"I've never heard you talk about her," I say.

"I never knew her," Mom says. "She died when my dad was only ten."

I study my great-grandmother's face. She has Mom's high cheekbones, and I experience a sudden kinship. "How did she die?"

Mom's eyes fill. "Breast cancer," she says.

My heart lurches. Wordless, Mom and I stare at the picture. Finally, I drop the basket of laundry to hug my mother. "It won't happen to you, Mom."

She clings to me gratefully, then we pull ourselves together and lug the laundry away. We don't say anything more about it. In 1976, nobody says much about breast cancer. Mom is stoic, and Dad is nervous. We wait for the biopsy, and I wonder about my great-grandmother. She would have been in her 30's when she died, I calculate. Why does nobody speak of her? Mom will not talk about her now, and I don't ask. But I wonder if my great-grandmother has gifted my mother with a terrible legacy, a small black box that nobody wants to open.

In 1976, a breast biopsy means two things: either Mom will wake up to a relieved surgeon who will assure her that everything's fine, or she will wake up without a breast.

The second she opens her eyes to see Dad's devastated face, she knows.

The worst part is that I'm not there. Dad has persuaded me to return to Kearney for summer school and my job.

"It won't be anything at all. I'll call you," he says.

When he doesn't call, I call him. My fingers shake. I know the surgery is scheduled for early morning, and it's past noon now.

"It's cancer," Dad says shortly over the phone. He does not cry, but I do. Right on the phone. I cry like I am ten-years-old until Dad finally calms me. "Come home tonight," he instructs me. "I'll take you to see your mother."

And I do. But before I hop the Greyhound bus, I walk downtown to purchase a robe for Mom. When it is wrapped by a sales clerk in a huge box, I take it with me on the bus and clutch it all the way home. Dad meets me at the station, and we drive to the hospital.

Mom and Dad "oohing" over Deb's birthday gift, 1977.

"Time to be strong, Babe," he instructs me gently. "You can't go into your mom's room and break down."

Deeply ashamed, I promise him I will not cry. But the truth is, I'm scared to see Mom. I'm scared to see her without a breast. For the first time in my life, I don't know what to say to my own mother or how to comfort her.

When I stride nervously through the door of her hospital room clutching the big box, it crashes against the sides of the door jamb and flings me backwards into the hall. Mom laughs - her glorious, warm laugh. And then I know it will be all right.

Even after her operation, she is still beautiful and funny. It's only after a few weeks that I note a subtle change. Outwardly, Mom heals and begins radiation treatments. She helps Terri with her times tables and races Tommy to the front door every day after school. She cuddles and tickles our baby brother Jeff until they are both laughing and gasping for breath. But her gaze lingers on all of us, especially on my younger siblings. I am very afraid she is saying her goodbyes.

Sometimes I study the picture of my great grandmother and try to unlock the secrets of her wistful young face. I think about her terrible anguish at leaving a ten-year-old son and a baby boy and beg her to help her granddaughter. "Don't let Mom have to leave us," I plead silently.

Exactly 40 years after Mom discovers she has cancer, I am sitting in a hospital room in Omaha watching my youngest sister Carry sleep. My good brothers Joe and Rick, my sister Terri and my sister-in-law Jan have just departed. We have waited all morning together as Carry undergoes a grueling operation to remove both her breasts due to a particularly virulent form of breast cancer.

Six years ago, when my darling little sister Terri is diagnosed with breast cancer and courageously endures a double mastectomy, my sisters and I band together to face our worst fear. Soon Deb is diagnosed with a pre-breast cancer, and because we all know the jig is up, Deb and Mary and I elect to have preventive double mastectomies.  Within six months, the four of us will lose our breasts. But Carry is the last hold-out.

Big brother Rick comforts Carry.

"I'm not getting a mastectomy because I'm not getting breast cancer," my baby sister flashes stubbornly.

Our great-grandmother's legacy, however, will not be deterred. Like a locomotive, it roars through the generations of women in our family. Carry, however, like Terri, will discover her cancer in its very earliest stages. Because it is an aggressive cancer, she endures several months of chemotherapy before her surgery. But the enemy will not take her from us. She will be the last of the five of us to lose her breasts.

Cancer tests our faith to its very limits. It's a little like the old Biblical story of Jacob wrestling the angel. "I will not let thee go until thee bless me!" Jacob shouts at the angel.

My family knows all about wrestling angels. Our hard fought blessings have come at a great cost, though. Mom, like her grandmother before her, will not live to see my little brothers and sisters grow up. She leaves behind a terrible hole that, no matter how hard we try, cannot be filled by anybody but her.

Ever vigilant and aware of the enemy, however, my sisters and I will live to see our own children grow up and even our grandchildren. We have our much loved mother to thank for that - funny, quirky, lovely Mom.

And the beautiful girl on the wall.

Jeff

Mom worries about our baby brother.

Jeffrey Joseph is a year old and still makes no attempt to walk or even to pull himself up in his crib. Mom takes him back again and again to our gruff old pediatrician who finally throws up his hands.

"You worry about this baby too much," he growls irritably. "His only trouble is that he's got nine brothers and sisters who do everything for him!"

Mom and Jeffrey Joseph, 1971

Mom wants desperately to believe him. In a few months, however, when Jeff is still not walking, Mom takes him to another doctor who recommends a visit to Omaha for tests with specialists. Dad takes the day off, and he and Mom bundle our baby brother up to make the all important trip for the results of the tests. They don't return until after 8 that night, and by then we're all anxious to hear only that our sweet, yellow-haired brother is fine and healthy. When we crowd around them at the door, though, we know immediately Mom has been crying.

