Dad and the Bees

Dad never swears. Ever.

He exercises every day, attends Mass every Sunday (even when he has a cold), and soundly punishes us for lying, stealing or taking the Lord's name in vain.

Dad and Jeff

"Dick Brown," Monsignor Leyden extols Dad's virtues to Mom and us one Sunday after church, "is the best Catholic I know."

We sigh. It would be nice if Dad wasn't quite so Catholic. We rarely regard ourselves as holy enough, studious enough, or disciplined enough to satisfy his strict standards. Being Catholic is a competition in stoicism as far as Dad is concerned.

"Mind over matter!" he preaches as one of us lies sick in bed on a Sunday morning while everybody else troops to Mass. "You think Jesus cried over a little stomach ache when he was dying for you on the cross?" he glares at us with intense blue eyes. Just when you think you've never felt so bad, Dad makes you feel a little worse.

One winter, Dad coaches Joe's eighth grade basketball team and takes them to the finals of the junior high state championship. Dad's little Blessed Sacrament School team is definitely the underdog, but Joe's team wins the championship in the last few seconds. Dad's so excited, he leaps for joy off the bench. When his huge 6 ft.7 in. frame lands, however, he sprains both ankles and collapses to the floor. Joe and his young teammates, the only ones who realize Dad is injured, immediately run to help him up.

"Isn't that cute?," Dad's cousin MaryLee grins at Mom in the bleachers. "The kids are trying to lift Dick to their shoulders!"

Dad can hardly walk. His ankles swell like watermelons. But the next morning, he rises and hobbles to the car in excruciating pain.

"I'm fine!" he shrugs away our help and limps to work. "Mind over matter, Kids!"

This is what being Catholic means to Dad. Jesus probably sprained an ankle or two. Did he miss the wedding at Cana to spend a day in bed?  No, by God. And neither should we.

Mom, on the other hand, is all about throwing in the towel. A convert from the Methodist faith, Mom embraces Catholicism but figures Jesus can forgive us just about anything. This includes failed tests, forged permission notes, and stealing money off Dad's dresser for Big Hunks.

Mom does not share Dad's spirit of competition. When they both decide to quit smoking, Dad kicks the habit in a day.

"I held that cigarette in my hand," he tells us later, "and I said, 'Am I gonna let this little stick control my life?' "

Giving up the habit is a little tougher for Mom. But after she endures three weeks without a cigarette, we are very proud of her. "Actually, you know" she blushes, "I really do feel better!"

One afternoon we're romping outside in the backyard when Mick retrieves a ball by a basement window. Leaning over, he suddenly catches a glimpse of Mom in the downstairs store room perched on a suitcase, legs crossed, casually puffing a cigarette. Mick calls the rest of us over. We can hardly believe our eyes. Livid, we stomp into the house. Mom, however, who sees us, too, runs up the stairs as fast as she can and is calmly drying dishes when we storm into the kitchen.

"Mom!" we accuse her.

She flings the dish towel aside. "Oh, all right! Are you happy? I'm smoking!" she snaps. "And you know why? Because I've got ten kids, that's why!"

Mom never does kick the habit.

Nevertheless, we instinctively turn to her with our confidences, our mistakes and our sins and can always count on her to love and forgive us. Dad, however, resides atop an impossibly high Herculean pedestal, and we dread in any way to disappoint his Catholic sensibilities.

Then in a single summer, Dad tumbles from his lofty pedestal.

It's all because of the bees. Just before bed one warm June evening, we gather in the room that Deb, Mary, Terri, Carry and I share, to finish our prayers with Mom. Rick sits cross legged under the big windows and idly picks little objects from the sills behind the curtains.

Dad

"Look at my bees, Mom!" He excitedly displays his collection. Sure enough, Rick has piled a dozen or so dead bees into a little mound. Puzzled, Mom examines the sills and then peers out our bedroom window. Just under the eaves by the chimney, she spies a hive with hundreds of bees busily buzzing and protecting their queen. She rushes to Dad who comes to investigate himself.

