Back to the Beginning - Last Chapter

Kenny is getting married - to his lovely Savanna.

"In City Park, Ma! Your old neighborhood!" he tells me over the phone. I am delighted.

Kenny has been a Coloradan ever since he headed off to Denver University to play basketball. Tommy has joined him to live and work in the Mile High City. On June 17th Tommy will pull honorable duty as his older brother's best man. So now my siblings and I will have the rare opportunity to be together in the neighborhood where we grew up.

"Wouldn't Dad love this?" my sister Mary sighs.

1970 - on Eudora Street in Denver. From top left clockwise:
Dad, Mary, Mom holding Tommy, Joe, Deb, Rick, Carry,
Cathy, Terri, Mick. Not pictured: Jeff, who would be born the
following year.

Dad's been gone 16 years. In the beginning we think we will never get over the loss of his huge presence in our lives. The first July 4th after his death, we try to carry on with the Dick Brown Olympics. Tom hosts the day in his spacious backyard, and he and Mary organize the events. But without Dad's big laughter, everything falls flat.When it's time for the toddlers' race or somebody gets dizzy and trips in Spin the Bat, we look over to laugh with Dad.

It's hard to remember he's not there. More than once, somebody slips away to shed a few emotional tears. It's the last Dick Brown Olympics.

One evening, Kris and my sisters and I are nursing margaritas at our favorite restaurant. Kris reminisces not only about Dad but also about her first husband Tom who never lived to see his only son. We lapse into a despondent silence.

"I think the name of my third husband will be Harry," our stepmother suddenly breaks the silence.

We look up surprised.

"Because then," Kris says, her mouth twitching, "I can say I'll marry any Tom, Dick or Harry."

She can't say it with a straight face. After a stunned moment we laugh - we laugh so hard we cry.

And then it gets better. Day by week by month by year, we learn to live without Dad. Grandchildren grow up. Dad's stepson Nolan marries beautiful Brianne. More than ten years after Dad's death, Kris meets a nice man called Larry - not Harry, but close enough. The years produce four more grandchildren, 11 great grandchildren with two more on the way, and a host of weddings Dad will never see.

Today is Kenny and Savanna's.

This eventful Friday, however, is important for other reasons. My siblings and I hatch a plan to meet at the old house on Eudora Street - where we all grew up. It's the first and only time we've ever been together to revisit our roots, and we're determined to commemorate the day with a picture on the old front steps. Only Mick and Carry are absent. The rest of us, though, bring along our spouses and even some of our kids.

On Friday morning we park our caravan of cars on Eudora Street and emerge from our vehicles staring in wonder. Nothing has changed. Not really. Except the size of our old house.

"How did 12 of us fit?" Joe can hardly believe the modest size of our home 45 years later.

"Look! That's where the bees were!" Rick points to the windows under the eaves on the south side of the house. He describes to his wife and daughters the gallons of honey that dripped over the bricks of our home until Dad marched into battle with the bees.

Blessed Sacrament Church and our old schools sit sedately at the end of the block on Montview Boulevard, and we recognize the familiar homes of old neighbors.

"Remember Spy Lady?" Joe gestures across the street. We have forgotten the actual name of the old woman whose face habitually appeared behind the curtains to watch us at play.

My sister-in-law Sheryl, feistier than all of us put together, asks the question.  "Don't you want to go inside?" We look at each other bashfully. It's bad enough that more than 40 of us huddle together on the sidewalk. Surely the neighbors will become suspicious. How can we ring the doorbell and demand entrance?

Fate, however, is on our side. A young man appears at our old front door and looks quizzically at the mob in front of his house.

"May I help you?" he asks uncertainly.

Brave Sheryl is our spokeswoman. "Have you ever heard of the Browns?" she makes a sweeping gesture toward us. "They used to live here!"

The young man's eyes open wide in dawning recognition. "Oh yeah! You're the family with the ten kids?" He laughs. "Boy, did we hear stories about you."

Without even having to convince him we're not thieves, drug lords or serial killers, he opens the door wide and invites us in. The house, he explains, belongs to his parents, but they won't mind in the least if we look around. We stare at each other hardly believing our good fortune.

Aside from the old fashioned ornamental windows and the original bannister, we don't recognize much. We've stepped into a home right out of HGTV - completely renovated from top to bottom. The kitchen boasts an island, and gone is the huge table with wood benches we gathered around for every meal. Our century old house has undergone a total transformation, but we still feel the familiarity of walls and space and atmosphere.

Hungrily, we take it all in - the bench at the bottom of the staircase is still there, painted and pillowed. Upstairs, the laundry chute that provided us endless entertainment still resides in the corner of the bathroom.

"Our dad installed that double vanity," Deb informs the young man, whose name turns out to be Tony. The deep closets that Mick and Rick were certain hid murderous monsters are clean and elegant and do not spill forth tee shirts, dirty mismatched tennis shoes or jars with live crawdads.