"Kids," Dad ushers us into the living room, "everybody sit down," he says gently. He and Mom don't even bother to remove their heavy coats. We are silent and fearful for what he will tell us. Mom, who holds Jeff close, eases herself onto the big couch next to Dad, and the rest of us assemble on the floor to face them. Dad's eyes are piercingly blue and bore into us as they do when he is about to tell us something earth shaking, like "Somebody took the money off my dresser" or "We're moving to Grand Island, Nebaska." Mom says nothing but avoids our eyes as she removes Jeff's jacket and mittens. We wish Dad would say something.

"What's wrong with Jeff?" Joe finally breaks the silence.

Dad sighs deeply. "Your little brother has Cerebral Palsy."

We stare back. None of us has ever heard of Cerebral Palsy, but it sounds frightening and final, as if Jeff might die.

Dad rubs his hand over his face. "It's something that affects Jeff's muscles. He may have trouble walking and talking."

Our baby brother, the subject of this dire discussion, sits on Mom's lap free of the heavy jacket and mittens and grins.

"Will he get over it?" I ask. My voice shakes.

Mom looks up to smile tremulously. "No, but he'll be all right," she tries to sound confident. "We'll all help him to be all right."

We don't believe her. Our baby brother will struggle the rest of his life to walk and talk. How can anything ever be all right?

Jeffrey dresses himself up as Santa Claus, 1975

Instinctively, our little brother Tommy, who is not quite four-years-old but who regards himself as Jeff's personal caretaker, goes to Jeff and gently pats his back. "It's okay, Jeffy," he sings softly. "Everything's okay."

Mom loses her composure and weeps softly. Dad moves closer to put his arm around her. His blue eyes are very bright when he looks at us. "We're a big family, and we've been very lucky," he says. "Things like this happen. But we'll get through it."

Dad's always talking about getting through things as a family. "Family is everything!" he reminds us when we bicker and argue with each other. Most of the time I roll my eyes and long for the time I can depart for college to enjoy space and privacy without a million kids around.

But tonight I am grateful for my brothers and sisters. Life all at once seems perilous and uncertain, and each of us feels a great surge of protectiveness for our baby brother who sits innocently on my mother's lap. We want to shield him from the frightening future ahead. We want him to enjoy a healthy, happy life. We want him to be normal.

But we will not be able to protect him from everything. Most importantly, we learn that "normal" is a detestable word. Jeff is neither normal nor abnormal. He is our baby brother who must face a world outside our front door that is not always kind to him.

In kindergarten, he will enter special ed classes with braces on his legs. For the first time in his life, he will discover he's different - that other kids will leave him to himself on the playground. Teachers are kind, but he will want only to run and play with his classmates.

"I can't run good," he cries at home as my mother pulls him close.

"You know what your big brother Mick calls me when I run?" Mom comforts him. "Turtle! Can you believe that?"

Jeff, in spite of himself, giggles. Mom can always make him laugh. My sister Mary, only 13, constantly carts him around on her hip. "Little Mother", Mom calls her. At home, Jeff is safe. But even at home, we must remind him to swallow. His disability causes him to drool incessantly. When he walks on his toes, Dad will remind him to plant his heels on the floor.  "Heel, toe, Jeff!"

Tom and Jeff, 1985

In middle school, an unforgiving teacher will refuse to adapt her social studies class to Jeff's needs. I tutor him for hours drilling him over Machu Piccu, the Incas and the Andes Mountains. Tired and frustrated, I snap at him when he can't keep it all straight. "Concentrate, Jeff!" After a moment, I hear his soft sob. He cries next to me on the tv room couch. We've studied for more than two hours straight, and he's exhausted. I cannot forgive myself in that moment.

"You know what I think about your social studies teacher?" I burn with rage. "She's a mean old cow, and I hate her."

Jeff is so surprised, he forgets to cry. We make a peanut butter sandwich and forget about Machu Piccu.

But there are kind teachers, too - teachers like my beautiful friend Ellen May, Jeff's special ed teacher at Northwest High School, who will love him and encourage him. Jeff gravitates to her kindness and feels confident in her classroom.

More than anybody, Jeff will depend on our brother Tom. Tom reassures him, teases him, includes him, and is best friend to him. For all their lives, Tom will watch out for his little brother.

Jeff will never drive a car, never attend college, never own his own home. In fact, the difficulties and loneliness of his disability will drive him to despair and alcohol and substance abuse. For a long time, we fear that we will lose Jeff forever - that he is destined for an early death.

Jeff today.

But we underestimate our youngest brother. With a supreme faith in God, he will fight to overcome his addictions. When we give him up for dead, he astounds us with his will to live. Sometimes, I think with awe, my baby brother is the strongest and bravest of us all. Jeff enriches our lives and helps us to be bigger and better people. He shows us how to be more tolerant, more perceptive, more understanding. Just more.

But tonight, when Jeff is 17 months old, and we are huddled together in the living room, none of us knows how strong Jeff must become - how strong we all must become. Tonight he is only my sweet, yellow haired baby brother.

One day, though, he will be my hero.

The Old Brown Station Wagon

More than anything else, the Old Brown Station Wagon forces us to cooperate.

In the closest of proximity, you can only argue, elbow and punch each other for so long. Pretty soon you figure it's less exhausting to simply sit, mope, and see the ride through. Occasionally, though, on long trips back to Denver to see our cousins, we learn to become inventive to help pass the time. We sing the Micky Mouse song in four part harmony or belt out "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog" like Three Dog Night.

