Grand Island

I hate Grand Island, Nebraska.

I hate cornfields. I hate our modern ranch style house with its modern windows and modern treeless front yard. I hate my own room with its cozy privacy. Back on Eudora Street, my sisters and I sleep together. Now I am alone in a little corner of the basement, and my parents think I will be over the moon to have a room to myself.

Everything about Grand Island is foreign. As soon as we arrive after the long trip from Denver, Dad drives downtown. Red explodes in every shop window.  Signs scream to passersby.

 "Support our 1971 Huskers!" "RED Hot Deals!"  I have never seen so much red in my life. It's all very quaint. Very midwestern.

 I hate it.

Mostly, though, I hate Central Catholic High School. Mom drops Joe, Mick and me off in the circle drive, and we nervously meet the superintendent, Father Frank Hoelck, in his office.

"It's great to meet the Brown kids!" Father Hoelck smiles broadly. He is tall and handsome, probably too handsome to be a priest. After he arranges for classmates to escort us through the building our first day, my brothers march stoically off.  I am waiting outside the office for my own tour guide feeling queasy with fear when a short man with iron gray hair saunters out of a nearby classroom.

The odd little man - Mr. Northup 

"VOLAAARE!" he croons like Frank Sinatra and waltzes up to me. For one wild second, I think he will ask me to dance. He laughs when he sees my startled expression. "Hee hee!" And it really is "hee hee". Gripping my arm, he looks all the way up at me. I am six foot one. He is five feet five. "How are you, young lady?" he greets me in a strong Rhode Island accent. Then he disappears into the office.

I blink. That odd little man is like my own crazy father. All of a sudden, things don't feel quite so strange.

Mrs. Peg Ley, typing teacher

My first period class is typing. I am a few weeks behind and wonder how I will ever catch up. The typing teacher, however, Mrs. Ley, reassures me in an instant. "We're so glad you're here." Mrs. Ley is beautiful like my mother. She places a comforting hand on my shoulder and smiles with her lovely, kind eyes. "I'll help you catch up. Don't worry."

Mutely, I nod. I am afraid to speak in the wake of such sympathy for fear my voice will crack with emotion. Everyone is so kind. Even the bouncy little cheerleader in the hall who guides me toward the cafeteria. She seems to have springs in her feet. "It's just down the hall to the right," she beams. "Come to the pep rally Friday!"

Karen Pfeifer - the cheerleader

She throws the invitation over her shoulder before careening away down the hall. 

After lunch is chemistry with Mr. Kayl who, as it turns out, is also my advisor. I shyly introduce myself to him, and awkwardly - because he is just as shy as I am - he shakes my hand. How old is this guy, I wonder. Mr. Kayl appears to be a high school kid himself but apparently is old enough to be married to the elfin woman down the hall who teaches English. Mrs. Kayl is 4 ft. 10 but tries to elevate her stature by wearing six inch platform shoes. She treads with careful dignity down the hall so as not to fall off the side of her shoes.

At the end of a long, exhausting first day, Fr. Hoelck meets with me in his office.

"How'd it go?"

I shrug. "It went great." 

He searches my face with penetrating eyes. There's not much you can hide from this guy, I think. I stare down at my lap.

"Give it a chance," he says kindly. "You're missing everybody in Denver right not, but I promise we're not so bad. See how it feels in a couple of weeks or so."

That night in my own room all by myself, I open a letter from one of my best friends in Denver.

"We miss you!" she writes. Her letter is full of multiple exclamation points and all the news from Machebeuf High School. I suddenly toss the letter aside and cry my eyes out. It has not occurred to me until now that I won't be graduating with my old friends next year. Instead, I will march to Pomp and Circumstance with these strangers from Nebraska.

I cry and cry but finally sit up defiantly. Someday, when I am older, I will move back to Denver and into my old house. For now, however, I'm stuck in Hooterville.  I sigh longingly. If only it was possible to travel forward in time. If only it was 50 years from now, and I could be an ancient woman sitting on the front porch of the old house on Eudora Street remembering with fondness the brief stint I spent as a teenager in Grand Island, Nebraska.

Father Frank Hoelck

I cannot travel in time. Yet, the years pass so quickly that often I feel as if I have catapulted through time. 1971 seems but a brief, dizzying age ago.

It's not quite 50 years later. In fact, it's 45 years ago to the day that Joe, Mick and I first step foot into Grand Island Central Catholic. I think about that 16-year-old girl and wonder how she would react to seeing herself 45 years later - still in Grand Island, Nebraska. Still at Central Catholic High School.

