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.
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.
"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.
"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.
|
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.
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