Especially on the interstate, we notice a disturbing tendency by people who pass around our vehicle. With a kind of wonder, they stare through the window and attempt to quickly count our heads.  At first we're insulted. Then we decide to give them their money's worth. We contort our bodies and flail our arms and heads to the beat of non-existent heavy metal music.  Other times we pretend to be sound asleep - all ten of us - with our heads thrown back and drool dribbling down our chins. One time our brothers coax us into acting as if we're deranged juvenile delinquents being transferred to another facility, and we growl and sneer at passersby and sometimes claw at the windows. The startled reactions keep us entertained for hours. But Mom puts a stop to that.

When Joe, Mick and Rick all become of driving age, Dad shocks us by buying a brand new station wagon. Never in our lives have we been a two-car family. Dad parks his new baby in the garage and tosses us the keys to the Old Brown Station Wagon.

"It's all yours, Kids," he beams. "Be careful, and remember," he says, suddenly sober, "take care of this old car, and it'll take care of you."

We can hardly believe the enormous rush of independence. Having a second car means we can drive ourselves to school, and Dad can take himself to work. If we're delighted, however, Mom is ecstatic. She spends the better part of her day taking us to and from our various destinations and gladly surrenders her chauffeur duties.

The Old Brown Station Wagon has survived ten kids, two dogs and nearly two hundred thousand miles. Dad always takes loving care of it. It's never missed an oil change, a bath, or even a wax, and it's never so much as suffered a scratch.

All that changes when my brothers take the wheel. If a car has feelings, the Old Brown Station Wagon must think it's died and gone to Hell.

Within a month, Mick manages to drive it into a light pole in the Skagway parking lot. Dad is furious. Even though he hands the car over to us, he's still paying for auto insurance. Suddenly his premiums, always low because of Dad's flawless driving record, skyrocket into oblivion.

"How do you drive into a pole?" he yells at Mick.

But you never get the whole story with Mick. He vaguely suggests the possibility of black ice but is deliberately sketchy on details.

"Brick by brick," Dad shakes his head.

Dad repairs the car, and in a week, Joe rounds a corner by Blessed Sacrament school and rams it into another light pole. This time it's St. Patty's Day, the Old Brown Station Wagon is towed home, and Joe smells suspiciously of alcohol.

"Have you been drinking?" Dad glares at Joe.

Mom refuses to believe it. "It must be my perfume you smell," she convinces Dad. The details of Joe's accident are even sketchier than Mick's, and Dad shakes his head and walks away from Joe without another word. But he washes his hands of any more repair bills.

Thanksgiving Day, 1976

Unfortunately, the Old Brown Station Wagon is permanently disabled after its last scrape. The worst part is that it no longer shifts into reverse. My brothers work part time at Skagway to pay for their Central Catholic High School tuition. They have no spare money for repair bills. Driving a car without a reverse gear, therefore, poses a new wrinkle. You don't hop into a car that doesn't shift into reverse to go joy riding. Every trip to school, work, or even to the gas station for a fill up requires strategic planning.

There's no getting around our driveway, however. With no curbside parking on busy Capital Avenue, Joe masters an ingenious method of backing the car into the driveway. With the driver side door wide open, Joe stretches out his leg and pushes the car back with his left foot at the same time he steers it into position. Only one time does he knock over the homemade basketball hoop - when he gets distracted talking to our next door neighbor Tom McGowan. Eventually, all three of my brothers are able to maneuver the car backwards into the driveway using Joe's unique parking method. My sisters and I refuse to attempt it and always make the boys do it for us.

Sadly, the Old Brown Station Wagon eventually meets its demise. Surprisingly, it's we girls who are the cause of its death. Mary is driving, and all five of us are talking away as Mary rolls along Capital Avenue toward home. Suddenly, smoke in big puffs escapes from under the hood of the car, and then, to our horror, we see flames erupt. Mary pulls over to the side of the road near the Pump and Pantry gas station, and we leap out into the cold night air.

"Mary!" I scream, "Run into the gas station and call Dad!"

Dad, to our dismay, is not home, but Mick comes racing the short way from home to our rescue. While we wait, the five of us stand in the cold staring mesmerized at the flames beneath the hood. Finally, we blink and shiver in our jackets.

"Probably a lot warmer in the car," Deb suggests.

Mick's eyes nearly pop out of his skull when he sees the five of us casually sitting inside the burning vehicle.

"What are you doing?" he screams.

Mary rolls down her window. "It's 17 degrees out there!" she shouts back. Fortunately, Mick convinces us - not very nicely - to remove ourselves from the car before it blows up.

But that proves to be the end of the road for the Old Brown Station Wagon.

For a long time we miss it, like a beloved family member. It's been our constant companion for years and years -  since Jeff was born and Tommy and Carry were still small enough to sit in the crack. No car has been more loved or more abused than the Old Brown Station Wagon.

Unless it will be the 1972 used Nova that Dad eventually purchases for my little sisters. It rusts so badly that the floor of the car disappears, and my sisters can see the pavement as they careen along. They drive that car until Terri turns the corner on Highway 281 and Capital Avenue, and the entire left front wheel disengages itself and rolls off down the highway.

But that's a story for another time.

Anything to Win

Dad hates to lose. At anything. Even checkers.

Every Christmas we set up the checkerboard on the floor in front of the tree for our annual tournament. Sometimes it lasts for days with all of us fervently trying to oust Dad. One by one, however, he knocks us out.

On a Sunday afternoon after Christmas, I'm waging a fierce battle to win my first checkers' game against Dad. Just once, before I graduate from high school, I desperately want to beat Dad. To my disbelief, he makes a clumsy move, and I double jump.