Mr. Kayl

Father Hoelck is right.  Central Catholic's not such a bad place at all. It's so nice, in fact, that after graduating from college, I return to teach my own brothers and sisters and eventually their children.. I wonder how surprised that teenage girl would be to know that one day she meets a tall, funny, sarcastic fellow teacher who will become her husband? That she will give birth to two very tall boys who will also graduate from Central Catholic? 

Those lovely, kind people she meets that warm September day in 1971 will become lifelong friends. The Sinatra crooner, Fred Northup, is a second father and surrogate grandfather to her husband and sons. 

The bouncy cheerleader, Karen Pfeifer Robison, will also return to Central Catholic as Development Director and continue to be one of Central Catholic's most exuberant cheerleaders. She and I will share not only our friendship but an enchanting little girl called Maggie - Karen's granddaughter and my great-niece.

Father Frank Hoelck becomes a grandfatherly chaplain to another generation of Central Catholic students. A week before his death, I will visit him in his hospital room to hold his hand..  "Thank you so much," I weep, "for being so good to me when I was a kid."  Even in a fog of cancer, he will stare into my eyes with that same kindly, penetrating gaze.

My typing teacher, Mrs. Peg Ley, is one of my very closest friends. Even at 91, as I often remind her, she is still a beauty.

"You are so prejudiced!" she waves a hand at me. Only last weekend, she tells me her good son has decided to make all the decisions regarding her imminent future.

Mrs. Kayl

"That's good," I tease her. "You're too damn old to decide anything."  She laughs her glorious laugh. I am relieved that her faithful Bobby takes such tender care of his lovely widowed mother. But I also swallow with emotion. I do not care to live in a world without Peg Ley. She is too important to me and to so many others.

Pat and Julie Kayl are the best friends I will ever have in this life. Julie has always been the person I turn to for consolation, advice, gossip and a good laugh. Legally blind, she nevertheless continues to teach for many years and makes her slow cautious way down the hallway. Because I am more than a foot taller than she, I have to restrain myself from picking her up and carrying her down the hallway so that we can get there faster. She and Pat are retired now, but Pat is still fixing everything that breaks at Central Catholic and is the only one who knows for sure where the leak in the ceiling of the old gym is.

Not long ago my brother Rick, now a grandfather, reminisces about that fateful day 45 years ago. "It's funny how we all swore we'd move back to Denver," he shakes his head."We all came to love Grand Island so much. It's where we were meant to be."

None of us ever moved back to Denver. All of us live in Nebraska, and eight of us are still in Grand Island. In 1971, we are blissfully unaware of the events that will unfold in our family in the years just ahead, events that will change our lives forever. Because of those events, however, we become even closer through the years and vow never to be far apart.

"Family is everything," Dad tells us again and again as we grow up together. But he neglects to tell us that family includes not only the people we start with, but the people we grow close to along the way. As long as we're with people we love, we make a home.

We don't know it in 1971. But when we move to Grand Island, Nebraska, we're finally coming home.

Changes

My life is over.

I say as much to Mom and Dad. "You're ruining my life!"

It's the summer of 1971. I've just finished my sophomore year at Bishop Machebeuf High School, and Joe will be a freshman in the fall. We've gone all the way through school with the same friends and teachers, and I am beyond excited to be an upperclassman.

Tommy and Carry in the kitchen window at Eudora.

Then Dad tells us his company, Roberts Dairy, has transferred him. We're moving - not just to another house but to another state. Away from our beloved Eudora Street. Away from our school and our big family of aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins.

I cry for days.

Dad says we won't move until September. "Time enough to fix this old house and get it ready to sell," he informs us soberly.

Mom is as heartbroken as we are but tries to bolster us with false bravado. "It might be the best thing!"

She doesn't fool any of us. Mom's just given birth to her tenth baby, Jeffrey Joseph. We are five Mary's and five Joseph's now, and Mom wants her last baby to grow up on Eudora Street just like the rest of us. She wants to make dinner in the evenings while Carry and Tommy sit in the window between the kitchen and the breakfast room to keep her company. She wants all our stockings to hang together over the same mantle every Christmas. She wants us home.

A typical Christmas morning on Eudora

We never appreciate our old neighborhood as much as we do now. This last summer on Eudora Street, I attach a memory with everything I see. I remember the clubhouse in the garage, the bedroom closet where Duchess gives birth to a litter of puppies. At Mass one Sunday, I remember the day Joe, Mick and I hide behind the stone pillar by the church steps to spy on Rick and Debbie.

Rick and Debbie are eight and six years old. On a breathless day in June, when we're all dying to go for a swim, I tell our gullible little brother and sister that the nuns frolic in their own private pool in the backyard of the convent. Joe and Mick play right along.

"They take off everything and jump right in. It's nice for them," Mick adds thoughtfully.

