Mr. Howard

I'm 6 feet 1 inch tall.

And a girl.

Because I'm taller than almost everyone, the playing field for boyfriends is narrowed considerably. Dad leads me to believe otherwise as he sits down with me on the eve of my departure to Kearney State College.

I am a good Catholic girl, he reminds me. I am never ever to forget it, he warns sternly.

"College boys are crazy to have sex," he finally says with difficulty as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. Horrified, I wish to be anywhere but in this stifling living room with my red-faced father who can't leave his collar alone.

"Remember who you are and where you come from," he finishes abruptly.

We share an awkward hug.

"Take care of yourself," Dad mutters in a choked voice that is distinctly emotional.

Bless my good dad. As soon as I arrive at Kearney State that fall of 1973, I am carefully alert for boys who will be wanting sex with me. Not a single salivating male seems remotely interested in carnal desires of the flesh. I am vastly relieved and slightly disappointed.

Jamie

My only serious boyfriend in college is a sophomore who embraces his religion with deep fervor and bears an uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. He wears a huge wooden cross on a chain around his neck and pauses to pray at inconvenient moments - like at cook outs or drive-in movie theaters. Ten minutes into Young Frankenstein, he bows reverently to thank the Almighty for Junior Mints.

Boyfriends are few and far between over the years. Suddenly, I am 28-years-old. My younger brother Rick marries his beautiful Jan the year after my little sister Deb and Brian tie the knot. Brother Mick and his wife already have two children - Jamie and Bobby - our very first adorable niece and nephew. Joe has a steady girlfriend, and even Dad has an active dating life. I feel exactly like a middle-aged mother whose children have left the nest.

My little brother Rick and his gorgeous wife
Jan, 1983.

Bobby

The summer before I begin teaching my sixth year at Central Catholic High School, principal Hugh Brandon calls me into his office.

"Would you look at this?" He flips through an application on his desk and feigns surprise. "Here's a young fellow called John Howard who's applied for the history job. Let's see," Hugh studies the application carefully. "He's 29-years-old, single, and, oh!" He looks up innocently. "He's 6 feet 8." His eyes twinkle. "Should I hire him?"

Hugh and his wife Fran are two of the best friends I have in this world. He's messing with me, pure and simple.

"I don't care if he's a serial killer," I say. "Hire him."

Fortunately, Mr. Howard is not a serial killer. He is, however, a little insane.

He drives up the circle drive at Central Catholic the first day of school in a tiny blue Volkswagen Rabbit which appears to have been constructed by engineers around his body. One long arm hangs lazily out the tiny window with knuckles that nearly graze the street.

Mr. Howard is an immediate school sensation, and not only because of his remarkable stature. He teaches the Industrial Revolution wearing a giant fake nose and glasses. He pulls rubber chickens out of his desk. And one morning, late for class, he tries to scare his students by leaping explosively through the door. But when you're 6 feet 8, you shouldn't leap explosively through anything. Slamming his head against the door jamb, he nearly knocks himself out.

We observe each other shyly those first few months, but my little sister Terri, a student in Mr. Howard's history class, decides to propel things along.

"You should ask my sister out," she tells him point blank. "You're both tall, you like to read, and your hair's the same color." She shrugs. "What else do you need?"

Four nights before Christmas, Nebraska endures one of the worst blizzards of the decade. School's been canceled for the following day, and I sit in my small living room wrapped in an old comforter listening to the wind howl. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I'm astonished to see Mr. Howard towering over my front door.

"What are you doing?" I gasp and pull him inside.

He stamps the snow off his feet. "Thought you might like to see a movie," he suggests casually.

I gape at the blowing snow. "You're kidding, right?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

Against my better judgment, I slide into my coat and gloves, and the two of us, hunched low against the wind, fight our way to his little Volkswagen.

"I don't know," I hesitate. "Are you sure you can drive in this?" From inside the car, I peer out at the fading visibility.

"I can drive in anything," he says with a cocksure attitude as he backs out the driveway and promptly slides into the huge Buick parked across the street. The Buick is unharmed, fortunately, but Mr. Howard's car sports a deep half-moon dent.

We inch along to the theater to see Terms of Endearment, and, I'm ashamed to say, talk and laugh through the whole thing - even the death scene. But it doesn't matter since we're the only two people in attendance. Afterwards, we crawl along in his little car to a nearly empty bar and grill.  Barely in the act of shedding our heavy coats and gloves, Mr. Howard leaps up.

"We have to go," he says. "I don't have any money."

"I have money," I protest.

But he won't hear of it. So out into the blizzard we go - this time to find a nearby ATM. ATM's, however, are relatively new, and I ask him if he's ever used one.

He stares at me in mock horror. "The audacity! I use 'em all the time!"

Mr. Howard and me - 1984, a few months before our wedding.

Apparently, he's never used this particular ATM. Sitting in the car, I watch him fight his way through the snow into the enclosed cubicle of the bank to do battle with the ATM. His card is returned not once, but three times, and he scratches his head in obvious bewilderment.

I laugh, and in a moment of crystal clear awareness, it hits me. One day I will marry that sweet, crazy man who now fumbles with the mysterious automated teller machine.

And I do - not quite a year later. Every kid in the school is invited.

Once, not too long ago, my grandmother tells me just before she dies that I will meet and marry somebody exactly like John Boy Walton. I hate John Boy Walton. Thankfully, Mr. Howard is not remotely like John Boy Walton.

But I love Mr. Howard. With all my heart, as a matter of fact. Even if I do call him John Boy.

And I know Grandma would love him, too.

Grandma

When Grandma opens her front door to greet us, I'm shocked.

Always tall and substantial, my 74-year-old widowed grandmother is suddenly rake thin and diminished before my eyes. I embrace her, feel her frail bones, and swallow a stab of fear.

She grabs my little brothers Tom and Jeff together into a bear hug, and that's when I notice the earrings.

"Oh my lord," I breathe. "Did you pierce your ears?" I can hardly take it in.

Grandma with our baby brother Jeff, 1971

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and she poses left and right to display the emerald colored rocks in her ear lobes.

"Why not?" she smiles at my astonished face. "Life is short."