"We need to get somebody out here," Mom pleads. My sisters and I vow to bunk in the hallway before we will be attacked by bees in our sleep. Dad, however, refuses to call expensive exterminators.

"I'll hose 'em out of there," he assures Mom. But when the bees dive angrily for Dad after he aims a garden hose at their hive, he hurries into the house and slams the door. "They'll go away after a while," he says sheepishly.

They don't go away. Two weeks later, honey oozes down the bricks of our two story house, and now thousands of bees fill the driveway between us and our neighbors, the Smiths.The terrific buzz vibrates throughout the neighborhood. It's like a horror movie. Just recently we've seen Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, and even Mom envisions an all out attack.

But Dad has a plan. The next day after work, he gingerly unloads a two gallon jar from the car and sets it on the sidewalk.

"You kids stay away from that," he orders. "It's full of very expensive bee poison, and I don't want you touching it."

Mick observes the Very Expensive Bee Poison and wonders why Dad doesn't just call a guy.

"Because I don't need a guy!" Dad snaps. Just now, his pride is at stake. His own children have witnessed his hasty flight from angry bees and the frantic manner in which he slams the door against them. It's a weak moment on his part. Would Jesus give into a few thousand bees? No, by God. Jesus would purchase his own Very Expensive Bee Poison and pull off a hell of a miracle.

Cautiously, Joe steps near the glass jar to see for himself what Very Expensive Bee Poison looks like. Dad is furious.

"Does anyone listen to me?" He jumps over to shield the poison from our curious hands. "You're just dying to break that jar!"

Then the unthinkable occurs. Dad stumbles and unwittingly kicks over the jar himself. It crashes on the sidewalk, and two gallons of bee poison flood the walk and the nearby grass. Dad gapes in disbelief. The color rises all the way up his face. Outraged, he raises his face to the heavens and shouts a word. We gasp in unison. The neighbor kids gasp. The word is no ordinary "hell" or "damn". It's the big one. It thunders in the air above us and is louder than the buzz of bees, louder than a sonic boom.

The deathly silence that follows, however, is even louder.

Then Mom calls us. "Kids! Come into the house now."

She hears everything from inside. Nobody understands Dad better than Mom. He needs time to be alone. Away from our prying eyes, he will collect himself and regroup.

He does, too. Biting the bullet, Dad purchases yet another jar of poison. Then he shrouds himself from head to toe, attaches the jar to the hose, and bravely marches into battle with the bees. When every last bee, including the queen, is disposed of, Dad staggers into the house.

No one, not Dad and not us, ever mentions the word. Yet some seismic shift has occurred in the way we look at our father. For the first time, we have seen Dad's human side. He swears like a sailor. He runs from bees. He is too proud to ever, ever admit that he is remotely imperfect.

Even as he faces his demons, however, Dad protects us. He might be scared, but he would confront his worst nightmare to shield us from harm, even if it means taking on thousands of bees. We can always count on him.

By the end of that warm summer day, we have discovered a terrible secret. Our bigger-than-life, very Catholic, very good father is deeply and humanly flawed.

And because of that, we love him more.

First Dance

I am 13-years-old, and tonight is my first junior high dance. Nothing is more important.

I feel guilty even saying such a thing. The country seems to be falling apart. Nearly two months ago, Mom and I are in the kitchen when we hear the news on the radio. Martin Luther King, Jr. has been assassinated.

Cathy - before the infamous braces

"Dear God," Mom presses a hand to her heart. In Denver, even in our quiet, old neighborhood, everything erupts into chaos. One afternoon after school there is a riot, of all places, on Eudora Street. Black kids and white kids are fighting with chains and knives and fists in front of our own front door. It's the first time I ever hear my mother scream. The Tanners, the only African American family on our block, suffer most. Their beautiful home is vandalized again and again. Just this last week, the neighborhood is appalled to see the ugly "N" word smeared across the front of the Tanner home.