Joe and I nearly lose it. The thought of our good Sisters shedding long black habits and veils to leap into a pool is almost too much. We convince Rick and Debbie that the nuns are only too generous and willing to share their pool with small children one afternoon a week, and glory to God, this is the very afternoon. If Rick and Debbie walk the half block to the convent, ring the old-fashioned doorbell that turns like a key, and politely ask permission to swim alongside the nuns, they can enjoy two hours of uninterrupted swim time.

Delightedly, we witness the entire exchange from front row seats behind the church pillar. When Rick and Debbie, hopping up and down in their swim suits, ask a stern but bewildered Sister Rose Edward to swim with her in her backyard pool, Joe and Mick and I laugh so hard we roll down the stairs in a gasping heap. Rick and Debbie storm furiously past us on their humiliating journey home.

"Dummy Stupid Brats!" Debbie hisses. It's the very worst thing she can think to say.

But now I sigh. No more practical jokes to pull on Eudora Street.

Easter at Aunt Margie and Uncle Jack's

Just three blocks down Montview Boulevard is Aunt Margie and Uncle Jack's house where we spend every Christmas Eve and Easter. Our second cousins, the Ryans and Tighes and Sperros, are like brothers and sisters. And another six blocks after that is our beloved City Park. In the winters, when we're little, Dad hurls us in our saucer sleds down the big hill in front of the Museum of Natural History. We ice skate on the big frozen lake  in winter and paddle boat with our Starbuck cousins on warm July afternoons. One Independence Day, our four-year-old sister Carry steps right into the lake and disappears. My cousin David and I immediately reach down to frantically search for invisible arms and yank her out. Carry is sputtering and furious.

"My God, my God!" she wails in agony. Already a drama queen, Carry frequently invokes the Lord's name much to Mom's dismay. Nevertheless, it's a close call, and Carry's shrieking irreverence fills us with relief.

On Eudora Street with Terri and the Starbuck cousins - Sean, Matt, Les
and Joel.

All summer, we clean and paint and repair until the shabby house on Eudora Street is pristine and perfect. It hardly seems like the same house.

The summer passes too quickly, though. Moving vans arrive on September 14th. Our friends are already in school, and my brothers and sisters and I feel disconnected and forgotten. Life moves forward without a backward glance at the Brown family. Somehow, we expect a school wide mourning period - maybe flags at half mast.

When all the furniture is packed and gone, we say goodbye to the old house. Every room echoes with emptiness, and we all become emotional. Even Dad ducks his head and impatiently blows his nose.

Our only consolation is that we spend the night with the Starbucks who generously invite us to stay in their huge house before we leave early the next morning. We play tag football in the big front yard with our cousins and almost forget that anything will ever be any different.

Before dawn, however, Dad rouses us. On the morning of September 15th, our last morning in Denver, it snows. We have no time to marvel at softly floating flakes in September, though. Dad wants us on the road. We say our hasty, heartfelt goodbyes to the Starbucks. My cousin Leslie and I hug each other long and hard and promise to write. Then we tumble into the old brown station wagon for the longest road trip we have taken together thus far. Even for an all day trip, Carry and Tommy are forced to sit in the crack.

All the way down Montview Boulevard on our way out of town, we shiver. Our shorts and tee shirts are meant for a warm September day, and all our winter clothes are packed in a moving van. Outside, the world is dark and snowy. Nobody is awake in the whole world, it seems, except us. Our mindless chatter fills the old station wagon. As we approach our neighborhood, however, we lapse into silence. Passing Forest Street, we remember our fallen school mate Joey Campbell. On the other side of Montview, our schools and the church are dark and lonely in the predawn morning. In a few hours the early autumn snow will have disappeared. Kids all over the neighborhood will troop to school. A new morning will come to life under bright sunshine, and school bells will ring in the start of a busy day. But the Browns will be long gone.

Finally, craning our necks to stare down a dark Eudora Street, we send silent goodbyes to our beloved old house. To our sweet Duchess buried forever in the good earth of the backyard filled so recently with our noise and games. To all our neighbors and friends sleeping peacefully in their warm beds. To the best neighborhood ten kids could ever grow up in.

2051 Eudora Street

Nobody says anything for a long time. When we are just past City Park and on our way out of town, Tommy breaks the silence.

"Guess I have to poop."

We laugh in a kind of relief. Whatever happens next, we're together. And just like that, we're talking and shoving and joking, grateful for each other.

In the gray light of a rising sun, we head east on Interstate 76 to a place we've never even seen much less heard of - to an exotic, foreign, frighteningly unfamiliar place.

To Grand Island, Nebraska.