This cheers me. It's been a long time since my adored grandmother exhibits interest in much of anything besides us. And Tom Schneider. She's so crazy about the late night television host that she removes his face from the cover of an old TV Guide and tapes it to the mirror of her bedroom vanity. In the three years since our mother's death, Grandma declines dramatically and never fully recovers from the loss of her only child.

"How are you feeling?" I search her face.

"Fine! Fine!" she lies. Two weeks ago my little sister Deb - just shy of her 21st birthday - marries Brian Durning, the sweet love of her life. Grandma, too ill with heart trouble to make the long trip from Beatrice, is unable to attend the wedding. I promise to load Tom and Jeff into my little Pacer and bring lots of pictures from the big day. She desperately wants to know all about Deb's wedding.

Deb and Brian

"But first," she beams at my little brothers, "let's have some macaroni and cheese."

We love Grandma's homemade mac and cheese - almost as much as the little silver dollar pancakes she makes when she comes to visit. Being with her is like the best sort of holiday.

"Eat your peas, Jeff," I nag my youngest brother during lunch. He pushes them back and forth on his plate, pouting, until Grandma pulls him to her and whispers in his ear. Jeff flashes a look of relief then sticks his tongue out at me.

"C'mon, Tom!" The two of them scrape their chairs away from the table and fall out the door. Grandma chuckles, and I rise to clear the table.

"Sit," she pulls me back. "Tell me everything. How'd it go?"

She doesn't mean the wedding. She means Dad. He's dating a woman. The revelation is a bolt from the blue, but I seem to have more trouble digesting the news than the rest of my younger siblings.

I drop back in my chair. "They're in love," I roll my eyes.

Grandma shakes her head. "You had to expect this. Your dad's a young man."

I instantly bristle. Dena, Dad's girlfriend, is everything I despise. She's a name dropper for one thing.

"Did I tell you I had lunch with the mayor?" Dena casually mentions in a conversation that has nothing to do with lunch or the mayor.

She owns a brand new Cadillac, for another thing. Not that I have anything against Cadillacs. But Dena hires someone to engrave her initials in gold on the driver's side door.

"Now why would you hate her for that?" my grandmother chides me.

I stare down at my lap and feel the hot sting of tears. The problem with Dena is not that she's a divorced, working mother of two filled with her own self importance. Under any other circumstances - if I'm completely honest - I wouldn't mind her all that much. The problem is that Dad loves her and seems to have forgotten Mom. For the first time in my life, I'm angry with my father. We can barely sit together in the same room. And I'm so jealous of Dena for presuming that she can dare to take my mother's place that I don't bother to hide my contempt. Never in my life have I behaved so terribly. I am ashamed and angry and miserable all at once.

Grandma sighs. "I saw Patti," she says out of the blue. I am shocked out of my misery.

Grandma, Mom (Patti), and Grandpa holding me, 1955

"Grandma," I croak. "You saw Mom?"

She nods. "You'll think I'm a crazy, old woman. Maybe grief does that to people."

I grab her hand. "You're not crazy."

She motions to her recliner. "I was sitting right over there a few weeks ago. The windows were open, and the birds were singing."

Instantly emotional, she fumbles for the perennial kleenex under her watch band. "I thought to myself, how can those damn birds sing when my Patti's gone?"

She smiles through her tears. "Then I saw her."

A column of light, she says, descends from the ceiling in front of her chair. My mother steps from behind it. "Oh, she was beautiful and glowing," Grandma breathes. "Her hair was lighter and swept over to one side, and she wore a beige colored gown with a rope belt around her waist. She smiled and reached out to me!"

I'm gripping my grandmother's hand too hard. "Did she say anything?"

"No. She stepped behind the column, and it all went back up through the ceiling."

We stare at each other in wordless wonder.

"Your mother wants us to go on with our lives," Grandma mops her eyes. "Don't you see? That's what your dad's trying to do."

I don't want to talk about Dad, but Grandma cups my face in both her hands. She makes me look at her. "He's taking the next step. Dearie!" She uses the old-fashioned endearment. "Let him be happy."

I sob like a little girl, and Grandma pulls me over until our foreheads touch. "It's time for you to take the next step."

We're locked together, connected at the head like conjoined twins. Grandma's gaze is close and penetrating, and I miss Mom very much.

"It's time," Grandma says, stroking my hair. "It's time to find your John Boy Walton."

I sputter and bolt up. "Grandma! Are you kidding? John Boy Walton!" I snort.

"Yes, John Boy!" Grandma shoots back. "He's perfect. John Boy adores books - you adore books. You're both devoted to your families. And he's a good boy!" She nods her head indignantly.

I laugh even as I cry. "Grandma," I shudder, "John Boy Walton just doesn't do it. I'm really sorry."

Debbie on her wedding day

She laughs, too - her low, throaty chuckle that I love.

There is no more talk about big next steps, John Boy Walton or celestial visions. Instead, I pull out envelopes of photos - photos of Deb and Brian's wedding, the rehearsal dinner, Dad's tuxedo that's too short in the sleeves, and Uncle Carl furiously decorating the church. Grandma pores over them in fascination. Pretty soon, my little brothers wander in to sit beside her to describe to my grandmother every little detail she craves.

"All that greenery we collected at the river? You see it?" Tommy points out Uncle Carl's foliage surrounding the altar. "Turns out it was marijuana, and we didn't even know it!"

Grandma belts out her big, low laugh. A few moments later, though, she weeps. "If only I could have been there. If only Patti could have!"

Debbie and Dad

She keeps one or two photos to hang on the vanity mirror next to Tom Schneider and gazes at them lovingly. "Isn't Debbie the most beautiful bride?" she shakes her head.

Later that evening, I tuck Grandma into my little car with the boys and treat her to dinner at her favorite steakhouse - actually the only steakhouse - in Beatrice. When we return home, Grandma is gaunt and exhausted. She sits on the side of her bed for a long time gazing at Deb's wedding photos on her vanity, and I help Tom and Jeff spread sleeping bags on the living room floor. Before I retire to the living room couch to sleep myself, I poke my head in Grandma's room to say goodnight.

She pats the bed next to her, and I sit. "I want to tell you," she says softly, "that you've been a wonderful granddaughter."

I feel that strange stab of fear again. "Grandma," I say uncomfortably.

"It's true," she says. "I want you to know."

