The way Dad snores - like a gasping, shuddering chain saw - could wake the dead.
Because he's lonely for our mother sleeping beside him, Dad purchases a small television set for his bedroom to keep him company. Every night he turns up Johnny Carson to an ear splitting decible, guffaws for ten minutes, then promptly falls asleep. So it begins - a dueling cacophony between Carson's banter and Dad's snoring.
"I can't stand it any more!" Terri stomps into Dad's room, violently switches the t.v. off, and curses all the way back to bed.
None of my younger brothers and sisters can sleep through the racket. It's Carry who comes up with the idea of the "Clapper", a sound activated marvel. The little kids pool their money together and present it to Dad for his birthday.
"Before you fall asleep," Carry explains to our father, "remember to clap. The t.v.'ll go right off!" A remote would be just as easy and far cheaper, but Dad misplaces it the day after he purchases the television.
He's skeptical of the Clapper but agrees to give it a try. It turns out to be a waste of money. As soon as Dad snores, the t.v. surges to life again. Another snore, and it shuts off. And so it goes. On and off, on and off all night long. Terri stomps into his room, rips the device out of the wall, and stuffs it in the trash.
So much for the "Clapper".
It's not only the little kids' sleep life that disintegrates. The old order ceases to exist, and a new one is born. Without Mom's careful watch, things begin to slip on Capital Avenue.
My brothers and sisters divvy up the chores, but a spotless house is hardly a priority. One night, long after they're in bed asleep, Dad charges into their bedrooms, wakes them all up, and herds them into the hallway bathroom.
Scooping up one of several damp towels from the bathroom floor, he illustrates in exaggerated motions the proper way to fold it over the towel rack.
"VOILA!" he barks, gesturing toward the rack as if my siblings are mentally deficient.
The next Sunday after Mass, with everybody in the station wagon, Dad drives to a dilapidated old house some blocks away. A rusty refrigerator leans against the front porch and beside it an ancient, moth-eaten sofa. Dad pulls straight into the strange driveway as if he owns the place. Lounging on the dusty old sofa in the warm sunshine are the true owners of the hovel who glance with lazy curiosity at the vehicle idling in their driveway.
"Dad, what are you doing?" Mary gasps. My little brothers and sisters duck hurriedly beneath the car windows, horrified by Dad's audacity.
"Take a good look, kids," Dad ignores their dismay. "It starts with a few damp towels, and it ends like this. Brick by brick."
Dad talks a good game. All the years we grow up he chants his daily mantra - "Look around, see what needs to be done, and do it." But Dad's never lived up to his own credo. When the coffee table breaks, the cabinet doors come unhinged, or the doorknobs fall off, Dad seethes. He doesn't, however, put anything back together again. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he's overwhelmed. But the house really is falling apart brick by brick.
When the channel turner from the television disappears, we fit the prongs of a fork across the stem and spin the handle of the fork. And since it's too much trouble to run constantly from the t.v. room to the kitchen, the fork becomes a permanent fixture on the t.v.
The entire t.v. room, in fact, is a death trap.The four legs of the coffee table have been broken for two years since Mom died. It never occurs to Dad to grab a hammer and reattach them. Instead, he instructs the little kids to prop the table up on four broken legs and never use it again. It's a battered, scratched old table, so it's not as if Dad's saving it for its aesthetic value. Not one of us ever questions why we balance that coffee table on four broken legs only to carefully skirt around it. We're used to it. It's the Dick Brown way.
Once, when Grandma comes to visit, she carefully reaches over to set her glass of iced tea on the old coffee table.
"DON'T TOUCH THE TABLE!" we all scream in unison.
Poor Grandma, badly shocked, jerks violently and accidentally kicks the table, whereupon the whole thing collapses anyway.
Then there's the door to the t.v. room itself. The latch is broken, and if you close the door from inside the room, you're locked in.
"Hurry up, Kids!" Dad calls for us from every part of the house. "It's World Premier Night!" I never understand what a World Premier is, but when one appears on television, Dad likes to be surrounded by all ten of us. Huddled together and staring with glazed eyes at the television set is what constitutes for us quality family bonding time. Inevitably, though, somebody accidentally knocks the door shut, and we're all trapped in the t.v. room.
"Dammit!" Dad swears. "Why can't you kids leave that door alone?"
The only way out is to remove the screen from the window, lower one of the little kids outside, and wait for him to run around the house to unlock the t.v. room door, which fortunately can be opened from the other side.