Two Weeks in March

Joey Campbell is the nicest boy in the neighborhood.

A junior at Bishop Machebeuf High School, Joey is a year ahead of me. As soon as we all graduate from grade school, we simply cut across Elm Street to Machebeuf.

Our little neighborhood is really a small community in the middle of big bustling Denver, and Joey is everybody's favorite. Park Hill Public is right down the street from our Blessed Sacrament Elementary. The three neighborhood churches - Blessed Sacrament, Park Hill United Methodist and Montview Presbyterian - are a stone's throw from each other. Whether we are Catholic, Protestant or Jewish, we grow up playing with each other, and Joey Campbell is our unofficial leader.

The Campbells are a big Catholic family like us. Their home on Forest Street, just three blocks over from Eudora, boasts a trampoline in the backyard. Joey organizes neighborhood games, many of which revolve around the tramp. And there's always a baseball game. Joey loves baseball and plays for Machebeuf's team. All the Cambells are sweet-natured kids with mega-watt miles, and their tolerant mother doesn't mind the scores of kids who flood her backyard every day after school.

"Joey, don't play too rough with those young kids!" she yells out her kitchen window.

But Joey never plays rough.

I am attending my brother's eighth grade basketball game on a Sunday evening in early March. On my way to get a drink at halftime, I see Joey standing by a bunch of kids. Our eyes meet, and we smile. I would never remember such an innocuous little greeting except that I will remember it later as Joey's last night on Earth. The next day, Monday, March 8th, Joey leaves us forever.

My own brother Joe is practicing with his basketball team in the old Blessed Sacrament gym when Machebeuf's baseball boys stream in to warm up in a corner. Joe turns when he hears a commotion. It's Joey Campbell. He collapses to the floor in the middle of his baseball teammates. The coach and another adult try to revive him, but Joey will not survive. We learn the next day that Joey Campbell, the nicest boy we know, has died of a heart attack. He is 17-years-old.

The neighborhood is devastated. At Joey's funeral, I see Joey's older sisters, their faces contorted in grief and bewilderment. I ache for them. And I ache for myself. What if something ever happened to MY brother Joe? The two of us fight like there's no tomorrow, and sometimes I detest him with every fiber of my being. The thought, however, of losing him terrifies me. I turn to look at him at the end of our pew at Blessed Sacrament Church. He doesn't fixate on the Campbell family like I do but instead studies with focused concentration the back of the head of the man in front of him. He's trying not to cry. I know this because I know my brother.

But Joe doesn't cry - not for a while. He holds tight to his grief and to the terrible image of Joey Campbell's collapse in the gym. One day a week or so later, he grabs a sandwich in the kitchen.

My brother Joe, 1971

"Joe," Mom says softly as she stands at the stove. Joe moves silently away from her. Mom grabs him. "Talk to me, Joe."

He attempts to wrestle away. "I'm fine, Mom," he chokes. All at once, though, he surrenders the battle and leans against Mom to cry his heart out.

"It's all right," she murmurs and rocks him back and forth. "Everything will be all right."

Nothing, though, is all right. For a week, everybody walks around like zombies. We have a special Mass at school for Joey, and kids break down in the hallway to cry.

After school, I take long walks with Duchess and yearn for spring to arrive with reassuring flowers and restoring warmth. But Duchess, our sweet dog, is failing. More and more frequently we cut our walks short, and sometimes I have to hoist her little bulk into my arms to carry her the last few blocks home.

I am nearly 16 and hardly remember a time Duchess hasn't been with us. My little brothers and sisters have never known life without her. But Duchess is getting old.

She sleeps at the foot of my bed and sometimes, in winter, likes to burrow under the sheets all the way to the end of the bed. I worry that she will suffocate, but all through the night, I hear her soft whiffling and know she's slumbering peacefully. Now, however, she is so arthritic and heavy that she can't propel herself up the stairs. So every night we spread a blanket at the bottom of the staircase. She obediently steps into the middle, and either Joe and I or Mom and Dad carry her up.

In her younger years, Duchess makes friends in the neighborhood. She spends countless hours with her old boyfriend Hubert. When we call her home, she gleefully comes yapping and running to us on her tiny legs, long ears flying. We joke that she resembles a sleek little black seal and even barks like one. Lately, however, she is too content to crawl on the sofa and curl up to sleep behind Mom's back.

On a Tuesday night, two weeks after Joey Campbell's death, Duchess dies peacefully in her sleep at the end of my bed. We discover her still little body just as we are all ready to go to bed ourselves.

It's ten o'clock at night, but Dad and my brothers dig a grave for Duchess in Mom's little garden in our backyard. They lower her into the ground, and Mom and I cry softly. The little kids shiver against the cold March night.