I hug her tightly and plant a kiss on her cheek. "Goodnight, Grandma."

In the middle of the night, I am awakened. Grandma hovers over my little brothers in the dark and covers Jeff with a light blanket.

"Are you okay?" I am instantly alert.

"I'm fine," she shushes me. "Everything's fine."

I wake up again. This time Grandma leans over me.

"Grandma!" I sit up.

"Just checking on everybody," she whispers. "I'm off to bed now."

We all sleep late the next morning - even Grandma. Usually up before seven, she hasn't stirred.  It's nearly nine now. When I step in to check on her, she's sleeping peacefully on her side with her cheek resting on her hands. And she's smiling.

"Grandma's having a great dream," I whisper to the boys. "We'll let her sleep a while."

But as I shower, it's my sweet little brother Tommy who makes the terrible discovery.

Grandma is gone.

In the frenetic days ahead during preparations and the funeral itself, I never do cry for my grandmother. Not even afterwards as she rests safely forever beside my grandfather. Not even when her little house sits empty and soulless. All she ever wants, I know with certainty, is to be with Mom and Grandpa. How can I wish her back?

Grandma's taken the next big step, and I'm happy for her.

Now she's counting on me to do the same.

Bachelor Pad

Dad,Tom and Jeff exist solely on a diet of Hungry Man TV dinners.

When my little sisters leave home, any semblance of order at the old house leaves with them. Dad remains meticulous about his laundry and continues to prepare scrambled eggs and sausage every Sunday morning after Mass, just as he has every Sunday of our lives. But if it's not Sunday, Dad's too tired to cook, too tired to clean, and certainly too tired to ride herd on our two youngest brothers.

Tom and Jeff

My sisters and I worry incessantly about this state of affairs. Especially about the rodents. Mice, which always pose a problem because of the field across the street, now run rampant and even pause in the middle of the kitchen to ponder whether mashed potatoes or salisbury steak sounds more appealing. The remnants of stacked Hungry Man TV containers line the counter tops like a buffet line for rodents. Dad sets traps in every corner of the house.

One weekend, Mary and Terri come home from college and invite a few old high school friends over. In the middle of their laughter and chatter, Jeff strolls through the living room in front of the visitors delicately holding at arm's length a trap with a dead mouse locked in its hinge.

"Fourth one today!" he crows.

Mary and Terri wish only to die never to be recuscitated.

Something has to be done. If Dad and the boys refuse to clean the house, clearly my sisters and I will have to do it for them. In other words, we will be guilty of enabling terribly bad behavior. But what choice do we have? Mary points out that Dad's nearly 60, and the boys don't care. It would hardly be worth it to discover mice gnawing on their three dead carcasses one nightmarish day in the distant future.

And that's how the institution of Friday Night Pizza begins. Every Friday night, the entire family troops over to Dad's house to clean. The boys vacuum, Terri and Carry dust, Deb and Mary tackle the kitchen, and I clean the bathrooms. I can hardly believe Dad's talent for stuffing seven days of newspapers and an occasional Reader's Digest into one small bathroom waste basket.

Fortunately, if we all work together, it only takes an hour to clean the old house. Then Dad springs for pizza and drinks for everybody. Friday night pizza is a tradition that continues for many years and is destined to become our favorite night of the week.

Truthfully, my sisters and I would like nothing more than to overhaul the entire bachelor pad. Short of moving back in, however, we don't have much influence over the day to day lives of Dad and our little brothers. The most exasperating issue, Dad confides, is persuading Jeff to get out of bed for school.

"Jeff!" Dad hollers every morning, "For the last time, get up!"

Jeff's always been notorious for sleeping past the alarm. My sisters have sometimes dragged him out of bed and shoved him, half asleep, into the bathroom. For the first time in his life, however, Jeff is reveling in the freedom of a household devoid of females. 

"Yes, Mother Dearest," he whines sarcastically whenever Terri or Carry nags him to pick up his room or take out the garbage. But those days are now behind him. Jeff regards himself as a 14-year-old free agent, and fortunately for him, Dad makes few demands on his time. Except in the mornings.

"Jeff!" By now Dad's lost all patience. Every school day, it's the same scenario. Seething with fury, Dad will eventually be forced to lay on the horn as he and Tom wait in the running car in the driveway. It's the sound of the horn that at last rouses Jeff. He falls out of the house in various stages of undress always clutching his shoes.

On this particular morning, Dad's had enough. After five minutes of blaring the horn, a sure sign Jeff's unable to locate his shoes, Dad pulls out of the driveway.

"That's it!" he hisses. Just as he accelerates down Capital Avenue, Jeff appears half naked running toward the car. Dad drives on. Tom can hardly bear the sight of Jeff frantically sprinting after them in the middle of the street. Jeff must foot the three miles to school and doesn't arrive until 10 o'clock. After that terrible morning, however, he's much better about rising with the alarm.

Except for the drama-filled mornings, life is pretty much a breeze. Dad and my brothers toss their Hungry Man dinners into the oven and flop in front of the TV every evening. They bond over The Cosby Show, Miami Vice and even an episode or two of Dynasty.

On Sunday afternoons, Dad's only day off from the travel agency, the three of them while away the hours mesmerized by televised golf tournaments. One such afternoon, Tom - who's grown suddenly tall and feels the heady confidence of his 16 years - issues a casual challenge.

"I'm pretty sure," he muses almost to himself, "that I could drive a golf ball farther than you, Dad."

The words are barely out of his mouth before he realizes his mistake. It would never occur to any of us - indeed, it would be unthinkable - to bait our proud, zealously competitive father. Tom and Dad, however, are more than father and son. Over the last several tumultuous years, they've become relaxed friends and boon companions. Even Tom, though, hasn't thought this one through.

Ten minutes later he finds himself with Dad and Jeff at George Park a few blocks away.

"I'll out-drive you by 50 yards, Mr. Cocky," Dad throws Tom a club. "You first."

It doesn't matter if it's basketball, checkers or a card game. Dad always tries to mess with our heads. He'll do anything to win.

"Don't be nervous, Tom," Dad repeatedly clears his throat in a ruthless attempt to distract him. "I'll try not to humiliate you." Just as Tom starts his back swing, Dad breaks wind. It's a peculiar talent that never ceases to amaze us. Dan can pass gas like a thundering explosion at will - any time he chooses. He chooses now.