Christmas Day, 1973: All of us except Mick (who's taking the pic)

"I win!" I shout in exultation. In astonishment Dad stares at the board. My brothers and sisters clap my back, and I rise flushed with triumph.

"Sit down," Dad commands. "We're playing again. That one didn't count." Dad's famous for making up his own rules.

"I can't play again, Dad!" I say. "The Grahams are picking me up to babysit in ten minutes."

"Sit down!" he orders.

I lose that checkers' game as fast as I can and flee out the door to my babysitting job. When I return, Dad is sulking, but Mick is beaming.

"Mick won the tourney!" my little brothers and sisters can't wait to tell me.

Dad doesn't take it well. During the game, when Mick hesitates and lifts his finger from a checker piece, Dad roars. "You can't change your mind! Once you put your finger on a checker, you're committed!"

Then Dad moves with vehement momentum. But he makes the fatal mistake of lifting his finger from his own checker.

"You can't do that!" Mick shouts. "Once you put your finger on a checker, you're committed!" Dad's face turns purple. He loses the game. Then he sweeps the board clean of every checker piece and storms out of the room fuming with rage.

Dad's outrageous behavior doesn't surprise us in the least. In the middle 60's living in Denver, Dad is a loyal Denver Broncos' fan but earns a troublesome reputation for the time he threatens the officials. Storming out of the stadium in a huff after a dramatic loss, Dad sees the refs making a quick getaway in their vehicle. Our 6 ft. 7 inch, 260 pound father plants himself in front of their car and pounds on the hood in rage. He attracts a small crowd of equally enraged fans, and in a matter of seconds, the carful of officials is surrounded by an angry mob of the Denver Bronco faithful. Thankfully, the vehicle escapes and squeals out of the parking lot. Dad and his posse of hit men shake their fists after them.

We can hardly believe at the time that our good, steady father, who preaches honesty and responsibility and integrity, would do such a thing. As we grow older, though, it's clear that Dad has a problem. He cheats at family tennis tournaments and even at our driveway basketball games. No matter how insignificant the contest, Dad must win at any cost.  One day when Mick brings home his high school buddies, Dad suggests a friendly game of basketball in the driveway.

"The girls and I'll take on all of you," he challenges.

Twelve-year-old Terri, though, is so besotted with one of Mick's cute friends that she misses a layup. Dad quickly sizes up the problem and stops the game.

Dad, Christmas 1973

"You're not concentrating," he frowns at Terri. "Get down and give me ten."

Terri is horrified. "Dad!" she pleads.

"Ten push-ups!" Dad roars.

But Terri will die before she performs push-ups in front of Mick's cute friends. She abandons our team and sprints into the house.

Dad loses his composure at every one of our Central Catholic sporting events. He shouts so loudly and so often that Sister Mary Leo and Sister Sue, who are very fond of Dad, make it a point to sit in front of him in hopes their holy presence will curb his tongue. It does no good.

"Are you the mayor of Holdrege?" he screams at a ref from a nearby town who mistakenly gives my brother Joe an extra foul. He even marches down to give the scorekeeper a talking to, much to Joe's humiliation.

Dad, however, saves his worst behavior for a friendly city league basketball game at Stolley Park Elementary Gym. Joe, Mick and Rick are all playing, and the entire family goes to cheer them on. It's not a school game or even a very important one. Dad thinks it is. The ref is a guy off the street hired by the city to earn 20 bucks.

"Ref!" Dad screams. "Do your job! You're not paid to pick your nose out there!"

When Mick is undercut in a cheap shot move, Dad becomes apoplectic. "You are the WORST official in this town! In the state!" His voice echoes across the gym. Everyone stares at us. Like she always does, Mom makes a vain attempt to quell Dad's enthusiasm.

"He's doing his best, Dickie," she gently nudges Dad. "Leave the poor boy alone!"

The official - a small, timid guy who probably agrees to ref as a favor to a buddy- suddenly has had enough. He stops the game, furiously blows his whistle, and strides determinedly across the court to confront Dad.

"Out!" he shouts at Dad. "Take everybody in your family and get out!"

You can hear a pin drop in the little gymnasium. Mom is red-faced, and the rest of us want only to die.  But Dad is all at once terrifyingly calm. He rises, towering over the the little ref, then turns to us. "Patti, Kids," he says with grave dignity. "We're leaving now."

There is not a sound  as we climb out of the bleachers. Dad assists Mom, who is holding our baby brother Jeff, navigate the steps. Then he marches out of the gym. The rest of us follow in single file, our echoing footsteps loud in the thundering silence. It is the single most humiliating moment in any of our lives.

"What's wrong with him?" I wail to my mother later at home. I think of my friends who witness our mass exodus from the gym. Tomorrow at school, the Browns will be the talk of the town.

Mom sits beside me and sighs. "Don't you see?" She studies the pattern of the sofa. "Your dad refuses to be defeated. It's his way of protecting us. And himself."

This makes no sense to me. I've heard stories of Dad's stormy relationship with his own mother in Pittsburgh where he grows up. With the urging of his Aunt Marge in Colorado, Dad earns a basketball scholarship to Regis University in Denver and leaves his home in Pittsburgh forever. He vows never again to ask his parents for help and makes it through college entirely on his own. Eventually, he marries Mom who loves him and believes in him, raises ten kids who worship him, and never asks for help from anyone.

"You know how proud he is. He gets scared sometimes," Mom explains, "but he won't give into fear. He simply won't accept defeat."

Suddenly, I'm thinking of a late summer day in Denver when I am seven. Dad has promised my brothers and me a ride on the big boat at City Park Lake. We are beside ourselves with excitement. When we arrive at the park, however, falling out of the car in excitement, the boat man tells us we're too late.