Our little Duchess, 1971

Dad stands upright. He is still healing from two sprained ankles and steadies himself with a shovel. "Let's say a little prayer for Duchess," he says.

We huddle together in the darkness as Dad says some words over our beloved little dog. I look up at a starry sky and think of Joey Campbell, and for the first time in my life I wonder seriously about Heaven. Wherever it is, I feel sure Joey is there. I can see his big smile and the way he lights up when his little sister Susie perfects a back flip on the trampoline. I think of the way he crouches close to the ground on the baseball field, the intensity of his gaze beneath the brim of his cap.

I hope Joey Campbell is supremely and completely healthy and happy.

And wherever Heaven is, I hope tonight there's room for one little black dachshund who barks like a seal. I almost see her, ears flapping, running with all her tiny might to find the familiar sweet boy with a mega-watt smile.

To find Joey.

Dad and the Bees

Dad never swears. Ever.

He exercises every day, attends Mass every Sunday (even when he has a cold), and soundly punishes us for lying, stealing or taking the Lord's name in vain.

Dad and Jeff

"Dick Brown," Monsignor Leyden extols Dad's virtues to Mom and us one Sunday after church, "is the best Catholic I know."

We sigh. It would be nice if Dad wasn't quite so Catholic. We rarely regard ourselves as holy enough, studious enough, or disciplined enough to satisfy his strict standards. Being Catholic is a competition in stoicism as far as Dad is concerned.

"Mind over matter!" he preaches as one of us lies sick in bed on a Sunday morning while everybody else troops to Mass. "You think Jesus cried over a little stomach ache when he was dying for you on the cross?" he glares at us with intense blue eyes. Just when you think you've never felt so bad, Dad makes you feel a little worse.

One winter, Dad coaches Joe's eighth grade basketball team and takes them to the finals of the junior high state championship. Dad's little Blessed Sacrament School team is definitely the underdog, but Joe's team wins the championship in the last few seconds. Dad's so excited, he leaps for joy off the bench. When his huge 6 ft.7 in. frame lands, however, he sprains both ankles and collapses to the floor. Joe and his young teammates, the only ones who realize Dad is injured, immediately run to help him up.

"Isn't that cute?," Dad's cousin MaryLee grins at Mom in the bleachers. "The kids are trying to lift Dick to their shoulders!"

Dad can hardly walk. His ankles swell like watermelons. But the next morning, he rises and hobbles to the car in excruciating pain.

"I'm fine!" he shrugs away our help and limps to work. "Mind over matter, Kids!"

This is what being Catholic means to Dad. Jesus probably sprained an ankle or two. Did he miss the wedding at Cana to spend a day in bed?  No, by God. And neither should we.

Mom, on the other hand, is all about throwing in the towel. A convert from the Methodist faith, Mom embraces Catholicism but figures Jesus can forgive us just about anything. This includes failed tests, forged permission notes, and stealing money off Dad's dresser for Big Hunks.

Mom does not share Dad's spirit of competition. When they both decide to quit smoking, Dad kicks the habit in a day.

"I held that cigarette in my hand," he tells us later, "and I said, 'Am I gonna let this little stick control my life?' "

Giving up the habit is a little tougher for Mom. But after she endures three weeks without a cigarette, we are very proud of her. "Actually, you know" she blushes, "I really do feel better!"

One afternoon we're romping outside in the backyard when Mick retrieves a ball by a basement window. Leaning over, he suddenly catches a glimpse of Mom in the downstairs store room perched on a suitcase, legs crossed, casually puffing a cigarette. Mick calls the rest of us over. We can hardly believe our eyes. Livid, we stomp into the house. Mom, however, who sees us, too, runs up the stairs as fast as she can and is calmly drying dishes when we storm into the kitchen.

"Mom!" we accuse her.

She flings the dish towel aside. "Oh, all right! Are you happy? I'm smoking!" she snaps. "And you know why? Because I've got ten kids, that's why!"

Mom never does kick the habit.

Nevertheless, we instinctively turn to her with our confidences, our mistakes and our sins and can always count on her to love and forgive us. Dad, however, resides atop an impossibly high Herculean pedestal, and we dread in any way to disappoint his Catholic sensibilities.

Then in a single summer, Dad tumbles from his lofty pedestal.

It's all because of the bees. Just before bed one warm June evening, we gather in the room that Deb, Mary, Terri, Carry and I share, to finish our prayers with Mom. Rick sits cross legged under the big windows and idly picks little objects from the sills behind the curtains.