These are the things I should be thinking about tonight. But instead I am consumed by my own selfish worries. Not only has it been a terrible year for the country, but it's been a terrible year for me. In the space of one school year, I manage to get braces and zits. But that's not the worst. The worst is that I grow five and a half inches. Now, at five feet eleven inches tall, I tower over every boy and girl in the seventh grade at Blessed Sacrament School - except for Joel Moran who is exactly as tall as I am. And would you believe it? I'm still growing, Dr. Strain says. All the other girls in my class have begun to look, well, womanly. But all my growth has gone into my height - mostly my legs - and there isn't one bump on my entire body. Not one stinking bump. When I slouch to make myself shorter, Mom reprimands me.

"Walk like a queen!" she hammers. "Be proud of your height!"

She nags incessantly, but tonight I want only to look like every other girl in my class. Mom suggests tactfully that a longer dress might add a little proportion to my body. Translated, that means a long dress will cover my long legs which are painfully thin and knobby-kneed. I am not, I tell her, going to be the only girl at the dance with a dress that goes practically to my knees. She sighs in that exasperated way she does when she thinks I'm being unreasonable but finally lets me purchase a little red dress and white fishnet hose - which is all the rage this year.

Now, however, as I stand in front of the mirror in my room, I know my mother is right. My reflection shows that at my first dance all that anybody will see of me is two long fishnet legs walking across the gym floor. Just then, my mother bursts into my room carrying a basket of dirty laundry. She puts it all on the bed and turns to inspect me.

"You look very pretty, Cathy," she smiles.

I fling myself into the chair next to the radiator and watch my mother sort laundry. Mom has only just discovered she's pregnant with her ninth child. She's wearing her faded blue checked pants and an old sweater, and her hair is a little mussed. I can't help but think how pretty she is even when she's sorting dirty socks. Mom is beautiful. She's tall, but not so tall as I am, and slender but not skinny. She has all this thick black hair and cheekbones to die for.

Mom

I sigh as I watch her because, you see, I look just like my dad. He's crazy tall, skinny and big boned, and he has what you'd call a prominent nose. On him it's prominent. On a girl like me, it's a big honker. And at this moment, I want desperately to be beautiful like my mother.

Mom hears me sigh and knows exactly what I'm thinking. "You know," she says, right in the middle of turning underwear inside out, "if only you'd have a little confidence in yourself, Cathy, everybody else would, too."

I try hard not to roll my eyes. Where does she come up with this stuff? I don't respond, but she reads the mutiny all over my face. Just as she assumes her martyred expression, I figure the best thing to do is walk the half block to Blessed Sacrament and go to the dance.

This particular evening in late May is gorgeous. I am too nervous, however, to enjoy it. Thankfully, when I arrive, the gym is dark and nobody notices my legs right away. I gratefully hurry to my friends who are sitting in a row of chairs beneath the scoreboard. Karen Blake and Diane Logsdon are just as nervous as I am, but Margaret St. John is already looking defeated. Finally, Sister Francis Xavier, Blessed Sacrament's self-appointed DJ, plops down a record from the approved list, and my first dance has begun.

It's not so bad at first because nobody dances, not even the cute, popular girls like Janelle Whitney and Mary Sue Dunn. By the second dance, though, all those girls are dancing. As the fourth dance starts, Margaret and I are the only girls in our little group who still have not been asked to dance. I am feeling like a genuine wallflower. Absorbed in a non-existent hangnail, I pretend not to care. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I spy Janelle Whitney dancing with Joel Moran. I don't care for Janelle. She's not a very nice person. But I certainly envy her just then. What's it like to be compact and cute and so sure of yourself?

One day, Janelle Whitney comes to school wearing a thin line of white lip gloss on her lower lip. It looks so ridiculous. But the next day, every girl in the seventh grade class wears an identical strip of white gloss on every lower lip. That's how popular Janelle is.

The next few dances are slow dances, and only a few ardent couples, closely watched by Sister Rose Edward, are on the floor. I am talking to Karen and Diane when I glance up to see Joel Moran walking toward our group. None of us can imagine why he would bother with us. When he finally approaches, though, he looks at the floor and says a little gruffly, "Wanna dance?" I look at Karen thinking he must be talking to her. Both she and Diane are staring at me in astonishment.

"Me?" I finally say.