Tom, in a surge of teenage anger, does his best to ignore Dad and instead concentrates on Jeff who's acting as ball marker 250 yards away. Swinging with focused fervor, he blasts the golf ball. Straight as an a arrow, it arcs into the sky, sails over Jeff's head, and finally drops some 10 yards behind Jeff. Tom looks over at Dad flashing a smile of triumph.

Jeff and Dad having fun with the camera.

Decidedly feeling the pressure, Dad sets his jaw in determination and steps up to the ball. "You'd better back up another hundred yards, Jeff!" he bellows for Tom's sake.

Dad lines up, and after a moment of deliberate concentration, swings with everything he's got. The golf ball takes off and rises quickly in altitude. Tom looks on with a sinking heart. It lifts into a cloudless blue sky just like it does for the pros teeing off on television. Dad grins gleefully looking 30 years younger. In an instant, though, he's frowning. At the pinnacle of its ascent, the ball takes a sudden veer to the left in one of the worst hooks Tom's ever witnessed. Like a rocket, it changes course and swerves directly to a cluster of neighborhood homes. Homes with lots and lots of windows.

Dad wastes no time.  "Grab the clubs and get in the car," he orders. He shouts to Jeff to hurry back, and without a backward glance, the three of them hustle into the car and beat it out of the park.

It's only as they're nearing home that Dad dares to glance sheepishly at my brothers. Like guilty school boys, the three of them burst into laughter.

"Technically," Tom suggests as they pull into the driveway on Capital Avenue, "I guess you could say I did win the contest."

The laughter and good natured ribbing ends abruptly. Dad gazes back at Tom with steely blue eyes. "Maybe," Dad acknowledges. "If I'd had a good club, though, we both know I would have murdered you."

The moment is over, and Tom sighs.

Our father is back.

Family Business

Dad frets over the young saplings dotting the sidewalks of downtown Grand Island. From his office on the bottom floor of the Yancey Hotel on Second Street, he examines and waters them frequently. As one of the members of the new Downtown Improvement Committee who acquires the trees, he feels responsible when they droop in Nebraska's harsh mid-summer heat.

Carry and Dad

Dad loves his baby trees, loves downtown, and loves owning his own business - First Holiday Tour and Travel. Sometimes driving by the corner of Second and South Locust, I catch the stoplight and stare through the long windows of the Yancey willing Dad and my sisters to glance up and wave. Dad likes having his kids around so much he persuades some of us to work for him. Joe, Mick, Rick, Deb and Mary all will be employed at the travel agency at one time or another. I love watching Dad and my brothers and sisters manage the family business together. The rest of us pop in from time to time to help answer phones or fetch the mail from the post office.

By the end of the 80's, we've all left home except for Tommy and Jeff who are still in high school. Dad's feeling bereft without a house full of kids. The travel agency is his way of keeping us close. After we reach adolescence, Dad suddenly becomes awkward and finds it difficult to be physically affectionate. Mom could hug the stuffing out of us, but Dad blushes and doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. Debbie realizes this and loves to embarrass him. After work at the travel agency, she and Dad make their way to the parking garage strolling down South Locust in the rosy twilight. Then Debbie ever so casually reaches out to grab Dad's hand and swing it a little. Sometimes she puts an arm around him or snuggles her head against his shoulder.

"Stop that!" Hugely embarrassed, Dad shakes her off, but Deb only laughs. The very next evening, she does it again. The younger kids tease Dad in a way that we older kids never would have. Dad was a different father with us - loving but stern, disciplined, exacting.

"You need to get after these kids!" I scold Dad one day when my younger siblings are all still at home. "Why don't you discipline them like you did us?"

He shrugs. "It didn't do you any good," he sighs wearily, as if Joe, Mick, Rick and I turned out to be serial ax murderers.

At the travel agency, Dad and my siblings talk and joke and grow very close. Sometimes the atmosphere is more relaxed than it should be. Mick, ever the practical joker, takes full advantage of the casual freedom that comes with a family business.

One morning, Mary arrives at the travel agency to discover the door ajar.

"Mick?" she calls. The office is dark, and Mary wonders if she neglected to lock up the night before. She steps into the office and gasps. The safe is wide open, cash is strewn all over the floor, and then she sees my brother's hand outstretched on the floor behind the counter. Paralyzed with fear, Mary can only gape at the terrible scene.

The hand moves, and Mick laughs. He rises from behind the counter and leans over it laughing helplessly at Mary's terrified expression.

Mary and Jeff

"Mick!" she screams. "How could you? That's the worst thing you've ever done to me!"

Furious and trembling, she collapses into a chair. "I thought you were dead!" she moans and buries her face in her hands.

Abruptly, she sits up. "Hey, I know," she grins. "Let's do it to Deb."

Deb's reaction is just as gratifying, and Mick and Mary howl with laughter. Wisely, they refrain from pulling the joke on Dad and clean up the office before he arrives.

Dad, though he loves office banter with his kids, is the consummate professional. Every day he arrives at the office in one of his immaculate suits, specifically purchased for his bigger-than-life frame, and a starched shirt he's carefully ironed himself the Sunday before. At precisely 7:30 he switches KRGI radio to Paul Harvey's morning broadcast, arranges his desk, and fires up the computer. First Holiday Tour and Travel is open for business.

During slow times in the office, however, even Dad relaxes. One afternoon he takes the opportunity to slip out the hall door to use the restroom.  In his absence, a customer arrives, and Mary waits on her at the long counter in the front. Dad has no idea Mary is helping a client when he steps back into the office and issues forth an endless, deafening belch so loud it fills every corner of the office. Dad, impressed with the result, chuckles in appreciation until an agonized Mary politely draws his attention to the appalled woman behind the counter.

"I'm so very sorry," Dad reddens deeply, ducks his head, and hurries to his desk.

Poor Mary is the victim of most practical jokes in the office. Since the time she was little, my brothers have relentlessly targeted her trusting, innocent nature.

"Mary," Joe calls across the office, "you're supposed to return a call to Myra at Livingston Sondermann."

Livingston Sondermann is a local Grand Island funeral home, and Joe repeats the number to Mary.