"Just took the last group out. We're done for the day," he calls behind his shoulder dismissively.

My brothers and I are so disappointed, we cry. Back in the car, we depart in dejected silence. But Dad suddenly turns around and heads back to the lake. "We're going on that boat ride," he says with steely determination.

Hope is alive.

We never know what Dad says to the boat man. Does he offer him money? Dad strolls back to the car. We wait in nervous excitement.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" he pretends to be impatient. "We're going on a boat ride!"

All these years later, I don't even remember the boat ride. But I remember thinking that there is nothing my dad can't do.

I lean on Mom's shoulder. I may be almost 18-years-old, but I still rely on her wisdom and love. I will never completely understand Dad. He can be stubborn and irrational and proud. But he's also funny and loving and bigger than life. When Dad walks through the door after work every evening, we're happy to see his big, smiling face. He makes us feel safe.

Sighing against my mother's shoulder, I suppose Dad's worth the trouble - even if we do get kicked out of Stolley Park School Gymnasium.

And even if he cheats at checkers.

The Terrible Brother

Every girl needs a good brother - a brother who will protect her, love her - even give his life for her.

My sisters and I are not familiar with those brothers. Joe, Mick and Rick make it their sole mission in life to torture us. As sister abuse goes, they're pretty much at the top of the heap. The name calling is superior: Four Eyes, Moose, Stick Legs, Zit Face, Mommy Dearest. It's all spot on. 

They master tried and true methods - pinning us down to spit in our mouths, slipping asparagus into our milk glasses, yanking their dirty underwear over our heads - just the regular stuff.

Mick, the terrible brother

Mick, however, has fine tuned sister torture with sheer creative genius. One day he drags ten-year-old Debbie to the house of a complete stranger and ties her to the railing of the front porch with a jump rope. Then he rings the doorbell and runs.

During one of our endless hide and go seek games in the house, he realizes that Mary has ingeniously hidden herself in the clothes dryer. Gleefully, he turns it on and sends her on a quick rotation or two.

He bounces six year old Terri on Mom and Dad's big bed so high, she flies across the room and sustains a wound to the head which requires seven stitches. Mick is warned within an inch of his life to stop using our parents' bed as a trampoline. Nevertheless, he ignores the warning and shortly afterward bounces Debbie through a window.

"Does it never occur to you that you might kill one of your sisters?" Dad shouts in exasperation.

"Hold it, Dad. Hold it," Mick pleads patiently over and over as if a perfectly logical explanation is forthcoming. "You gotta admit the screen broke her fall."

Our parents don't know what to do with a 14-year-old son who thrives on practical jokes and dangerous stunts. Only recently, rather than weed Mom's enormous garden by hand, he wonders if the best way to destroy weeds might not be just to set them on fire. Thoughtfully, he douses every weed with gasoline and strikes a match. Instantaneously, the entire garden explodes in flames and almost takes Mick with it. Dad is so livid he grounds him for a month.

Both our parents are exhausted, which explains their deaf ears to our own complaints. My sisters and I have had it with our terrible brother. We are at the end of our rope. One day all five of us descend on Mom to scream and wail in communal despair.

"That's enough," Mom throws up her hands. Mick has destroyed her beloved garden, after all. She has problems of her own.

"There are five of you," she sighs wearily. "Surely you can figure out how to handle one 14-year-old boy." Then she turns back to the stove and ignores us. We point neither to her own failure to analyze Mick's psyche nor to the smoldering garden outside the back door.

"Fine!" I hiss. "We'll figure it out ourselves."

Mom has great faith that we will put our collective heads together to choose wisely. She urges us to employ the virtues of compromise, intelligence, forgiveness and even prayer to solve the problem of Mick. Maybe, she suggests later when cooler heads prevail, Mick doesn't feel that we appreciate him and needs more affirmation. We carefully consider that.

But in the end we decide to beat the hell out of him.

For a good week we devise our plan. Mick must be caught off guard, and it's critical that we time our assault precisely. Mom and Dad and Joe and Rick, all of whom will defend Mick, cannot be within hearing distance. We stockpile our weapons and wait for the perfect moment. One afternoon a few weeks later, Mom departs with our baby brothers Tommy and Jeff to pick up Dad from work. Joe and Rick are mowing the lawn. We understand our moment has come.

Mick has just rolled the trash barrels out to the street and will shortly walk through the front door. In tense anticipation, we set the plan in motion. Deb and I hide behind the book case, Carry has squirreled her four-year-old self behind the big living room chair, and Mary and Terri wait in the main hall bathroom. As soon as Mick walks five steps into the door, I shout the marching order.

"GET HIM!"

We scream like banshees and spring from all directions. Mick, for once in his life, is shocked and on the defensive. Because I am the oldest and the biggest, I fling myself on his back, and together we take him to the ground. I immediately sit on him and and pin his arms to the floor. Deb falls quickly over the back of his legs, and Mary, Terri and Carry go in for the kill. Terri and Mary, who wield a hairbrush and a ping pong paddle, land blows on his arms and legs while Carry pounds her tiny fists on his shoulders and occasionally grabs for a fistful of hair.

"Wait!" Deb screams. "His glasses!"

Mary bolts upright, drops her hairbrush, then removes with some difficulty Mick's glasses from his thrashing head. She folds them carefully and gently places them on the coffee table. Then she picks up her hairbrush, shrieks, and resumes beating.

"Get offa me!" Mick bellows. "What'd I do! I didn't do anything!"