"Yeah, you," he says impatiently. "You wanna or not?"

Somehow I manage to follow him out to the floor in a daze. We don't say a word. He turns to put his arms around my waist, and I place my arms around his shoulders. We shuffle back and forth, and I can hardly believe that I am dancing with Joel Moran, the tallest boy in the seventh grade.

Then a funny thing happens. I'm just getting used to the whole idea when I feel Joel's shoulders shake. I don't get it at first, but then he snorts. When I look up, I see Janelle and Mary Sue laughing behind their hands. Then I understand. It's a joke that Joel is dancing with Cathy Brown, the tallest girl with the skinniest legs in the class.

"Ask Stick Legs to dance!" Janelle probably coaxes him. "It'll be a scream!"

I want to run out of the gym, but I finish the dance. When Joel, trying not to laugh, says, "Wanna do another one?" I say, "I don't think so. You're the worst dancer."

His eyes grow wide, and I see his initial confusion turn to humiliation. Then he begins to giggle like a little boy. I am instantly ashamed. He really is just a little boy - as insecure and afraid as I am.

Finding my jacket, I tell Sister Rose Edward I'm not feeling good and walk out into the cold night. Usually I like cold spring nights. Everything smells clean and new. Tonight, however, I don't feel anything at all. I hurry across Montview Boulevard but walk down Eudora Street slowly.

My parents are in the living room and surprised to see me home early. "Well, here's the bell of the ball!" my dad says too jovially. I run straight to my room and can hear Mom shushing Dad. "What!" he asks in bewilderment.  "What did I say?""

If I don't feel anything all the way home, I feel it the moment I throw myself on the bed. I'm glad my brothers and sisters are downstairs and can't hear my sobs. Because that's what they are - big wrenching sobs. I cry so hard my face tingles like it does when the dentist first squirts novocaine into your jaw. I cry so hard I don't even hear Mom come in, but I feel the bed sink next to my stomach, and the next thing I know, her fingers are stroking my hair.

Mom's hands are so familiar and so comforting that I begin to relax, and when the last sob subsides, I tell her the whole story. She cradles my head. I wish I was little enough to crawl into her lap, but my long legs are splayed across the bed like a newborn colt's.

"I can never go to school again," I say vehemently . "How can I ever go back?" The sobbing begins afresh.

Mom shushes me and winds my hair around her fingers. The darkness falls around us, and I hear the distant voices of my brothers playing downstairs and the little hisses of the radiator - the sounds of home.

"You'll go back," Mom murmurs close to my ear, "because you have to go back. Because in a few days, this will be a sad little prank nobody even remembers."

She talks to me for the first time in my life like I am an old, old adult. The day will come, Mom assures me, when I will be comfortable with my height, when I might even be glad of it.

"And the day that Cathy Brown is happy with herself," Mom says softly, "is the day everybody else will know how funny and kind and nice she is. Just like I do."

She tips my chin. "You can be brave tonight. People just across the street have to be much braver - about big, big things. Be brave like them."

She means the Tanner family. I am filled with remorse. Last Monday morning, after the ugly "N" word is smeared across the front of their house, Mr. Tanner patiently scrubs away the angry letters. My siblings and I, on our way to school, pass his house. He pauses from his work to look up.

"Morning, children," he nods soberly. We nod awkwardly in return. I wish I knew how to tell him we are sad and sorry. But I am 13-years-old and unable to articulate my sorrow with any kind of confidence. In that instant, however, I understand Mr. Tanner is a man of great courage. He confronts hatred and anger every day but is never hateful or angry himself.

It's late now, and I release a long, shuddering sigh. Spent from emotion, I am being lulled to sleep. Tomorrow, I will be brave. In the last moment of consciousness, warm against my mother, I wonder if Janelle Whitney ever needs her mother as much as I need mine. Probably Janelle thinks she has a very satisfactory mother.

But I have the best mother of anybody.

A Trip to Pittsburgh

Dad takes us to McDonald's once a year. It's almost like Christmas.

In the front yard one evening, my little brother Rick brags to the neighbor kids. "And on Saturday," he shoves his hands in his pockets filled with his own importance, "we're eating at McDonald's."