"What's her last name?" Mary checks with Joe as the phone rings.

Clowning, Rick tries on his new Christmas sweater.

"Mains," Joe says.

Mary falls for it hook, line and sinker. "This is Mary from First Holiday," she says in her most business-like voice. "May I speak to Myra Mains?"

She hears it as soon as she says it and immediately bangs down the receiver to glare at Joe who is enjoying his joke immensely.

"Did you actually ask for My Remains?" he pretends to be shocked.

"I hate you," she snarls. But in the end, she always laughs. Nobody takes a joke better than Mary.

The travel agency becomes a family gathering spot of sorts. If we have an itch to see each other on the spur of the moment, we simply jump in the car and head over to the office. There's always a cup of coffee, Dad's face lights up with his big grin, Deb and Mary fill us in on the gossip, and Mick entertains us.

In the party room a floor above the office, we celebrate family birthdays. Rick never ceases to surprise me at these gatherings. Even more sentimental than my sisters and I, he reaches across Dad's awkward hug barrier and grabs our big father before he departs.

"I love you, Dad!" he says almost jokingly. But he means it. A very young man, Rick experiences deep regret that he never told Mom what she meant to him. He refuses to make the same mistake with Dad.

Rick's hugs embarrass Dad, of course, but he seems to like it. It gives us all a little courage to reach out and pat our huge father on the shoulder or land a quick peck on his cheek. I long to throw my arms around him to lock him in a proper embrace, but that would be altogether too much for Dad's sense of propriety.

The travel agency office on the bottom floor of the historic, stately Yancey Hotel becomes an unlikely second home to all of us. In the years after Mom's death, it's almost a symbol of new starts. Life goes on, and we are managing together. Who would ever have thought all those years ago when Dad and Mom crammed us into the old brown station wagon dragging us from Denver to Grand Island that the corner of Second and Locust Streets would become so dear?

It was a long time ago. Today I am past 60 but have gone out of my way to drive by the long empty old travel agency and stop at that same corner with nostalgic yearning. I miss seeing Dad through the long windows of the Yancey. But he'd be happy about his tiny saplings. They're fine, respectable shade trees now nourished by the good Nebraska soil.

Mom and Dad are part of that good Nebraska earth, too, and the ten children they brought to Grand Island 45 years ago have grown and flourished like the trees.

If I look hard through the long windows of the now vacant office, I can see my sisters tending the phones and Mick laughing with a customer. Dad stretches his long legs and folds his arms behind his big, impressive head. With deep satisfaction, he surveys his little kingdom.

The stoplight is green. I sigh deeply and drive on. It was all a life time ago.

But it seems as close as yesterday.

Tool Man

The way Dad snores - like a gasping, shuddering chain saw - could wake the dead.

Because he's lonely for our mother sleeping beside him, Dad purchases a small television set for his bedroom to keep him company. Every night he turns up Johnny Carson to an ear splitting decible, guffaws for ten minutes, then promptly falls asleep. So it begins - a dueling cacophony between Carson's banter and Dad's snoring.

"I can't stand it any more!" Terri stomps into Dad's room, violently switches the t.v. off, and curses all the way back to bed.

Terri

None of my younger brothers and sisters can sleep through the racket. It's Carry who comes up with the idea of the "Clapper", a sound activated marvel. The little kids pool their money together and present it to Dad for his birthday.

"Before you fall asleep," Carry explains to our father, "remember to clap. The t.v.'ll go right off!" A remote would be just as easy and far cheaper, but Dad misplaces it the day after he purchases the television.

He's skeptical of the Clapper but agrees to give it a try. It turns out to be a waste of money. As soon as Dad snores, the t.v. surges to life again. Another snore, and it shuts off. And so it goes. On and off, on and off all night long. Terri stomps into his room, rips the device out of the wall, and stuffs it in the trash.

So much for the "Clapper".

It's not only the little kids' sleep life that disintegrates. The old order ceases to exist, and a new one is born. Without Mom's careful watch, things begin to slip on Capital Avenue.

My brothers and sisters divvy up the chores, but a spotless house is hardly a priority. One night, long after they're in bed asleep, Dad charges into their bedrooms, wakes them all up, and herds them into the hallway bathroom.

Scooping up one of several damp towels from the bathroom floor, he illustrates in exaggerated motions the proper way to fold it over the towel rack.

"VOILA!" he barks, gesturing toward the rack as if my siblings are mentally deficient.

The next Sunday after Mass, with everybody in the station wagon, Dad drives to a dilapidated old house some blocks away. A rusty refrigerator leans against the front porch and beside it an ancient, moth-eaten sofa. Dad pulls straight into the strange driveway as if he owns the place. Lounging on the dusty old sofa in the warm sunshine are the true owners of the hovel who glance with lazy curiosity at the vehicle idling in their driveway.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Mary gasps. My little brothers and sisters duck hurriedly beneath the car windows, horrified by Dad's audacity.

"Take a good look, kids," Dad ignores their dismay. "It starts with a few damp towels, and it ends like this. Brick by brick."

Dad talks a good game. All the years we grow up he chants his daily mantra - "Look around, see what needs to be done, and do it." But Dad's never lived up to his own credo. When the coffee table breaks, the cabinet doors come unhinged, or the doorknobs fall off, Dad seethes. He doesn't, however, put anything back together again. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he's overwhelmed. But the house really is falling apart brick by brick.

Jeff and Joe

When the channel turner from the television disappears, we fit the prongs of a fork across the stem and spin the handle of the fork. And since it's too much trouble to run constantly from the t.v. room to the kitchen, the fork becomes a permanent fixture on the t.v.

The entire t.v. room, in fact, is a death trap.The four legs of the coffee table have been broken for two years since Mom died. It never occurs to Dad to grab a hammer and reattach them. Instead, he instructs the little kids to prop the table up on four broken legs and never use it again. It's a battered, scratched old table, so it's not as if Dad's saving it for its aesthetic value. Not one of us ever questions why we balance that coffee table on four broken legs only to carefully skirt around it. We're used to it. It's the Dick Brown way.

Once, when Grandma comes to visit, she carefully reaches over to set her glass of iced tea on the old coffee table.

"DON'T TOUCH THE TABLE!" we all scream in unison.