We exclaim in delight over every inch of the house before at last we thank Tony and reluctantly traipse out the door. The front porch, thankfully, is exactly the same as it was 45 years ago.

At the old house on Eudora Street, 45 years later. (Top row -

digitally added by our brilliant nephew Brandon

Warner - Dad and Mom!) Middle row from left: Terri,

Mary, Tom, Joe. Bottom row from left: Jeff, Cathy,

Rick and Deb. Not pictured: Mick and Carry.

"Let's take pictures!" Sheryl instructs.

Automatically, we find our old spots on the porch steps that seem considerably smaller four and half decades later. We crowd close together and look up. The perspective from the porch is shockingly familiar - like a recurring dream in vivid color. Just like that, 45 years falls away. We're still the Brown kids waiting for a summer day in June to unfold.

Across the street, Spy Lady could be peering around her draperies to wonder what the fuss is all about. Any second now the eight Reddicks, our next door neighbors, will tumble out their door to beg us for a game of kickball at the Masonic Temple. Mrs. Siravotka will barrel out of her house to scream down the block.

"Annie! Vincent! I told you to come in ten minutes ago!"

Even now, our tall father will rise from the top step in his immaculately pressed suit to kiss Mom and warn us to behave ourselves. We can see him ambling out to the old brown station wagon and flashing his big, toothy grin as he heads off to work. Mom will kiss our baby brother Tommy, turning him gently on her shoulder in the exact way I've watched my little sister Terri turn her babies a million times.

Except that Mom and Dad are gone. And we are not young. We are grandparents and cancer survivors. We've endured heart attacks and bad knees and aching backs.

All at once, I miss Mick who's traveling cross country to follow his athletic daughters and Carry who's home battling breast cancer. They should be here on this porch step. Mom and Dad should be here.

My siblings are experiencing the same nostalgic ache. Instinctively we reach for each other. I sling my arms around Jeff and Rick. Terri grabs Mary, and Mary grabs Tom, Tom grabs Joe, and Joe grabs Deb - until we are a tightly linked circle of family. Close together on the porch steps, we look out into the faces of our future. Not for the first time do I marvel at the beauty of my sisters-in-law or the steadfastness of our good husbands. Our children and nieces and nephews grin, and I see the dearness of Mom and Dad in all of them.

The cameras flash as spouses and kids snap pictures on phones. My husband John, the only one of us who refuses to be leashed to a cell phone, looks on with tolerant amusement. He catches my eye and winks in understanding. John always knows what I'm thinking.

The ache for the past diminishes against the backdrop of the much loved faces before us. I squint into the brilliant sunshine of a perfect day. This wonderful old house on Eudora Street doesn't belong to us any more. But aren't the ten of us still here? Mom and Dad have given us beautiful memories, and they've given us each other.

I smile at my husband. My brothers and sisters and I won't come back to Eudora Street. Not like this, anyway.  But Mom and Dad, along with all our memories, are with us wherever we go. It's time to leave this old place. After all, we have a wedding to attend.

Today our son is getting married.

May 25th, 2000

I'm the first one at the hospital.

Just before the morning bell rings to start school, my good friend and school secretary Dana Newman races up the stairs to my classroom at Central Catholic.

"Your stepmom just called!" she gasps. "It's your dad! He's on his way to the hospital!"

Dad, 1998. (Photo courtesy of 
Grand Island Independent)

My hands, gripping the steering wheel, tremble all the way to St. Francis. The hospital's only a few blocks from school, but I can't get there fast enough. I don't expect to beat the ambulance, but the emergency room desk clerk tells me Dad hasn't arrived yet.

"We don't have any other information," she repeats patiently as I pepper her with frantic questions.

Pacing back and forth waiting for the ambulance, I tell myself it will be all right. Dad's only having heart fibrillations like he did before, that's all.

John and I, in fact, have just spent an evening with Dad and Kris at their house. Sitting in his favorite chair, Dad accepts the dozen or so paper bags my stepmother hands him. As she busily puts groceries away, Dad begins to fold bags.

"And would this be your very special job?" I tease.

"As a matter of fact," he says with dignity, "this is my job."

I watch as he places a carefully folded bag beside his chair. "My goodness," I marvel. "How would Kris ever manage without you?"

He glances up wryly and chuckles. "Listen, Smart Alec, I try to do my part around here."

With the advent of the year 2000 and a new millennium, Dad hands the reigns of the travel agency over to my brother Mick and, for the first time in his life, works half days. Aside from enduring a pacemaker for arrhythmia and badly arthritic knees, Dad enjoys good health. Kris makes him deeply happy, and he finally has time to to enjoy our stepbrother Nolan's high school events. In the evenings, he relaxes in front of the t.v. with Kris and Nolan. Duchess, his little dachshund, slides next to Dad's thigh in the big worn recliner. Long before the ten o'clock news, man and dog are snoring in tandem.

I refuse to believe, on this beautiful morning in late May with sunshine pouring through the windows of the hospital, that my 70-year-old father will leave this earth.

"Please God," I silently beseech, "we need him so much!"

