Dad's Birthday

Tommy sits cross-legged in front of the television, face propped on fists, mesmerized by the frustrated woman in a weight loss ad.

The woman grabs mounds of belly fat in both hands and frowns balefully at the camera. My five-year-old son studies her dilemma with sympathy.

"You know, Mom," Tommy considers thoughtfully, his eyes locked on the screen, "some people would say you're fat."

It's a long moment before my stony silence penetrates his consciousness. When at last he glances over, I am staring daggers. His eyes grow spectacularly wide as if it only just occurs to him he's said the words aloud.

"But not me!" he stutters in fright. "Some people, but not me!"

The sibs: Top from left - Tom, Cathy, Joe, Jeff. Middle from left; Mary,
Carry, Terri, Deb, Nolan. Bottom from left; Mick, Rick.

Tommy is a sweet, funny, kind little boy, but occasionally he steps in it. Big time. He inherits this sterling quality from his grandfather. Dad is perfectly capable of bringing a pleasant conversation to a grinding halt.

After Terri's old-fashioned boyfriend Paul calls Dad to ask for Terri's hand in marriage, Dad hangs up grinning with satisfaction. "Finally," he says delightedly, "one of my girls marries a good Catholic boy!" - as if the rest of us married into a cult of human sacrificing Satan worshippers.

We bristle, roll our eyes, and from time to time get our feelings hurt. But we always forgive him. How can we not? Somehow Dad's held us together for 20 years since Mom's death and given us a wonderful stepmother and new stepbrother in the bargain. In the end it doesn't matter that he's not perfect. We're still crazy about him, and as we grow older we're mindful of opportunities to tell Dad just how much he means to us.

This year Dad turns 70, and our stepmother Kris works hard to make it a special occasion. Uncle Carl flies all the way from Pittsburgh, and even Dad's cousin MaryLee and her husband Joe arrive from Colorado. We decide to commemorate the day in style. Kris asks all of us to write our own special memories of growing up with Dad.

In Dad and Kris's backyard over Labor Day weekend - because Dad's birthday falls on September 5th - we set up tables and chairs and prepare mountains of food. Uncle Carl makes balloon animals for our kids, exactly as he did for us a generation ago. The Nebraska evening is mild and beautiful, a night made for celebration.

Uncle Carl makes balloon animals for great nieces Katie
Brand and Sarah Lewandowski.

Nostalgic for the old Denver days and the brown station wagon in which Dad forced us to harmonize "I Had a Dream, Dear", I attempt to recreate the moment. Ten of the grandkids are wrangled into portraying each one of us back in the 60's and very early 70's. They carefully arrange themselves in rows of chairs on the deck to resemble all of us packed into the old brown station wagon - even in the crack.  I play the part of Dad.

"Kids!" I boom with enthusiasm. "Let's practice our song!"

This announcement is met by a chorus of groans and even pathetic sobs.

Drawing my eyebrows fiercely together like Dad, I scold. "Nobody makes it to the Ed Sullivan Show without practice! But you'll make it, and you know why?" I roar. "Because you're Browns, that's why!"

I point uncertainly to my own son Tommy folded in a fetal position in the crack. "Except you," I say hesitantly. "Are you one of my kids?"

He shakes his head. "No sir, Mr. Brown. I'm Bobby Smith," he responds politely, pretending to be our next door neighbor from Eudora Street.

I gape in disbelief. "Does your mother know where you are?"

Tommy shrugs. "Don't know. I haven't seen her for three days."

And so it goes.

My brothers and sisters share memories all the way back from Eudora Street in Denver. Mick remembers the time Dad parked some distance away to watch my brothers practice baseball at City Park. A group of militant teenagers with chains circled his car in a flash and began to rock it, pounding on the hood with violent fervor. Dad stepped out of the car, raised himself to his full 6 ft. 7 inches, and steadily addressed the thugs.

"I'll take you one at a time. Who wants to be first?"

That was all. Those boys got out of there fast.

The old favorite stories about the bees taking over our house, the time Dad had too much to drink after the Blessed Sacrament Church Talent Show, and the day we all were kicked out of Stolley Park School Gym because Dad tormented the refs - are shared once again, and nobody laughs harder than Dad.