Poor Grandma, badly shocked, jerks violently and accidentally kicks the table, whereupon the whole thing collapses anyway.

Then there's the door to the t.v. room itself. The latch is broken, and if you close the door from inside the room, you're locked in.

"Hurry up, Kids!" Dad calls for us from every part of the house. "It's World Premier Night!" I never understand what a World Premier is, but when one appears on television, Dad likes to be surrounded by all ten of us. Huddled together and staring with glazed eyes at the television set is what constitutes for us quality family bonding time. Inevitably, though, somebody accidentally knocks the door shut, and we're all trapped in the t.v. room.

"Dammit!" Dad swears. "Why can't you kids leave that door alone?"

Terri, Tommy and Jeff

The only way out is to remove the screen from the window, lower one of the little kids outside, and wait for him to run around the house to unlock the t.v. room door, which fortunately can be opened from the other side.

One summer evening, somebody shuts the t.v. room door, but all the outside doors are locked. We're not only locked in the t.v. room but out of our house. Resigned, we sing "I Had a Dream, Dear", Dad's old favorite, and practice in four part harmony until Rick comes home with his keys to free us.

Mary's boyfriend Kenny can't get over the t.v. room door.  "You realize you can get a new door knob, don't you?" he asks in bewilderment.

"Oh no," Mary's shocked. "Dad says that doorknob can never be fixed. It's the only one of its kind."

Kenny shakes his head.

The kitchen is almost as bad as the t.v. room. Almost every cabinet door has fallen off its hinges. But Dad never troubles himself to buy new hinges. Fitting the doors carefully back into their cabinet slots, he warns, "Be careful when you open those, Kids."

It's bad if you forget the kitchen cabinet over the sink. But after it falls on your head three or four times, you remember. Eventually, we become practiced at removing a cabinet door with one hand and grabbing a drinking glass with the other.

One day, after the little kids grow up and leave home, Dad will decide to move from the house on Capital Avenue. But by God, he hates to see the old homestead belong to anybody but a member of the family. When Dad convinces Mary's nice boyfriend Kenny, now her husband Kenny, to buy the house on Capital Avenue, we're all relieved. Everybody, that is, except Mary.

She can hardly believe Kenny wants anything to do with our old wreck of a home. Unlike Dad, however, Kenny is handy. He fixes the hinges on all the kitchen cabinets and even, to Mary's astonishment, replaces the doorknob on the t.v. room door. But Mary will not agree to sign a contract until Dad calls a plumber for the toilet.

"There's nothing wrong with that toilet!" Dad is indignant.

"Dad,", Mary sighs, "it never stops running."

He sputters. "It's a little temperamental, that's all!"

He explains in careful detail that Mary needs only to hold the handle down after she flushes, count to ten, and jiggle it three times.  "Wait until the tank fills halfway. If that doesn't work, reach into the tank, grab the chain, and yank. You could just take the lid off the tank and leave it open," Dad rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Might make it easier in the long run."

Mary rolls her eyes and stalks out of the room.

But the rest of us are glad that Ken and Mary will live there. Our memories of Mom are all wrapped up in the old house on Capital Avenue. We'll bring our own children there, barbecue in the big back yard, and celebrate family birthdays.

And nobody will get locked in the t.v. room or have to crawl out the window ever again.

Omaha

Tommy, my ten-year-old brother, has a girlfriend.

He's far too young, of course, and I would heartily disapprove of such a thing except the rest of my siblings neglect to tell me. In fact, I'm in the dark about quite a lot now that my younger brothers and sisters have all moved to Omaha. Dad, working ten hours a day at the dairy, is oblivious as well and only relieved that Tommy's made a friend. What Dad doesn't know, my younger sisters figure, can't hurt him. And anyway, Tommy's girlfriend Stacy is hardly a real girlfriend. More than anything, my sisters agree, she's a little girl who enjoys her power.

Carry and Deb

"Somebody needs to boss Tommy around," Carry shrugs.

Stacy is the tall, beautiful daughter of the African American couple down the street. Growing up in Grand Island, my siblings have never been acquainted with anyone who's African American. In the new Omaha neighborhood, however, their friends include not only Stacy but also several kids who are Jewish, one girl who is disabled and held upright with a sturdy back brace, and a pleasant 12-year-old boy named Jeff who wears makeup and loves fashion trends. Our huge Catholic family - the kids without a mother - only serve to add a little more diversity to the already eclectic neighborhood.

Jeff and Carry hit it off right away, and soon Carry, nearly 12, confides all her secrets - mostly because she thinks her new friend is a girl.

"His name is Jeff," my sister Terri breaks the news. "You DO know he's a boy, right?"

Shocked to the core, Carry takes time to digest this information. Soon, though, she resumes her friendship with Jeff taking particular care to call him by his correct name and listening closely to his instructions for applying a tricky eye liner. He becomes her best friend in the new neighborhood.

Meanwhile, my shy and innocent little brother Tommy meets Stacy at school. Loud and exuberant, Stacy dominates St. Robert's fifth grade class and, recognizing Tommy from the neighborhood, immediately claims him as her own.

"This year," she looks him up and down appraisingly, "you're gonna be my man."

Tommy blinks. He is both fascinated and afraid of this beautiful girl.

"Okay," he agrees uncertainly.

Stacy invites herself to dinner to see if she approves of her new man's family. Taking charge of the table conversation, she orders Tommy around and offers her blunt critique of the spaghetti dinner. She pauses, however, in mid diatribe to stare at Terri who's relishing with particular fervor the large helping of spaghetti in her mouth.

"Damn!" Stacy crows. "Look at those jaws move!"

Even Dad is a little frightened. "Who is this girl?" he whispers to Mary behind his hand.

Tommy, however, gazes adoringly at his beautiful new girlfriend and believes himself to be the luckiest boy in the world. But in the coming weeks, Stacy's orchestration of his every move wears thin. One night at the skating rink, he politely informs Stacy that he wants to break up.

"Break up!" She shrieks the words over the laughter and chatter of other skaters and lets loose with a string of expletives. Tommy's face burns with embarrassment. "You're my man," she pokes a finger painfully into his chest, "for as long as I say you're my man."

She skates off in a huff.

The truth is, Tommy has too many worries to juggle a bossy girlfriend. The move to Omaha has been traumatic for him and all my siblings.

