Grandpa

Debbie's in the hospital ready to give birth to her first baby. We're all beside ourselves, but nobody's more excited than Dad.

Dad holding his granddaughter Nikki.

"Have you heard anything?" he calls first Mary, then me, and then Mary again.

"Dad," I say patiently for the third time, "I know just as much as you do."

Debbie's been in labor since yesterday. It's Friday morning now, and Dad's worried. He calls St. Francis Hospital and asks for Debbie Brown's room.

"I'm sorry, Sir," the receptionist says. "We don't have anybody here by that name."

Dad sputters in confusion. "She was there last night!"

But the receptionist is firm. "Please check your information, Sir."

It's only after Dad hangs up that he realizes his mistake. "I'm sorry," he calls the woman again. "Brown is her maiden name. I'm looking for Debbie Durning."

She sighs. "We don't have anybody registered by that name, Sir."

It does no good to argue with the silly woman. Dad bangs down the receiver. Then a thought occurs. He dials the hospital again.

"Hello," he says sheepishly. "It's me again. Would you mind checking for Mary Debra Durning?" It takes a while to cajole the receptionist, but Dad is sincerely apologetic. He tells her about naming all his children Mary and Joseph. He tells her this is the first of his five Mary's to have a baby. He tells her he is a very foolish, worried father.

"I'll put you right through, Mr. Brown," the woman says kindly.

Deb doesn't deliver her brand new daughter until Saturday morning after 48 grueling hours of labor. Dad and all of us come straight away. Brian, a proud new father, beams at his baby girl. Poor Deb, however, is exhausted. She smiles tearfully, though, when Dad - with his big hands - takes Nicole Patricia Durning and gently cradles his new granddaughter. Nikki, as Deb and Brian will call their new baby, is Dad's third grandchild. It's a happy moment, and we're all delighted.

In the days that follow, Debbie discovers she's never missed Mom as much as she does now. Nikki's a colicky infant. Hour after hour, Deb and Brian take turns carrying her around and around the house in a vain attempt to comfort her. One night as Nikki wails and Brians falls asleep exhausted, Deb bundles her screaming baby into the car and rushes to Dad's.

"I'm sorry, Dad! I know you've worked all day," Deb is practically crying herself. "But I don't know what to do!"

With a practiced hand, Dad slings baby Nikki over his huge shoulder and paces back and forth. He sings and soothes and rhythmically pats her while Deb surrenders herself to Dad's big sofa.

"Tura lura lura!" he chants the lullaby softly. Soon, mother and baby are both lulled to sleep.

Kyle, Rick and Jan's first baby.

Dad really takes to grandfathering. It's a good thing because grand kids arrive with alarming regularity. Rick and Jan's son Kyle, brown eyed and adorable, is born the following year. When he first begins to walk, leaning on a toy lawnmower to take adventurous jaunts up and down the long driveway of Dad's house, we laugh and cheer him on.

"Do you see that?" Dad observes Kyle keenly. "Look at the way that boy moves - like a born athlete."

I give birth to my first baby Kenny the year after that, and John and I are over the moon with happiness.

"Thought I'd come to see Kenny over my lunch hour," Dad calls one morning when Kenny's just a few weeks old. Dad's especially excited because our baby, born to exceedingly tall parents, is already off the growth charts.

"Did the doctor tell you how tall he'd be?" Dad asks as he settles into our old recliner with Kenny on his lap. Dad's a former college and semi-pro basketball player. In his mind's eye, he envisions a future with Kyle, Kenny and a host of tall, athletic grandsons and granddaughters. He surveys Kenny's long infant arms and legs. Kenny, in turn, stares in fascination at Dad's big, kind face.

"Oh Kenny," Dad murmurs, "I hope I live long enough to see you play basketball."

Dad sings a lullaby to our Kenny.

My heart skips a beat. "Geez, Dad," I scold him. "Don't talk like that!"

Not yet 60, Dad still has two kids at home, terrible knees and very high blood pressure. He's all we have. Our good father has propelled us through adolescence and college and weddings and now babies. We adore him and rely on him and can't imagine our lives without him.

I watch him across the room in his white business shirt and tie smiling down at Kenny.

"Tura lura lura," he sings softly to his baby grandson. "Hush, now don't you cry."

He's sung that lullaby to every one of us, and my eyes fill. I grab my camera quickly to capture the moment forever.

Dad needs to get married again. I peer through the viewfinder and am suddenly struck by the thought. Lowering the camera, I study my big father. He's handsome, funny and loving. And lonely.

After Mom dies and Dad begins to date, I wonder how he can possibly be lonely? After all, he's got ten kids to keep him company. But watching him with my little son, I'm hit with the realization that Dad needs more. Nobody's ever made him laugh like Mom did.

I breathe a silent prayer to God and Mom. The two of them can figure this out.

"Don't forget," I remind them. "She has to be funny."

The reminder, however, is unnecessary.

Mom's arranging Dad's love life even as we speak.

Mr. Howard

I'm 6 feet 1 inch tall.

And a girl.

Because I'm taller than almost everyone, the playing field for boyfriends is narrowed considerably. Dad leads me to believe otherwise as he sits down with me on the eve of my departure to Kearney State College.

I am a good Catholic girl, he reminds me. I am never ever to forget it, he warns sternly.