Our younger brother Tom remembers the mythical father who took him fishing and heaved his tool box around to vigorously tackle household and auto repairs. Neither fishing expeditions nor home repairs ever occurred.

"And how I loved crawling into Dad's bed on Sunday mornings when he'd  pull me close and cuddle," Tom recalls with a straight face. "But then I had to get up to drive back to college." We laugh til we cry.

My younger siblings share stories of growing up with Dad after Mom died - how he explained the facts of life to my little sisters and dealt with their first periods, how he drilled into them bits of advice for succeeding in life. Mary rattles off every one of Dad's familiar mantras.

"Be a good person! Don't cheat, lie, steal, drink, or do drugs! Go to church! Keep your pecker in your pants! Look around, see what needs to be done, and do it! Go for the jugular!"

Nolan, our young stepbrother, remembers one more piece of advice from Dad: "Don't ever start a fight. But if you're forced into one," Dad always warned, "make sure you win."

Our stepmother Kris, who cries easily, is last. She is brief - thanking Dad for loving her and all of us, for teaching us every day of our lives that family is most important, and for personally making her very happy. She breaks off at the end, reduced to tears, and she and Dad grab hands.

We are not an emotional family. Crying and tearful displays are reserved for funerals only. Period. At every other family gathering we laugh, jab, tease and work hard to outdo each other with every successive smart alec remark. But after reliving an evening of memories - the funniest and the most painful - and observing Kris's simple but profound overture of love, we become uncharacteristically silent and furiously blink back tears.

"I've been a very lucky man," Dad says at last. "I've been blessed with two wonderful women in my life and 11 kids I'm very proud of. Thank you all for this very nice day."

Even Dad is choked up.

Dad's 70th birtday party - with all his grandkids.

It's a few moments before we collect ourselves. Silence endures, and above us the mourning doves coo plaintively in the tender sweetness of a late summer evening. But at last Kris leaps up with determined zest to bring the party back to life again.

"Time for birthday cake!" she crows.

We rouse ourselves, blow our noses and get ready to usher Dad into the next decade of life. His 30 or so grandchildren surround him, and we raise young and old voices together to sing.

"Happy birthday, dear Grandpa!" our voices echo in the approaching dusk, "Happy birthday to you!"

Dad opens his gifts, and we ooh and aah and laugh. Food, liquor and presents restore the natural and festive order of the evening. Kris and my sisters busily distribute cake, Uncle Carl twists more balloon animals into fascinating shapes, and I sigh in contentment leaning against my husband.

Summer is over. Thankfully, however, we have many more family gatherings to celebrate and a host of new memories to create throughout the coming years.

Not one of us realizes this perfect day, brimming with joyful memories all its own, will be Dad's last birthday.

Dick Brown Olympics

My three-year-old niece Brandi is hell on wheels.

Joined at the hip to tiny cousin Emily, her most ardent fan, Brandi keeps her mother constantly vigilant. Just now at Dad's Friday Night Pizza Party, she grips a flowing fern twice her size, yanks it violently from its pot, and sends dirt flying. Emily, a delighted audience, erupts with her raucous little laugh.

The rest of us leap to grab the fern and clean up the mess. But not Dad. He sits in the middle of chaos in complete contentment. Nothing makes him happier than to be surrounded by all his kids and grandkids. If screaming toddlers drown out the television, Dad calmly reaches for the remote to turn the volume up a few more ear piercing decibels.

A Fourth of July gathering at Capital Avenue.

Our family is growing by leaps and bounds. At age 60, Dad becomes a father for the 11th time to his seven-year-old stepson Nolan and a grandfather for the 31st time. You'd think it wouldn't bother him too much to share his grandchildren occasionally with their other grandparents. It's not as if he doesn't have plenty of kids to spare. Dad, however, is jealous of time with his offspring. He can hardly bear it that Terri and her husband Paul move themselves and their little ones away to Colorado for Paul's business. When they come back to Nebraska to visit, Dad and Kris insist on hosting the whole family at their house, but Terri's always careful to give equal time to her Lewandowski in-laws.