All at once I see Lori, my brother Mick's wife, scurrying across the pavement toward the emergency room entrance, and I am filled with relief at the sight of her loved and familiar face. Almost immediately, the sirens of the approaching ambulance shatter the early morning quiet. My heart leaps against my chest. The ambulance comes to an abrupt stop not far from Lori and me. Instantly, two paramedics tumble out, open the rear doors, and muscle out a gurney. Our huge father is strapped to it, his long legs extending over the end. My hand flies to my mouth. In that instant, I know Dad is either unconscious or dead.

Immediately behind the ambulance comes a caravan of vehicles. Kris and most of my siblings fall out of their cars, and Lori and I run to meet them. Kris sobs and rushes into my arms. My brothers and sisters and I huddle around her.

"What happened?" I finally ask.

Kris struggles to regain her composure. "He collapsed on his treadmill," she chokes. "They're giving him C.P.R."

My sister Mary groans and begins to weep. The words don't penetrate my senses. Kris explains that Nolan, in his bedroom getting ready for school, hears Dad fall from his treadmill. Aside from a great gasp, Dad is motionless. Nolan immediately calls an ambulance and then notifies Kris who rushes back from work.

Without quite realizing how, we've navigated ourselves inside. Still huddled together, we're met by an Emergency Room employee who escorts us to a small room. We don't talk. Fearfully, we stare through the window of the door waiting for someone to tell us what's happened to Dad. My brother Rick reaches over to grip Kris's shoulder, and his steadiness and goodness remind me of Dad. Deb folds her arms tightly across herself, and Mary's brown eyes are strained and anxious. Mick, tall and stalwart, stands silent and still with his arm around Lori.

It's Dr. Wagoner, Dad's own physician,who walks gravely to our room and quietly admits himself. None of us breathes.

"I'm so sorry," he says softly to Kris.

Our cries fill the small room. I am suddenly recalling Mom's last shuddering breath before she passes 21 years ago. Then, as now, we weep and instinctively reach for each other. Dr. Wagoner waits respectfully, offers his grave condolences, and departs quietly to leave us alone.

Our brother Tom, who's just arrived, sees us through the window and hurries frantically to us.

"Is Dad okay?" he breathes. None of us can speak. "Tell me!" he begs when no one responds.

At last Kris grabs his hand. "Your dad's gone," she sobs.

Tom curses, lowers his head, and intently seems to study the floor.

A kind hospital volunteer pokes her head into the room. "We've notified a priest here at the hospital," she informs us. A moment later Father Harry Kurtenbach, the wonderful parish pastor with us when Mom died, skids around the corner. He's amazed to see us, and we can hardly believe it's our own Father Harry come to comfort us once again.

"Oh, children," he sighs, as if it's 21 years ago and we're all still kids. He embraces each of us. "It's time to say goodbye to your father," he says.

Our stepmother goes first, alone. When she comes back to us, something inside her seems to have broken. We suddenly remember this is the second husband Kris has lost. She leans over in agony as if searching for breath, and we catch her and hold her. Finally Father Kurtenbach ushers us to the room in which Dad lies. We steady ourselves and enter.

Dad's shirtless and wears only his gym shorts and tube socks. Other than the very stillness of his body, he could be asleep. His mouth gapes open just like it does when he snores in his recliner, and his big prominent nose sticks in the air. It's the same nose I have - the nose I've always hated on my girl face.

"I'm glad I have your nose," I think fiercely now as I stare down at my dead father. His tennis shoes rest side by side below the gurney as if any moment he will sit up, tie them on, and stride out the hospital doors to finish his workout.

Father Kurtenbach gently forms the Sign of the Cross on Dad's forehead and prays briefly. Then he invites each of us to say goodbye. Observing my siblings one by one as they tearfully hug Dad, I stand at the end of the gurney and grab Dad's gnarled hammer toes through his gym socks. Surely, he will wake up, I think confusedly. But when it's my turn to say goodbye, I feel the lifelessness beneath his cool skin.

Dick Brown - a giant of a man.

"Goodbye Dad," I weep, just like my siblings. I hug him with all my might, the way I used to when I was little - before Dad felt awkward about hugging our adolescent bodies. It feels good, too, and I sense that Dad knows- knows that all of us cling to him one last time.

Dad's a giant of a man. We gaze now upon his lifeless form and cannot fathom he's truly gone. He looks, for all of his loving familiarity and dearness, like a fallen warrior. Nothing will ever be the same without his bigger than life presence.

When I was five-years-old, I still remember the way Dad lifted Joe, Mick and me to the low hanging roof over our backyard patio. He was so tall, it was an easy reach.

"Jump!" he grinned with his arms thrust upward.

I recall the sheer joy of leaping into space, completely confident my good father would catch me.

Although growing up with Dad was sometimes complicated, in the end Dad wanted his kids and grandkids only to know they were loved - that we could count on him.

And we always could.

For all the rest of his life, whenever we stumbled, Dad was there to catch us.