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.