None of us can say how long it takes to vent every last bit of our rage and frustration. We do not stop, however, until our anger is spent and Mick is finally subdued. At last, breathing hard, we relent and pull ourselves slowly away. Mick lies for a long time, dazed and humiliated. He hoists himself up, rests his hands on his hips, and stares at the floor.

"How's that feel, huh?" our tiny sister Carry is infused with a second wind. She dances around on her toes like a miniature Muhammad Ali.

It's Mary, though, the sweetest and most saintly of all of us, who surprises us. Eyes sparking, she wags her finger at Mick. "Don't you ever," she growls with vehemence, "EVER mess with us again!"

Then she reaches behind her. "And don't forget your glasses."

Mick accepts the proffered glasses without speaking. He does not move, however, and to our horror, we see silent tears stream down his cheeks. We stare at each other, shocked to the core. We have never seen Mick cry. At last, he turns away and goes off to his room.

Any satisfaction we enjoy suddenly vanishes. Without saying a word, we put the room to rights. We don't speak of what has happened.

Later that evening, Mom is puzzled. "What's the matter with all of you?" Even Mick, to her surprise, is subdued. We don't say anything and Mick doesn't say anything. But my sisters and I wonder if we've done a terrible wrong. Maybe Mom was right all along. Maybe Mick needs us more than we realize.

A few nights later, I'm doing homework in my room when Mick knocks politely and comes through the door. He's carrying a package of fig newtons, my favorite.

"Hey," he smiles shyly. "I know you like these. Want one?"

Joe, Rick and Mick - Joe's 60th birthday, Oct. 11th, 2016.

He holds out the cookies, and I am touched and immensely relieved.

"Thanks, Mick."

He nods. "Sorry about everything," he says.

"It's okay," I shake my head and bite into the cookie only to experience what feels like electric shock. I stare down at the fig newton. Mick has buried a quarter in the center of it. Laughing defiantly, he slams the door behind him.

I shake my head. No need to agonize that we've broken Mick's spirit.

The Terrible Brother is alive and well. And he's here to stay.

Tommy

Grandma Brown says Tommy is a "sickly child."

I don't mean to eavesdrop, but I hear the imperious voice of my grandmother on the other end of the phone. She might be in Pittsburgh, but she sounds as if she's in the next room.

"He's doing much better, Mother Brown." Mom always refers to Grandma as "Mother Brown". She closes her eyes and rubs her forehead. "We've switched him to soy milk."

Thomas Joseph Brown, our ninth sibling, is born on Valentines Day, 1969. From practically his first day on Earth, he has trouble keeping milk down. Because Mom is worried, the rest of us are, too. Tommy is already thin and fragile when the pediatrician finally advises our frazzled mother to switch to soy milk. Mom feeds Tommy in tiny helpings then places him gently over her shoulder to murmur comforts.

At last, our sweet baby brother begins to thrive. He smiles continuously, and his cheeks become fat and rosy.

"Mr. Mashed Potato Cheeks!" I tease him, and my mother laughs.

We are especially protective of Tommy. Deb and Mary, just little girls themselves, cart him around on their hips. My brothers act like clowns and constantly perform.

"Tom! Watch this!" They make faces, pretend to fall on their faces, and generally make buffoons of themselves - anything to hear Tommy's contagious little chuckle. He is never cranky, never demanding. Our little brother appears to exist solely to be loved and adored by the rest of us.

It's when our last sibling Jeffrey Joseph is born that Tommy discovers his life's purpose. Just two years old, he at once regards himself as Jeff's personal caretaker. Sitting close to Mom as she feeds Jeff , Tommy gently strokes Jeff's soft baby head.

"I'm right here, Jeffey," Tommy sings to Jeff in his toddler voice as if to reassure our infant brother.

Grandma Penney, Mom's mom, can hardly keep her eyes off Tommy. She makes the long drive from Beatrice to visit us and cannot drag herself away from our little brother.

"He's so much like Al," she tells Mom, wiping tears from her eyes. Al is our deceased grandfather. "Sometimes I think he's Al come back to me," Grandma confides to Mom.

Tommy is a gift, Grandma reminds us again and again. For some reason, Mom feels anxious whenever Grandma says this. She holds Tommy a little closer as if he might be snatched away and taken from all of us.

One spring day when Tommy is three, he nearly is snatched away. A 15-year-old girl learning to drive catastrophically runs over our little brother in our very own front yard.

It happens on a late spring afternoon when our cousins, the Ryans, are visiting from Denver. MaryLee is actually Dad's cousin, and she, her husband Joe, and their five kids are some of our very favorite people. On Sunday afternoon Mom, Dad, Joe and MaryLee go off to play tennis. As the oldest, I am left in charge. Instead of supervising the kids in the front yard, however, I sprawl on the couch to watch tv.

In the yard, Deb playfully throws Tommy's Micky Mouse across the street, and Tommy is outraged. When no one is paying attention, he toddles across the road to retrieve Micky Mouse. He's just stepped foot into our yard again when the 15-year-old driver, accompanied by four older women all talking at once, panics and swerves into Tommy.

My brother Rick and I rush outside to see a car resting in the middle of our front yard. I hear my baby brother screaming beneath the vehicle. The teenage driver grips the wheel and refuses to move. A woman gets out of the car but stands dazed and confused. Twelve-year-old Rick crouches under the car and begins to crawl toward Tommy who lies on his side pinned to the ground by the tail pipe.

Rick can only edge his way so far. "Tommy!" he shouts over our little brother's screams. "Roll over on your stomach and crawl to me!"

Somehow Tommy is able to follow Rick's simple directions and pulls himself with his arms to Rick. He is bleeding profusely from his side and head, and both legs are contorted in strange angles.