Clockwise from top left: Carry, Tommy, Terri, Mick, Rick
and Mary.

Eating at McDonald's caps a magical week in summer that coincides with Dad's annual vacation. Early in the week we pile into the station wagon to take a trip to the mountains. We don't go far - just 35 miles up and barely past the foothills to Central City, an old touristy mining town. On another day, Dad treats us to an afternoon at Elitches, Denver's ancient amusement park. Finally, we finish the whole week off with dinner at McDonald's.

"How many did you say?" the server behind the counter gapes when Dad orders 28 hamburgers.

And so ends the best week of the whole year.

Dad is the district manager for Sealtest Dairy. He makes a good living - for a guy with an averaged sized family, anyway. Dad's salary, though, doesn't stretch quite far enough for ten kids. When Dad acquires a real estate license to sell houses on weekends, we hardly ever see him at all. He and Mom are adamant, however,  about giving us that one week in summer. We have never taken a family vacation, never eaten at a real restaurant, and aside from a trip to the mountains once a year, never ventured out of our own neighborhood.

Then the summer after I turn 12, a miracle occurs.

Dad must travel to Pennsylvania, the state in which he was born and raised, for business. My grandmother and Uncle Carl, who live in Pittsburgh, persuade Dad to bring Mom and all of us to Pennsylvania. Dad's business offers to pay half the family air fares, and Dad scrapes together the rest. We are nearly beside ourselves with excitement. None of us has ever been on a plane.

TWA kindly seats us all together, and Mom frantically tries to contain our excitement as we experiment with click-on lights, oxygen vents and seat recliners. "I would hate to turn this plane around," she warns us with a steely look.

The flight is everything we could hope for and more. After landing, we take two taxis to Grandma and Uncle Carl's, and our first view of Pittsburgh is breathtaking. The city rises before us in a halo of light.

Grandma Brown and Uncle Carl reside in a very old apartment building in the middle of the city. In the courtyard, Mick nudges the rest of us and points to the ancient fountain. Two naked stone boys pee into the basin. My brothers snort, but Uncle Carl ignores them and ushers us into the apartment. He and Grandma Brown are very glad to see us but make it clear immediately that there are rules to be followed.

"Don't touch the the walls or the doorways as you walk through," Grandma orders us sternly. We notice right away all the couches and chairs have been covered in plastic. It's clear that Grandma and Uncle Carl aren't used to crowds of kids.

"And don't use the elevator, children," Grandma issues another order. "It's very old, and it's only for adults."

We glance at each other. The first chance we get, we plan to take that elevator for a joy ride.

In the morning, Dad departs for his business trip in Harrisburg, and Mom and all of us are left alone with Grandma and Uncle Carl. We discover there are more rules - no running in the halls or in the courtyard. The windows are never to be opened. If we feel the need for exercise, Uncle Carl will march us around the block.

It's not that we don't have ANY fun. Uncle Carl is the public relations guy for the Pittsburgh Symphony. He treats us to a night at the symphony and another night at the ballet. We throw coins into the Three Rivers and traipse up and down the curious streets of downtown Pittsburgh. In the stifling, orderly apartment, however, we nearly die of boredom.

The afternoon that Uncle Carl scolds us for ditching him and sneaking onto the elevator, Mom finally has had enough. She bursts into tears in the kitchen, and we all feel terrible. With uncharacteristic sensitivity, Grandma saves the day.

"Patti," she orders my mother, "take the babies and go have yourself a nap in the back bedroom. And you children," she looks at us, "are going to a movie."

We can hardly believe this new turn of events. Even Uncle Carl is thrilled to have us out of his hair. He counts out enough cash for us to see Jungle Book and gives us simple directions to the theater. My brothers and I find it easily.

