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!"
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.
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.
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.
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. |
"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. |
"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.
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