One summer evening, somebody shuts the t.v. room door, but all the outside doors are locked. We're not only locked in the t.v. room but out of our house. Resigned, we sing "I Had a Dream, Dear", Dad's old favorite, and practice in four part harmony until Rick comes home with his keys to free us.
Mary's boyfriend Kenny can't get over the t.v. room door. "You realize you can get a new door knob, don't you?" he asks in bewilderment.
"Oh no," Mary's shocked. "Dad says that doorknob can never be fixed. It's the only one of its kind."
Kenny shakes his head.
The kitchen is almost as bad as the t.v. room. Almost every cabinet door has fallen off its hinges. But Dad never troubles himself to buy new hinges. Fitting the doors carefully back into their cabinet slots, he warns, "Be careful when you open those, Kids."
It's bad if you forget the kitchen cabinet over the sink. But after it falls on your head three or four times, you remember. Eventually, we become practiced at removing a cabinet door with one hand and grabbing a drinking glass with the other.
One day, after the little kids grow up and leave home, Dad will decide to move from the house on Capital Avenue. But by God, he hates to see the old homestead belong to anybody but a member of the family. When Dad convinces Mary's nice boyfriend Kenny, now her husband Kenny, to buy the house on Capital Avenue, we're all relieved. Everybody, that is, except Mary.
She can hardly believe Kenny wants anything to do with our old wreck of a home. Unlike Dad, however, Kenny is handy. He fixes the hinges on all the kitchen cabinets and even, to Mary's astonishment, replaces the doorknob on the t.v. room door. But Mary will not agree to sign a contract until Dad calls a plumber for the toilet.
"There's nothing wrong with that toilet!" Dad is indignant.
"Dad,", Mary sighs, "it never stops running."
He sputters. "It's a little temperamental, that's all!"
He explains in careful detail that Mary needs only to hold the handle down after she flushes, count to ten, and jiggle it three times. "Wait until the tank fills halfway. If that doesn't work, reach into the tank, grab the chain, and yank. You could just take the lid off the tank and leave it open," Dad rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Might make it easier in the long run."
Mary rolls her eyes and stalks out of the room.
But the rest of us are glad that Ken and Mary will live there. Our memories of Mom are all wrapped up in the old house on Capital Avenue. We'll bring our own children there, barbecue in the big back yard, and celebrate family birthdays.
And nobody will get locked in the t.v. room or have to crawl out the window ever again.
Because he's lonely for our mother sleeping beside him, Dad purchases a small television set for his bedroom to keep him company. Every night he turns up Johnny Carson to an ear splitting decible, guffaws for ten minutes, then promptly falls asleep. So it begins - a dueling cacophony between Carson's banter and Dad's snoring.
"I can't stand it any more!" Terri stomps into Dad's room, violently switches the t.v. off, and curses all the way back to bed.
 |
| Terri |
None of my younger brothers and sisters can sleep through the racket. It's Carry who comes up with the idea of the "Clapper", a sound activated marvel. The little kids pool their money together and present it to Dad for his birthday.
"Before you fall asleep," Carry explains to our father, "remember to clap. The t.v.'ll go right off!" A remote would be just as easy and far cheaper, but Dad misplaces it the day after he purchases the television.
He's skeptical of the Clapper but agrees to give it a try. It turns out to be a waste of money. As soon as Dad snores, the t.v. surges to life again. Another snore, and it shuts off. And so it goes. On and off, on and off all night long. Terri stomps into his room, rips the device out of the wall, and stuffs it in the trash.
So much for the "Clapper".
It's not only the little kids' sleep life that disintegrates. The old order ceases to exist, and a new one is born. Without Mom's careful watch, things begin to slip on Capital Avenue.
My brothers and sisters divvy up the chores, but a spotless house is hardly a priority. One night, long after they're in bed asleep, Dad charges into their bedrooms, wakes them all up, and herds them into the hallway bathroom.
Scooping up one of several damp towels from the bathroom floor, he illustrates in exaggerated motions the proper way to fold it over the towel rack.
"VOILA!" he barks, gesturing toward the rack as if my siblings are mentally deficient.
The next Sunday after Mass, with everybody in the station wagon, Dad drives to a dilapidated old house some blocks away. A rusty refrigerator leans against the front porch and beside it an ancient, moth-eaten sofa. Dad pulls straight into the strange driveway as if he owns the place. Lounging on the dusty old sofa in the warm sunshine are the true owners of the hovel who glance with lazy curiosity at the vehicle idling in their driveway.