On one visit, Paul offers to make a vegetable dish for dinner sometime. Dad takes full advantage of Paul's casual promise and calls Terri from the office one afternoon.

"Say, I just went to the store and bought everything Paul needs to make that veggie dish tonight."

Terri understands immediately what he's up to.

"Dad," she sighs patiently, "you know we can't have dinner with you tonight. We're leaving today to spend time with the Lewandowskis."

A terrible pause hangs in the air.

"Fine!" Dad explodes. "Go to the Lewandowskis and take the damn vegetables with you!"

Terri scolds him for being childish, and even Dad has the grace to offer a sheepish apology. Nevertheless, he hates sharing his family with "outsiders".

July 4th Bubble Gum Blowing Contest - from left: 
cousins Jessica, Patti and Ben.

Independence Day, however, belongs to Dad, and it's automatically understood that all of us will be in attendance. Dad's the most patriotic man alive. When we were growing up, he organized games and competitions in our big backyard on Capital Avenue every Fourth of July.We raced, hula-hooped, tossed water balloons and furiously battled for the prize. Dad was purely in his element as sole starter, clerk of the finish and judge for each competitive event.

Now with our our own kids, Dad's really developed the Independence Day competition - or as my husband John jokingly refers to it, the Dick Brown Olympics.  Every member of the family, no matter how young or old, is required to participate in Dad's Fourth of July competition.  The grandkids win a silver dollar for every event while the adults walk away with a 40 oz. bottle of beer.  Based on a carefully calculated point system, the winning family is presented with an annual trophy.  Dad makes sure the name of the conquering family is engraved on the award, and for a year it proudly resides in one of our homes.

Never in ours, though.  Never the Howard home. We never take that damn trophy home once.

It's still fun, though, and at the end of the day, Dad always prepares a glorious barbecue for every winner and loser alike.

Dad awards prizes to son Nolan, left, and grandson Kenny.

As soon as warm darkness descends, we stroll in a straggling mob the few blocks to Capital Heights Park to watch the big fireworks show. Ted George, the official master of ceremonies, is as much in his element on July 4th as Dad is in his. Over a tinny microphone, he begins the festivities by leading the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance. Then, as we shiver in anticipation, Ted introduces the fireworks.

"Wasn't THAT a good one!" he always crows as the first glittering firework explodes above us.

It wouldn't be the Fourth of July without Ted George's familiar exclamation at the blaze of brilliant color in the Nebraska night sky. For years and years, he begins every show the same way, and I surrender to a comforting wave of nostalgia.

Our kids bounce up and down in excitement, and Dad grins at the sky leaning against Kris, his long arm draped across her shoulders. He's tired, I can see, and his knees are sore. Dad's arthritic knees are on the verge of crippling him, yet despite our pleas, he refuses to undergo knee replacement.

"Not another word!" he warns before hobbling to collect a ball on the tennis court or bracing himself against the banister to climb the stairs. Without fail, Dad climbs on his treadmill every morning and plays tennis every Sunday but endures both activities in excruciating pain. Surgery, he curtly informs us, is out of the question.

Dad's slowing down before our eyes, and we can hardly stand it. He works too hard and relies on a pacemaker to force his heart to behave.That our bigger-than-life father can be getting old is unthinkable. Dad's slain the monsters in our bedroom closets and become our whole world since Mom's death.

Ted George wraps up the fireworks show with the grand finale - an American flag constructed from firework sparklers. We ooh and aah in appreciation as the last sparks die. Reluctantly, we gather together to return home. Another Fourth of July takes its place in the history books.

All of us are tired as we troop back down Capital Avenue. Dad limps noticeably but stubbornly refuses offers of assistance. His knees may be shot, but his shoulders are strong and as broad as a table top. Kris leans over to say something to him. He throws his big head back, and his familiar laugh fills the air. I am at once comforted. Nothing will ever happen to Dad. We won't allow it. How could we ever manage without him? It doesn't matter how old we are - Dad's our protector.

He must always be so.