"I want a jelly sandwich!!" Tommy screams. He's in shock. My brothers bend over to comfort him, and Joe yells over his shoulder. "Cathy, call an ambulance!"

It takes several attempts to force my shaking hands to work the telephone dial, but at last help is on the way.

Miles away at the tennis court, Mom hears the ambulance siren and immediately feels a terrible sense of foreboding. "I hope the kids are okay," she turns to Dad.

"Patti," Dad says reasonably, "this is a town of 32,000 people. What are the odds?"

At home, the paramedics have carefully lifted Tommy into the ambulance, and I am allowed to ride with him. A policeman has just arrived, and my brothers give him directions to the tennis courts and our parents.

Tommy is suddenly quiet and unresponsive in the ambulance.

"Tommy?" I hold his hand and lean close to his face. He stares at me but doesn't answer, and I begin to weep.

"He's okay," the paramedic pats my shoulder.

At the hospital, Mom and Dad and the Ryans have arrived ahead of us. They do not know which of their children has been injured, and I see my mother and MaryLee running toward the ambulance. As soon as the paramedic opens the door, Mom is there. She sees Tommy and covers her face with her hands.

"He's all right, Mom!" I say. She nods her head and follows Tommy and the paramedics as they sprint into the hospital. MaryLee follows close behind. Standing by the door of the ambulance and waiting for me is my big, safe father. I need him very much.

"Dad," I fall out of the ambulance and sob. "It was my fault. I wasn't watching."

Dad preaches "responsibility" to all of us day in day out. I understand he will be very, very angry. But he's not.

"Babe! Babe!" he grips my shoulders. We march into the hospital, and I lean against him and sob all the way. I am certain Tommy will die and that I will never see him again.

But he doesn't die.

Tommy remains at Lutheran Hospital for a long time. Doctors close the wound on his side with 18 stitches and cast his right leg. His left leg is broken so badly that it requires traction for three weeks. Mom is adamant that he will never be left alone in the hospital. She's there every morning when he wakes up and stays with him at night until he falls asleep. The rest of us older kids take shifts during the day.

The nurses on Tommy's floor fall in love with him. Two of them check on him often.

"You are such a cutie!" one young nurse kisses his mashed potato cheeks.

Tommy flirts with her. "YOU'RE a cutie!" he chuckles.

By the end of those three weeks, Tommy's second leg is in a cast, too, and we carry him home in a blanket. Mom and Dad gently place him in a reclining position in the back seat, and for the first time in his life, Tommy doesn't have to sit in the crack of the station wagon.

It's a long summer of recovery for our little brother. We carry him in and out of the house on his blanket. On warm summer days, he reclines outside while Mom gardens and the little kids play. Inside, he claims the tv room couch. When some of us sit beside him, we carefully raise his legs and place them on top of our laps. He occasionally lifts his plastered cast legs and lets them drop with a crack on our knees.

"Dang it, Tommy!" Rick howls in pain. Tommy chuckles in delight.

We help him go to the bathroom in a jug. We bring all his food to him and carry him to bed at night.

"Take me to the backyard!" he commands. "Bring the jug!"

He orders us around like servants, and we perform every single task. How can we not? Every day we witness his struggle to sit up or roll over with two burdensome casts on his legs. Other than the delight he takes in bossing us around, he rarely whines or cries with the frustration of it all. He is, in fact, remarkably cheerful and sunny. We cannot help but think that he might not be with us at all.

Everyone of us is filled with guilt. Deb cannot forgive herself for tossing his Mickey Mouse across the street. She blames herself for the accident. But I know differently. I was in charge of Tommy that day. I am his big sister, and I didn't take care of him. I vow never again in my life to fail him.

It's a great day for all of us when Tommy is broken free from his casts. With physical therapy, he soon is walking and running again. He seems to suffer no trauma or ill effects from the accident. He does, however, continue to be our baby brother Jeff's caretaker.

In fact, for all the rest of his life, Tommy is a caretaker. He loves to distraction his beautiful wife and kids. He and Sheryl take in foster children and love them like their own. Tommy becomes director of the Primrose Retirement Home in Grand Island. His residents adore him, and he adores them.

Tom and his family, 2011

He's even able to joke about the accident. Not long ago, Deb asks to borrow a cooler.

"Forget it," Tom cracks with a straight face. "You tried to kill me when I was three. Find your own damn cooler."

Then he laughs that same little contagious chuckle.

Tom is 47-years-old. He's tall, handsome and highly respected in the community. Many, many people depend on him.

But he's still my baby brother. I still love his mashed potato cheeks. And I cannot in a million years fathom life without him.

Roll Call

Carry is not quite five when we abandon her at Skagway.

We don't leave her intentionally, of course. Nevertheless, she refuses to forgive us. Our youngest sister has always been a drama queen but recently has developed an unattractive tendency toward nursing a grudge . It's because of the day she crawls up the kitchen cabinets to claim the peanut butter and nearly plummets to her death.

Clowning in the backyard in Grand Island.

"My God! My God!" she screams one afternoon as we lounge lazily in the tv room after school. Mom strictly forbids us to take the Lord's name in vain. Carry, however, in spite of her not-quite-five-years, can barely form a sentence without invoking the name of the Almighty. She's picked up the habit watching Mom's soap operas and uses it to startling effect. On this particular afternoon, however, we roll our eyes and pay no attention. But Carry refuses to be ignored.

It's probably a good thing we eventually respond. After maneuvering herself up the kitchen cabinets, Carry loses her tenuous grip and falls but is saved when her underwear fortunately hooks to the nob of the silverware drawer and suspends her in mid-air.

