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.
"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.
"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.
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 |
"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.
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