Debbie, who's only just graduated from high school, accompanies the family to Omaha to help out. Dad purchases a much used Chevy Nova which Debbie uses to deliver Mary, Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff to school. Deb has never driven in Omaha, and the harrowing morning traffic intimidates her. She and Mary, however, attempt a dry run the day before school starts until Deb feels confident.

The next morning after Dad leaves for work and wishes all my brothers and sisters good luck, Deb herds everybody out to the Nova only to discover she's locked the keys in the house.

"Debbie!" my panic stricken sisters wail. In the end, it seems there's nothing to do but camp out on the front lawn all day until Dad returns home from work that evening.  But missing the first day at their new schools unnerves my siblings, especially Mary and Terri.

"Why did we have to move here?" Terri agonizes. Mom would have known what to do. They ache for her and Grand Island and their old schools and for all that is comfortingly familiar.

Terri's already taken great pains to study the St. Robert's catalog to make sure she's wearing the school uniform exactly the way every other girl wears it. At 13, she's particularly nervous about fitting in at her new school. But the next morning, after Dad decides to escort the little kids to their second first day of school himself, Terri bursts into tears. Wearing her knee length uniform skirt and long socks, she's horrified to discover every other girl in her new school boasts a mid-thigh skirt and bobby socks.

"Dad!" she bursts into tears. "I look all wrong!"

As far as Dad can see, Terri's dressed exactly the same as all the other hundreds of other little girls chatting self-consciously at their lockers. But Terri's desperation is heartbreaking.

"Hey, hey!" he grabs her close. "I promise - after school we'll go to Target and get it right!"

Terri has another major concern entering her eighth grade year. She's started her period. Mom isn't here any more, and she's desperate to tell Dad. But she doesn't know how.

"Dad," she hesitates before concluding at a gallop. "I guess I've become a woman!"

Terri, Tommy and Jeff

It takes a moment for Dad to understand. "Terri," he hugs her. Mom's always handled the girl stuff. "Congratulations," he awkwardly pats her back. "We'll get whatever you need for that at the store, too," he reddens.

The move to Omaha is a struggle for everybody. My sister Mary's sole passion is athletics. To discover she's too late to try out for the Marian volleyball team is a terrible blow. On top of that, she's gone from her intimate Grand Island Central Catholic class of 50 kids to 300 in this all girls' school without any outlet or activity to help her make friends.

Jeff, in the third grade, struggles more than anybody. Dad believes it's critical right now that Jeff be as close as possible to his brother and sisters at St. Robert's. Jeff, however, has always received help for his disability and misses his gifted special ed teachers back at Grand Island Public. He falls further and further behind, but he's hardly the only one. Tommy and Carry are baffled as well. The terrible combination of Mom's death, leaving their home, and starting at a brand new school is too much.

As their school work suffers, teachers send their failing papers home with them. Dad's required to look at their school work, sign his name, and send it back. My brothers and sisters, however, make sure Dad never sees anything. Carefully, they forge his signature on every paper. It'll be weeks before teachers figure it out and inform Dad with a phone call.

In the meantime, Carry gets into trouble in the school cafeteria when she inserts a drinking straw through the middle of a hot dog wiener from one end to the other. Then she pours milk through the straw.

"Look!" she giggles at her lunch table. "The wiener's peeing!" The kids laugh so raucously that the teacher is alerted and immediately yanks Carry to the office.

Dad's shocked to discover his kids are forging his name, and he grounds Carry for the cafeteria incident. One afternoon at the kitchen table he sighs heavily and drops his face into his hands. Dad's lost his wife, he's raising ten kids alone, and his business has transferred him to another city with the order to resurrect a sinking dairy. My sister Mary sits across from my exhausted father and realizes not only that he's enormously overwhelmed but that my little brothers and sisters are in trouble.

Dad snoozes after a long day at work.

Every night she prays and cries in her bed. "Dear God," she whispers earnestly in the dark, "you've got to get us back to Grand Island! Please help us, Mom."

Help comes, but not in the way Mary hopes.

One evening as Debbie and Mary prepare dinner, they hear Dad drive into the garage. Strangely, he doesn't stride through the door grinning and sniffing the good smells of food in the air like he usually does.

Puzzled, they glance through the window and are shocked to see our giant of a father sitting on the steps by the door, hands hanging between his knees, crying his eyes out. By this time, all my brothers and sisters are rooted at the window staring at Dad. Never in their lives have they seen him weep like this. Even when Mom died, he wept softly and silently. Now, unaware of all of them watching from the window, Dad's big, broad shoulders heave in great, helpless sobs.

Frightened, Deb, Mary, Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff turn away and wait for him to pull himself together. It would horrify him to know they've seen him like this.

After a long time, he finally enters the house composed and dignified.

"Hi Dad," they try to greet him naturally.

"Kids," he says wearily. "Sit down. I need to talk to you."

The dairy, he tells them at last, has been bought out by another company who's decided to clean house. He and all his employees can no longer work there. He's out of a job.

"Don't worry," he tries to reassure them. "We'll figure this out."

Mary's heart breaks for Dad, but my 16-year-old sister understands her prayers have been answered. There is no doubt in her mind they will all return to Grand Island.

And they do.

After weeks of job searching and terrible worry, Dad buys into a Grand Island travel agency - First Holiday Tour and Travel - which my brother Mick still owns and operates today. They all move back into the house on West Capital Avenue, and my brothers and sisters return to their old schools.

My brothers Joe, Mick and Rick, in college or working in Grand Island, are overjoyed to have our youngest siblings back. I'm overjoyed to teach my little sisters at Central Catholic again. Dad's overjoyed to manage his own business and to see his children thriving and happy again.

And Tommy's overjoyed to be turning 11-years-old as a free man. Had Dad not lost his job, Tommy knows with cold certainty, he might very well be picking out China patterns with the indomitable Stacy.

First Christmas

Grandma, like the rest of us, dreads Christmas this year. She's already lost my grandfather. To lose Mom, her one and only child, is nearly unbearable.

Last April, when the doctor tells us Mom has only 24 hours, I collect Grandma from Beatrice, the little town in which she's resided most of her life, and drive her to Grand Island to say goodbye to Mom. We say almost nothing during the three hour trip to the hospital. I worry it will all be too much for my tall, striking grandmother who's not only diabetic but suffers from an ailing heart.