Dad

"Look at my bees, Mom!" He excitedly displays his collection. Sure enough, Rick has piled a dozen or so dead bees into a little mound. Puzzled, Mom examines the sills and then peers out our bedroom window. Just under the eaves by the chimney, she spies a hive with hundreds of bees busily buzzing and protecting their queen. She rushes to Dad who comes to investigate himself.

"We need to get somebody out here," Mom pleads. My sisters and I vow to bunk in the hallway before we will be attacked by bees in our sleep. Dad, however, refuses to call expensive exterminators.

"I'll hose 'em out of there," he assures Mom. But when the bees dive angrily for Dad after he aims a garden hose at their hive, he hurries into the house and slams the door. "They'll go away after a while," he says sheepishly.

They don't go away. Two weeks later, honey oozes down the bricks of our two story house, and now thousands of bees fill the driveway between us and our neighbors, the Smiths.The terrific buzz vibrates throughout the neighborhood. It's like a horror movie. Just recently we've seen Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, and even Mom envisions an all out attack.

But Dad has a plan. The next day after work, he gingerly unloads a two gallon jar from the car and sets it on the sidewalk.

"You kids stay away from that," he orders. "It's full of very expensive bee poison, and I don't want you touching it."

Mick observes the Very Expensive Bee Poison and wonders why Dad doesn't just call a guy.

"Because I don't need a guy!" Dad snaps. Just now, his pride is at stake. His own children have witnessed his hasty flight from angry bees and the frantic manner in which he slams the door against them. It's a weak moment on his part. Would Jesus give into a few thousand bees? No, by God. Jesus would purchase his own Very Expensive Bee Poison and pull off a hell of a miracle.

Cautiously, Joe steps near the glass jar to see for himself what Very Expensive Bee Poison looks like. Dad is furious.

"Does anyone listen to me?" He jumps over to shield the poison from our curious hands. "You're just dying to break that jar!"

Then the unthinkable occurs. Dad stumbles and unwittingly kicks over the jar himself. It crashes on the sidewalk, and two gallons of bee poison flood the walk and the nearby grass. Dad gapes in disbelief. The color rises all the way up his face. Outraged, he raises his face to the heavens and shouts a word. We gasp in unison. The neighbor kids gasp. The word is no ordinary "hell" or "damn". It's the big one. It thunders in the air above us and is louder than the buzz of bees, louder than a sonic boom.

The deathly silence that follows, however, is even louder.

Then Mom calls us. "Kids! Come into the house now."

She hears everything from inside. Nobody understands Dad better than Mom. He needs time to be alone. Away from our prying eyes, he will collect himself and regroup.

He does, too. Biting the bullet, Dad purchases yet another jar of poison. Then he shrouds himself from head to toe, attaches the jar to the hose, and bravely marches into battle with the bees. When every last bee, including the queen, is disposed of, Dad staggers into the house.

No one, not Dad and not us, ever mentions the word. Yet some seismic shift has occurred in the way we look at our father. For the first time, we have seen Dad's human side. He swears like a sailor. He runs from bees. He is too proud to ever, ever admit that he is remotely imperfect.

Even as he faces his demons, however, Dad protects us. He might be scared, but he would confront his worst nightmare to shield us from harm, even if it means taking on thousands of bees. We can always count on him.

By the end of that warm summer day, we have discovered a terrible secret. Our bigger-than-life, very Catholic, very good father is deeply and humanly flawed.

And because of that, we love him more.

First Dance

I am 13-years-old, and tonight is my first junior high dance. Nothing is more important.

I feel guilty even saying such a thing. The country seems to be falling apart. Nearly two months ago, Mom and I are in the kitchen when we hear the news on the radio. Martin Luther King, Jr. has been assassinated.

Cathy - before the infamous braces

"Dear God," Mom presses a hand to her heart. In Denver, even in our quiet, old neighborhood, everything erupts into chaos. One afternoon after school there is a riot, of all places, on Eudora Street. Black kids and white kids are fighting with chains and knives and fists in front of our own front door. It's the first time I ever hear my mother scream. The Tanners, the only African American family on our block, suffer most. Their beautiful home is vandalized again and again. Just this last week, the neighborhood is appalled to see the ugly "N" word smeared across the front of the Tanner home.

These are the things I should be thinking about tonight. But instead I am consumed by my own selfish worries. Not only has it been a terrible year for the country, but it's been a terrible year for me. In the space of one school year, I manage to get braces and zits. But that's not the worst. The worst is that I grow five and a half inches. Now, at five feet eleven inches tall, I tower over every boy and girl in the seventh grade at Blessed Sacrament School - except for Joel Moran who is exactly as tall as I am. And would you believe it? I'm still growing, Dr. Strain says. All the other girls in my class have begun to look, well, womanly. But all my growth has gone into my height - mostly my legs - and there isn't one bump on my entire body. Not one stinking bump. When I slouch to make myself shorter, Mom reprimands me.