The movie, however, is not Jungle Book. It's a strange flick called Planet of the Apes. We recognize Charlton Heston from the Bible movie, but these apes are like no apes we've ever seen. Nevertheless, we sit in the lovely air-conditioned theater and munch our popcorn contentedly. To our surprise, it's a double feature. The next movie, though, is very odd indeed. An unhappily married couple disects their life together. Joe, Mick, Rick and I decide we're thoroughly bored and rise to go. Just then, the screen erupts with naked people. We gape at each other in astonishment. The only naked adult we've ever seen is Dad scurrying from the shower to his room with the evening newspaper shielding his privates. We slowly lower ourselves back into our seats. There is no question of leaving now. A golden opportunity like this will never present itself again.

Halfway through the movie, though, we begin to feel uncomfortable. After you've seen a couple of naked people, you've pretty much seen them all.

We fully intend to hurry right back to the apartment, but the walk back takes us over a bridge high above the railroad tracks. Mick pauses to spit over the rails. And an amazing thing happens. We're so high above the tracks that Mick's spit arches mid-way in the same way a beautiful baseball curves around home plate. Just like that we're all spitting over the railing mesmerized by the beautiful arcs of our saliva. Then we hear a shout. Startled, we look up to see Uncle Carl storming angrily toward us.

"What are you doing here?" he demands.

Joe finds his voice first. "Did you know your spit curves up here?" he offers helpfully.

Uncle Carl is enraged. "Do you know what time it is? Didn't you know we'd be worried?"

It's no use lying. We might be able to fool Mom, but Uncle Carl is like a detective investigating our every move. When he discovers we sat through not only Planet of the Apes but also a very adult second feature, he is speechless with horror and hurries us home in deathly silence.

Mom is not nearly so angry as we fear. A good nap does her a world of good. She almost rolls her eyes as Uncle Carl describes our heathen adventures. She tries to scold us, but it's not a very convincing scolding. We persuade ourselves to be very quiet and very good and slide quietly onto the plastic covered furniture. Dad's coming back tomorrow, and we can ride out Uncle Carl's wrath for one more evening.

The next day, we are very glad to see Dad and very glad to return to our shabby, wall-smudged, plastic free house on Eudora Street. The Denver air is clear and dry, all the windows are open, and we romp through the house and the yard like wild savages.

In the  days and weeks to come, however, we spend time thinking and talking about our one and only family vacation. Uncle Carl tried hard to show us all the glorious Pittsburgh sights and broaden our horizons. It wasn't ALL bad, we decide. In fact, it wasn't bad at all. We rode in our first airplane, heard a famous symphony and threw coins into the Three Rivers - all in a strange city we'd never even dreamed of visiting.

Best of all, we got to see a movie with naked people.

Hubert and The Bloody Finger

Duchess and Hubert are madly in love.

Our sweet-faced dachshund and Hubert, Monsignor Leyden's red-eyed Bassett Hound, have carried on a torrid love affair for the better part of a decade right in front of us. And I do mean right in front of us. Hubert lumbers the half block from Blessed Sacrament Church, ears flapping in the breeze, eager with anticipation. Then he and Duchess surrender to their passion in the middle of our front yard on Eudora Street.

We kids adore the numerous litters of low-slung puppies with ears like sails that result from the union, but Mom tries to discourage the lovemaking. She's tired of finding homes for Hubert's offspring and firmly decides he must cast his seed elsewhere.

Debbie - age 5.

"Get the hose!" she sreams as she spies Duchess and Hubert through the window. Even a cold shower, however, does little to dissuade Hubert. He finishes his business in his own good time, turns without a backward glance, and trots back to the shady grotto of the Blessed Virgin Mary presumably to collapse and have a cigarette.

One day in my sister Debbie's first grade class, Sister Caroline asks the kids to draw a picture of "your family pet having fun." Debbie concentrates hard on her crayon drawing and innocently offers it to Sister Caroline.

It's a detailed depiction of Hubert mounting Duchess. In the background, Deb has thoughtfully added our mother who, with a very round mouth, aims a hose with a long stream of water at Hubert.

Monsignor Leyden, when he receives word of the infamous drawing, laughs so hard he has a coughing spasm. Sister Caroline, however, is far from amused. She mails the picture home and includes a note.

"Mr. and Mrs. Brown," she writes in careful script, "Please help Mary Debra to understand that not everything should be shared at school."