"College boys are crazy to have sex," he finally says with difficulty as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. Horrified, I wish to be anywhere but in this stifling living room with my red-faced father who can't leave his collar alone.

"Remember who you are and where you come from," he finishes abruptly.

We share an awkward hug.

"Take care of yourself," Dad mutters in a choked voice that is distinctly emotional.

Bless my good dad. As soon as I arrive at Kearney State that fall of 1973, I am carefully alert for boys who will be wanting sex with me. Not a single salivating male seems remotely interested in carnal desires of the flesh. I am vastly relieved and slightly disappointed.

Jamie

My only serious boyfriend in college is a sophomore who embraces his religion with deep fervor and bears an uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. He wears a huge wooden cross on a chain around his neck and pauses to pray at inconvenient moments - like at cook outs or drive-in movie theaters. Ten minutes into Young Frankenstein, he bows reverently to thank the Almighty for Junior Mints.

Boyfriends are few and far between over the years. Suddenly, I am 28-years-old. My younger brother Rick marries his beautiful Jan the year after my little sister Deb and Brian tie the knot. Brother Mick and his wife already have two children - Jamie and Bobby - our very first adorable niece and nephew. Joe has a steady girlfriend, and even Dad has an active dating life. I feel exactly like a middle-aged mother whose children have left the nest.

My little brother Rick and his gorgeous wife
Jan, 1983.

Bobby

The summer before I begin teaching my sixth year at Central Catholic High School, principal Hugh Brandon calls me into his office.

"Would you look at this?" He flips through an application on his desk and feigns surprise. "Here's a young fellow called John Howard who's applied for the history job. Let's see," Hugh studies the application carefully. "He's 29-years-old, single, and, oh!" He looks up innocently. "He's 6 feet 8." His eyes twinkle. "Should I hire him?"

Hugh and his wife Fran are two of the best friends I have in this world. He's messing with me, pure and simple.

"I don't care if he's a serial killer," I say. "Hire him."

Fortunately, Mr. Howard is not a serial killer. He is, however, a little insane.

He drives up the circle drive at Central Catholic the first day of school in a tiny blue Volkswagen Rabbit which appears to have been constructed by engineers around his body. One long arm hangs lazily out the tiny window with knuckles that nearly graze the street.

Mr. Howard is an immediate school sensation, and not only because of his remarkable stature. He teaches the Industrial Revolution wearing a giant fake nose and glasses. He pulls rubber chickens out of his desk. And one morning, late for class, he tries to scare his students by leaping explosively through the door. But when you're 6 feet 8, you shouldn't leap explosively through anything. Slamming his head against the door jamb, he nearly knocks himself out.

We observe each other shyly those first few months, but my little sister Terri, a student in Mr. Howard's history class, decides to propel things along.

"You should ask my sister out," she tells him point blank. "You're both tall, you like to read, and your hair's the same color." She shrugs. "What else do you need?"

Four nights before Christmas, Nebraska endures one of the worst blizzards of the decade. School's been canceled for the following day, and I sit in my small living room wrapped in an old comforter listening to the wind howl. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I'm astonished to see Mr. Howard towering over my front door.

"What are you doing?" I gasp and pull him inside.

He stamps the snow off his feet. "Thought you might like to see a movie," he suggests casually.

I gape at the blowing snow. "You're kidding, right?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

Against my better judgment, I slide into my coat and gloves, and the two of us, hunched low against the wind, fight our way to his little Volkswagen.

"I don't know," I hesitate. "Are you sure you can drive in this?" From inside the car, I peer out at the fading visibility.

"I can drive in anything," he says with a cocksure attitude as he backs out the driveway and promptly slides into the huge Buick parked across the street. The Buick is unharmed, fortunately, but Mr. Howard's car sports a deep half-moon dent.

We inch along to the theater to see Terms of Endearment, and, I'm ashamed to say, talk and laugh through the whole thing - even the death scene. But it doesn't matter since we're the only two people in attendance. Afterwards, we crawl along in his little car to a nearly empty bar and grill.  Barely in the act of shedding our heavy coats and gloves, Mr. Howard leaps up.

"We have to go," he says. "I don't have any money."

"I have money," I protest.

But he won't hear of it. So out into the blizzard we go - this time to find a nearby ATM. ATM's, however, are relatively new, and I ask him if he's ever used one.

He stares at me in mock horror. "The audacity! I use 'em all the time!"

Mr. Howard and me - 1984, a few months before our wedding.

Apparently, he's never used this particular ATM. Sitting in the car, I watch him fight his way through the snow into the enclosed cubicle of the bank to do battle with the ATM. His card is returned not once, but three times, and he scratches his head in obvious bewilderment.

I laugh, and in a moment of crystal clear awareness, it hits me. One day I will marry that sweet, crazy man who now fumbles with the mysterious automated teller machine.

And I do - not quite a year later. Every kid in the school is invited.

Once, not too long ago, my grandmother tells me just before she dies that I will meet and marry somebody exactly like John Boy Walton. I hate John Boy Walton. Thankfully, Mr. Howard is not remotely like John Boy Walton.

But I love Mr. Howard. With all my heart, as a matter of fact. Even if I do call him John Boy.

And I know Grandma would love him, too.