"Dad, what are you doing?" Mary gasps. My little brothers and sisters duck hurriedly beneath the car windows, horrified by Dad's audacity.
"Take a good look, kids," Dad ignores their dismay. "It starts with a few damp towels, and it ends like this. Brick by brick."
Dad talks a good game. All the years we grow up he chants his daily mantra - "Look around, see what needs to be done, and do it." But Dad's never lived up to his own credo. When the coffee table breaks, the cabinet doors come unhinged, or the doorknobs fall off, Dad seethes. He doesn't, however, put anything back together again. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he's overwhelmed. But the house really is falling apart brick by brick.
 |
| Jeff and Joe |
The entire t.v. room, in fact, is a death trap.The four legs of the coffee table have been broken for two years since Mom died. It never occurs to Dad to grab a hammer and reattach them. Instead, he instructs the little kids to prop the table up on four broken legs and never use it again. It's a battered, scratched old table, so it's not as if Dad's saving it for its aesthetic value. Not one of us ever questions why we balance that coffee table on four broken legs only to carefully skirt around it. We're used to it. It's the Dick Brown way.
Once, when Grandma comes to visit, she carefully reaches over to set her glass of iced tea on the old coffee table.
"DON'T TOUCH THE TABLE!" we all scream in unison.
Poor Grandma, badly shocked, jerks violently and accidentally kicks the table, whereupon the whole thing collapses anyway.
Then there's the door to the t.v. room itself. The latch is broken, and if you close the door from inside the room, you're locked in.
"Hurry up, Kids!" Dad calls for us from every part of the house. "It's World Premier Night!" I never understand what a World Premier is, but when one appears on television, Dad likes to be surrounded by all ten of us. Huddled together and staring with glazed eyes at the television set is what constitutes for us quality family bonding time. Inevitably, though, somebody accidentally knocks the door shut, and we're all trapped in the t.v. room.
"Dammit!" Dad swears. "Why can't you kids leave that door alone?"
 |
| Terri, Tommy and Jeff |
The only way out is to remove the screen from the window, lower one of the little kids outside, and wait for him to run around the house to unlock the t.v. room door, which fortunately can be opened from the other side.
One summer evening, somebody shuts the t.v. room door, but all the outside doors are locked. We're not only locked in the t.v. room but out of our house. Resigned, we sing "I Had a Dream, Dear", Dad's old favorite, and practice in four part harmony until Rick comes home with his keys to free us.
Mary's boyfriend Kenny can't get over the t.v. room door. "You realize you can get a new door knob, don't you?" he asks in bewilderment.
"Oh no," Mary's shocked. "Dad says that doorknob can never be fixed. It's the only one of its kind."
Kenny shakes his head.
The kitchen is almost as bad as the t.v. room. Almost every cabinet door has fallen off its hinges. But Dad never troubles himself to buy new hinges. Fitting the doors carefully back into their cabinet slots, he warns, "Be careful when you open those, Kids."
It's bad if you forget the kitchen cabinet over the sink. But after it falls on your head three or four times, you remember. Eventually, we become practiced at removing a cabinet door with one hand and grabbing a drinking glass with the other.
One day, after the little kids grow up and leave home, Dad will decide to move from the house on Capital Avenue. But by God, he hates to see the old homestead belong to anybody but a member of the family. When Dad convinces Mary's nice boyfriend Kenny, now her husband Kenny, to buy the house on Capital Avenue, we're all relieved. Everybody, that is, except Mary.
She can hardly believe Kenny wants anything to do with our old wreck of a home. Unlike Dad, however, Kenny is handy. He fixes the hinges on all the kitchen cabinets and even, to Mary's astonishment, replaces the doorknob on the t.v. room door. But Mary will not agree to sign a contract until Dad calls a plumber for the toilet.
"There's nothing wrong with that toilet!" Dad is indignant.
"Dad,", Mary sighs, "it never stops running."
He sputters. "It's a little temperamental, that's all!"
He explains in careful detail that Mary needs only to hold the handle down after she flushes, count to ten, and jiggle it three times. "Wait until the tank fills halfway. If that doesn't work, reach into the tank, grab the chain, and yank. You could just take the lid off the tank and leave it open," Dad rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Might make it easier in the long run."
Mary rolls her eyes and stalks out of the room.
But the rest of us are glad that Ken and Mary will live there. Our memories of Mom are all wrapped up in the old house on Capital Avenue. We'll bring our own children there, barbecue in the big back yard, and celebrate family birthdays.
And nobody will get locked in the t.v. room or have to crawl out the window ever again.
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