"Walk like a queen!" she hammers. "Be proud of your height!"

She nags incessantly, but tonight I want only to look like every other girl in my class. Mom suggests tactfully that a longer dress might add a little proportion to my body. Translated, that means a long dress will cover my long legs which are painfully thin and knobby-kneed. I am not, I tell her, going to be the only girl at the dance with a dress that goes practically to my knees. She sighs in that exasperated way she does when she thinks I'm being unreasonable but finally lets me purchase a little red dress and white fishnet hose - which is all the rage this year.

Now, however, as I stand in front of the mirror in my room, I know my mother is right. My reflection shows that at my first dance all that anybody will see of me is two long fishnet legs walking across the gym floor. Just then, my mother bursts into my room carrying a basket of dirty laundry. She puts it all on the bed and turns to inspect me.

"You look very pretty, Cathy," she smiles.

I fling myself into the chair next to the radiator and watch my mother sort laundry. Mom has only just discovered she's pregnant with her ninth child. She's wearing her faded blue checked pants and an old sweater, and her hair is a little mussed. I can't help but think how pretty she is even when she's sorting dirty socks. Mom is beautiful. She's tall, but not so tall as I am, and slender but not skinny. She has all this thick black hair and cheekbones to die for.

Mom

I sigh as I watch her because, you see, I look just like my dad. He's crazy tall, skinny and big boned, and he has what you'd call a prominent nose. On him it's prominent. On a girl like me, it's a big honker. And at this moment, I want desperately to be beautiful like my mother.

Mom hears me sigh and knows exactly what I'm thinking. "You know," she says, right in the middle of turning underwear inside out, "if only you'd have a little confidence in yourself, Cathy, everybody else would, too."

I try hard not to roll my eyes. Where does she come up with this stuff? I don't respond, but she reads the mutiny all over my face. Just as she assumes her martyred expression, I figure the best thing to do is walk the half block to Blessed Sacrament and go to the dance.

This particular evening in late May is gorgeous. I am too nervous, however, to enjoy it. Thankfully, when I arrive, the gym is dark and nobody notices my legs right away. I gratefully hurry to my friends who are sitting in a row of chairs beneath the scoreboard. Karen Blake and Diane Logsdon are just as nervous as I am, but Margaret St. John is already looking defeated. Finally, Sister Francis Xavier, Blessed Sacrament's self-appointed DJ, plops down a record from the approved list, and my first dance has begun.

It's not so bad at first because nobody dances, not even the cute, popular girls like Janelle Whitney and Mary Sue Dunn. By the second dance, though, all those girls are dancing. As the fourth dance starts, Margaret and I are the only girls in our little group who still have not been asked to dance. I am feeling like a genuine wallflower. Absorbed in a non-existent hangnail, I pretend not to care. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I spy Janelle Whitney dancing with Joel Moran. I don't care for Janelle. She's not a very nice person. But I certainly envy her just then. What's it like to be compact and cute and so sure of yourself?

One day, Janelle Whitney comes to school wearing a thin line of white lip gloss on her lower lip. It looks so ridiculous. But the next day, every girl in the seventh grade class wears an identical strip of white gloss on every lower lip. That's how popular Janelle is.

The next few dances are slow dances, and only a few ardent couples, closely watched by Sister Rose Edward, are on the floor. I am talking to Karen and Diane when I glance up to see Joel Moran walking toward our group. None of us can imagine why he would bother with us. When he finally approaches, though, he looks at the floor and says a little gruffly, "Wanna dance?" I look at Karen thinking he must be talking to her. Both she and Diane are staring at me in astonishment.

"Me?" I finally say.

"Yeah, you," he says impatiently. "You wanna or not?"

Somehow I manage to follow him out to the floor in a daze. We don't say a word. He turns to put his arms around my waist, and I place my arms around his shoulders. We shuffle back and forth, and I can hardly believe that I am dancing with Joel Moran, the tallest boy in the seventh grade.

Then a funny thing happens. I'm just getting used to the whole idea when I feel Joel's shoulders shake. I don't get it at first, but then he snorts. When I look up, I see Janelle and Mary Sue laughing behind their hands. Then I understand. It's a joke that Joel is dancing with Cathy Brown, the tallest girl with the skinniest legs in the class.

"Ask Stick Legs to dance!" Janelle probably coaxes him. "It'll be a scream!"

I want to run out of the gym, but I finish the dance. When Joel, trying not to laugh, says, "Wanna do another one?" I say, "I don't think so. You're the worst dancer."