We double over and cry laughing, but nobody makes a move to disentangle her.

"My God, why don't you help me!" she thrashes her arms and legs in the air and shrieks at an earsplitting pitch.

The incident is still fresh a few days later when we drive off and leave her at Skagway. Carry is left with the peculiar notion that we don't seem to care much for her.

In our defense, we're still trying to get the hang of our new routine in Grand Island. Back in Denver, we walk everywhere. School and church are less than a hundred yards away. Shop Rite Grocer is five blocks away. There is almost never a reason to drive anywhere. Everything changes, however, when we move to Grand Island. Living outside the city limits requires us to inhabit the old brown station wagon for a good chunk of the day.

Because we own only one vehicle, all of us must accompany Mom to Skagway every Monday after school to endure the weekly shopping expedition. Skagway is a small town wonder. We've never seen anything even close to it. Shining like a gleaming jewel at the five points intersection in north Grand Island, Skagway sells groceries, shoes, clothes, fishing poles, chewing tobacco, Christmas trees, bowling balls and even ice cream cones. You can mail your letters at the handy post office or drop off your film at the convenient photo center. It's not uncommon to see farmers in overalls lounging in the friendly aisles of Skagway to discuss center pivots or the latest Husker victory. Skagway is the place to be.

"Stay together!" Mom orders as we march like a small parade into the store. She eventually sends some of us off, though, to collect grocery items. The boys grab six gallons of milk, all that our refrigerator will hold. I'm responsible for gathering five packs of toilet paper, and Deb carts our infant brother Jeff around so that Mom has more room in the cart. The process should work like a well oiled machine.

The trouble is Carry. Easily distracted, our youngest sister is an inveterate people watcher. She's fascinated by farmers and their easy, laughing banter. She stares with complete absorption at the stock boys who fill shelves with laundry detergents. Teenagers who cluster together in the snack bar leaning their heads close together capture her riveted attention. Carry wonders about all of them.  Her attention is so focused that she forgets to follow Mom and the rest of us. Oblivious, we make our slow way around the store until at last we crowd into the checkout aisle together as Mom pays for groceries. Somehow, we find room in the car for all of us and 14 bags of groceries which we hoist onto our laps and stuff into every available corner of the station wagon. In all the confusion, nobody notices that Carry is MIA.

At home we help Mom put away the mountains of groceries and settle down to start our homework. Mom sits down to read the paper before busying herself with the task of preparing dinner. She calls Carry to put away her crayons.

"Where IS she?" Mom wonders when Carry fails to respond. We shrug over our homework barely listening. In a few minutes, however, Mom is panic stricken.

Carry and Terri

"When was the last time anybody saw Mary Caroline?" she demands. We stare at each other. "Think!" Mom slams her hand on the table.

It's not long before we realize we have forgotten to bring Carry home from Skagway. Mom grows pale. Without a word, she grabs her purse and races to the car. Mary and Terri run after her and jump into the station wagon just as it screeches out of the driveway.

Meanwhile, Skagway is having its own problems. Carry is not only an abandoned child but also an extremely difficult one. Refusing comfort of any kind, she screams bloody murder and demands to know where her mother is. Rattled employees attempt to seduce her with candy of every assortment in an effort to obtain information, but Carry rejects the sweets piled next to her.

"I want my mom!" she wails.

At last, a teenage checker who goes to school with my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick observes the family resemblance. "I think I know who she belongs to," she offers.

At the very moment Skagway calls home, Mom is rushing to them. She skids into the store with Mary and Terri in her wake and immediately hears her youngest daughter's piercing screams from the rear of the store. Less than a minute later, Carry is gathered close in Mom's arms.

"Why didn't you help me?" she sobs. Mary and Terri, safe in the knowledge that Carry is alive and well, dive straight for the pile of candy and stuff it hastily in their pockets. The woman who has been dealing with a screaming little girl for the last 90 minutes, however, is not remotely sympathetic.

"I fail to understand why it takes an hour and a half to notice a child is missing," she glares accusingly at Mom.

All at once, Mom is exhausted. She apologizes profusely and thanks the store employees but makes no attempt to offer explanations. What can she say? "I have ten kids and didn't know I lost one" seems a weak excuse at best.

Carry - age 4

We all feel terrible. Mom cuddles Carry in the tv room recliner all evening.

"My God, my God," Carry moans in agony. She's milking it all right, but Mom doesn't scold her once. Overcome by my own terrible guilt, I try to apologize to my little sister.

"I brought you some ice cream, Carry!" I hold the bowl enticingly close to her. Briefly she raises her head to glare at me with eyes full of daggers.

"My God," she hisses. "Get out."

Then she nestles her head against Mom, resumes her moaning, and behaves as if the rest of us cease to exist.

When Dad arrives home from work, Mom gently explains the events of the afternoon and evening. Furious, Dad lectures all of us for a good 20 minutes.

"And from now on," he concludes with a roar, "we're taking roll call every time we get in that damn station wagon!"

We do, too. That's how we discover a few weeks later, just as we're backing out of the driveway to go to church, that our three-year-old brother Tommy is missing. Mom rushes back into the house and discovers him asleep under the coffee table.

Still half asleep and whimpering, Tommy is safely deposited into the crack of the station wagon to sit, knees touching, with Carry. She rakes him up and down with a gaze of smug superiority.

"My God," she rolls her eyes in disgust. "What a baby."

And who can blame her? After all, she survived abandonment by her entire family for an hour and a half at Skagway - Grand Island's Only One Stop Shopping Place.