Dad laughs it off, but Mom is embarrassed. She speaks in vague terms about the real nature of Duchess and Hubert's friendship to Debbie who is so bewildered that Mom finally drops the subject.

"Don't put Hubert in any more pictures," Mom instructs her and leaves it at that.

Duchess with Tommy

The rest of Debbie's first grade year passes uneventfully. But when it's my sister Mary's turn to enter Sister Caroline's first grade class, trouble ensues again. It's all because of the Bloody Finger.

Dad loves practical jokes. One day when we are absorbed in a television program, he suddenly prances into the room. Our six foot seven inch father with shoulders like a table top pirouettes in front of us wearing a pink tutu, tights and a blonde wig. We are as thunderstruck as Dad hopes us to be, and he roars his big laugh. Nobody enjoys Dad's practical jokes more than Dad does.

His favorite joke, however, is the Bloody Finger. Returning home from work one evening, he calls to us, his voice gravely serious. On his way home from the office, he tells us, he notices something in the parking lot. It's a detached human finger.

"I brought it home to show you, but whatever you do," he warns, "don't touch it."

We stare at each other. Is he kidding? Why the heck would we touch it? Why would HE?

We lean close as Dad unveils a small box lined with cotton. And there it is. A single finger lies in a small pool of blood. Fascinated and repelled at the same time. we cautiously lean in closer. Suddenly the finger pops up. We shriek and scatter to all corners of the room.

Mom comes running. "What in the world?" she gasps. Dad laughs and laughs thoroughly enjoying his joke. He shows us the hole he's cut in the bottom of the box and reveals the catsup covered finger to be his own.

"That's a great trick, isn't it?" he grins.

Mom's scowl registers deep disapproval, but the rest of us begin to laugh nervously. My brothers decide to play the prank on their friends. Eventually every kid on Eudora Street has been traumatized by the Bloody Finger.

My little sister Mary is horrified by the Bloody Finger. Sweet and shy - so shy that she rarely says a word to anybody but us - she is happiest nestled against Mom and the babies on the tv room couch. In fact, when Terry, Carry, Tommy and Jeff are born, Mary mothers each of them tenderly. But school is difficult. In first grade, her new world of teachers and classmates paralyzes Mary with shyness.

Mary and Tommy

Mom is confident maturity will take care of Mary's perpetual shyness. Dad, however, wants to accelerate the process. He believes Mary needs only a little nudge to come out of her shell.The night before April Fool's Day, he draws her aside.

"You know what the kids at school would love?" he says. "The Bloody Finger!"

Mary is doubtful, but Dad's enthusiasm is contagious. "You'll be a sensation!" Dad says. "Nobody will ever forget the day Mary Brown brought the Bloody Finger to first grade."

The next morning, careful to avoid Mom, Dad produces the cut-out bottom of a small milk carton, catsup and cotton. A few minutes later, Mary walks tremulously the half block to school, her catsup covered finger stuck through the bottom of a milk carton, and prepares to wow Sister Caroline and all her first grade classmates.

The Bloody Finger goes over just about as well as the famous drawing of Duchess and Hubert. Sister Caroline sends yet another note home. This time she wonders if she and my mother and father might sit down to discuss some "helpful parenting methods".

Our beautiful mother is almost never angry. But she's fairly livid now.

"You and your Bloody Finger!" she turns on Dad. "Sister Caroline thinks we're raising hillbillies!" Mom's gentle pride is wounded to the core.

Dad, for once, seems repentant. He doesn't apologize - Dad never apologizes. He does, though, have the grace to look ashamed. "I'll talk to Sister Caroline, Patti," he promises.

We are never privy to the details of that fated meeting between Sister Caroline and Dad. Does she let him have it? It seems unthinkable that a small determined nun should scold our giant of a father.

Mary finishes first grade, and all seems to be forgiven. Dad never encourages any of us ever again to play practical jokes at school. But he's right about one thing.

No one at Blessed Sacrament Elementary ever forgets the day shy little Mary Brown brings the Bloody Finger to Sister Caroline's first grade class.