At the hospital, Mom wakes briefly, sees Grandma, and smiles. "Hi, Mama!" she chirps like a ten-year-old before instantly falling back into unconsciousness.

Grandma stops still then staggers and grabs the rail of the hospital bed. Concentrating very hard on something just outside the window, she pleads without looking at me. "You have to take me home."

So we drive all the way back to Beatrice.

"Goodbye, Grandma," I sob when I drop her off at her house. We cling to each other. The next time I see her, Mom will be gone.

Backing out onto the street, I watch her climb the stairs of her porch. Every step is a monumental effort, and she appears all at once decades older than her 72 years.

But now it is Christmas.

Nothing about it resembles last year. Dad's been commuting to Omaha for his new job during Mom's illness. After her death, we clean up the house, put it up for sale, and Dad and my youngest brothers and sisters move to Omaha in August. Joe and Rick are finishing school at Kearney State, Mick remains behind in Grand Island to work, and I move into a small efficiency apartment in Grand Island to get ready for my second year of teaching at Central Catholic. It's the first time I've ever lived on my own, and I miss Dad and my siblings in the very worst way.

Christmas caroling. From left: Carry, Tommy, Mary, Jeff, Terri and Deb

It's the little kids, however, who really struggle to adjust to their new lives. Dad enrolls them in their new schools. Coping with all the bewildering changes without Mom and her tender assurances makes it enormously difficult.

Thankfully, we are all together under one roof for Christmas. The new house in Omaha is a big split level that boasts a deep carpeted pit in front of the fireplace with room for all of us to sit. I sail into Beatrice in my little Pacer to pick up Grandma, and we arrive in Omaha two days before Christmas just shortly before my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick do.

"Your dad needs a wonderful gift," Grandma thinks aloud the next day after Dad departs for work. "It's Christmas Eve, and that poor man's been through the ringer."

The stress of losing his wife, becoming a single parent to ten children, and trying to save the dairy in Omaha has taken its toll on Dad. To top it all off, he's fighting off a bug which instantly alarms us.

"I'm fine!" he assures us before he leaves for work. "Stop worrying!"

Fiercely protective of our overworked father, we observe him closely. Deb and Mary fear he doesn't get enough rest. That's when we decide to pool our money together to buy him a waterbed for Christmas. Dad's always wanted one, and a local store in Omaha advertises a Christmas special - waterbeds for 199 dollars. Together, we come up with nearly 150, and Grandma offers to chip in the rest.

With no time to waste, we pile into my Pacer and hurry to the store.

"Sorry," the man at the store shakes his head. "That price is for a queen size only. The king is a hundred bucks more."

Crestfallen, we drag ourselves back to the car. Without question, our 6 foot, 7 inch father requires a king size bed.

"I could sell my plasma," Tommy suggests hopefully. "I saw a sign."

But it's not necessary for my ten-year-old brother to part with his blood. Grandma comes through.

"Let's go back to the store and buy that bed," she says determinedly.

It's shameless the way I zip the car around to take complete advantage of my wonderful grandmother's generosity.

"We'll expect you to bring that bed to the house today and set it up for us," she wags her finger at the waterbed man. Our sweeter than syrup grandmother can be formidable when she chooses.

"Yes, ma'am," the man nods obediently.

We can hardly wait for Dad to come home. Because it's Christmas Eve, he arrives earlier than usual, and we frantically make up the bed as soon as the waterbed guys depart.

"Merry Christmas, Dad!" we shout and laugh when he walks into his room and sees the new bed.

In his suit and tie, Dad stops dead in his tracks and stares at the new waterbed. Then a big slow grin creases his face. "What have you kids done?" he laughs.

Dad loves his new waterbed so much he won't even wait for it to warm up. Spreading a mountain of blankets over the top, he crawls onto the mattress, flops on his back, and growls in contentment as his body undulates with the gentle waves.

Jeff receives a much longed for Raggedy Andy for Christmas.

Even though Dad's waterbed is a huge hit, we fear that Christmas itself will be unutterably sad. The move to Omaha, however, in spite of its tribulations, somehow makes it better. If we have to celebrate without Mom, it's easier to do it in a new house that holds no painful memories of her laughter and warm presence.

Nevertheless, we uphold the yearly traditions. On top of Mom's piano, Mary and Baby Jesus are still guarded protectively by Joseph who's been headless for many years - since the time Tommy and Jeff played catch with him in the living room and Harry the Dog pounced to gnaw his head off.

The little kids draw each other's names and present each other with the same giant candy canes, giant suckers and books of Lifesaver candies which they will suck continuously all Christmas day and night.

The last gift to be opened is Uncle Carl's big box from Pittsburgh with the standard gift of stale peanut butter balls he prepares months and months beforehand and a fruitcake that will be crammed far back into the freezer until we discover its rock hard remains the following Christmas.

Christmas dinner is the big challenge. Mom was never known for her culinary skills, but she always insisted on mashed potatoes. Deb, Mary and I try, but our potatoes are a sodden, lumpy, milky mess. Finally, Dad hands us a box of instant mashed potatoes.

"New tradition," he says. They don't taste like Mom's, but they're not half bad.

We set the table with mismatched silverware and Mom's Christmas candles burned to nubs because nobody's thought to buy new ones this year. Dad brings out the turkey, and we fall silent to say grace. It's the only time emotion threatens to overwhelm us. We soldier through, however, and at the end, Grandma breathes tearfully, "Dear God, thank you for watching out for all of us this past year, and thank you for taking care of Patti."

We stare painfully at the table.

"No problem, Marge." Mary, clowning in a comically deep voice, saves the moment. Even Grandma laughs.

This first Christmas isn't great. But it's okay. We survive, and we'll remember it for its own special flavor.

Christmas 1979 will be the year that Tommy was willing to sell his blood for Dad's Christmas present. The year that we made instant mashed potatoes for Christmas dinner. The year that Grandma nearly fell into the pit in front of the fireplace. And the Christmas that Dad finally got his waterbed.

It was the first Christmas without Mom.

But thankfully, because we were all together, Christmas 1979 wasn't bad at all.