His eyes grow wide, and I see his initial confusion turn to humiliation. Then he begins to giggle like a little boy. I am instantly ashamed. He really is just a little boy - as insecure and afraid as I am.

Finding my jacket, I tell Sister Rose Edward I'm not feeling good and walk out into the cold night. Usually I like cold spring nights. Everything smells clean and new. Tonight, however, I don't feel anything at all. I hurry across Montview Boulevard but walk down Eudora Street slowly.

My parents are in the living room and surprised to see me home early. "Well, here's the bell of the ball!" my dad says too jovially. I run straight to my room and can hear Mom shushing Dad. "What!" he asks in bewilderment.  "What did I say?""

If I don't feel anything all the way home, I feel it the moment I throw myself on the bed. I'm glad my brothers and sisters are downstairs and can't hear my sobs. Because that's what they are - big wrenching sobs. I cry so hard my face tingles like it does when the dentist first squirts novocaine into your jaw. I cry so hard I don't even hear Mom come in, but I feel the bed sink next to my stomach, and the next thing I know, her fingers are stroking my hair.

Mom's hands are so familiar and so comforting that I begin to relax, and when the last sob subsides, I tell her the whole story. She cradles my head. I wish I was little enough to crawl into her lap, but my long legs are splayed across the bed like a newborn colt's.

"I can never go to school again," I say vehemently . "How can I ever go back?" The sobbing begins afresh.

Mom shushes me and winds my hair around her fingers. The darkness falls around us, and I hear the distant voices of my brothers playing downstairs and the little hisses of the radiator - the sounds of home.

"You'll go back," Mom murmurs close to my ear, "because you have to go back. Because in a few days, this will be a sad little prank nobody even remembers."

She talks to me for the first time in my life like I am an old, old adult. The day will come, Mom assures me, when I will be comfortable with my height, when I might even be glad of it.

"And the day that Cathy Brown is happy with herself," Mom says softly, "is the day everybody else will know how funny and kind and nice she is. Just like I do."

She tips my chin. "You can be brave tonight. People just across the street have to be much braver - about big, big things. Be brave like them."

She means the Tanner family. I am filled with remorse. Last Monday morning, after the ugly "N" word is smeared across the front of their house, Mr. Tanner patiently scrubs away the angry letters. My siblings and I, on our way to school, pass his house. He pauses from his work to look up.

"Morning, children," he nods soberly. We nod awkwardly in return. I wish I knew how to tell him we are sad and sorry. But I am 13-years-old and unable to articulate my sorrow with any kind of confidence. In that instant, however, I understand Mr. Tanner is a man of great courage. He confronts hatred and anger every day but is never hateful or angry himself.

It's late now, and I release a long, shuddering sigh. Spent from emotion, I am being lulled to sleep. Tomorrow, I will be brave. In the last moment of consciousness, warm against my mother, I wonder if Janelle Whitney ever needs her mother as much as I need mine. Probably Janelle thinks she has a very satisfactory mother.

But I have the best mother of anybody.

A Trip to Pittsburgh

Dad takes us to McDonald's once a year. It's almost like Christmas.

In the front yard one evening, my little brother Rick brags to the neighbor kids. "And on Saturday," he shoves his hands in his pockets filled with his own importance, "we're eating at McDonald's."

Clockwise from top left: Carry, Tommy, Terri, Mick, Rick
and Mary.

Eating at McDonald's caps a magical week in summer that coincides with Dad's annual vacation. Early in the week we pile into the station wagon to take a trip to the mountains. We don't go far - just 35 miles up and barely past the foothills to Central City, an old touristy mining town. On another day, Dad treats us to an afternoon at Elitches, Denver's ancient amusement park. Finally, we finish the whole week off with dinner at McDonald's.

"How many did you say?" the server behind the counter gapes when Dad orders 28 hamburgers.

And so ends the best week of the whole year.

Dad is the district manager for Sealtest Dairy. He makes a good living - for a guy with an averaged sized family, anyway. Dad's salary, though, doesn't stretch quite far enough for ten kids. When Dad acquires a real estate license to sell houses on weekends, we hardly ever see him at all. He and Mom are adamant, however,  about giving us that one week in summer. We have never taken a family vacation, never eaten at a real restaurant, and aside from a trip to the mountains once a year, never ventured out of our own neighborhood.

Then the summer after I turn 12, a miracle occurs.

Dad must travel to Pennsylvania, the state in which he was born and raised, for business. My grandmother and Uncle Carl, who live in Pittsburgh, persuade Dad to bring Mom and all of us to Pennsylvania. Dad's business offers to pay half the family air fares, and Dad scrapes together the rest. We are nearly beside ourselves with excitement. None of us has ever been on a plane.

TWA kindly seats us all together, and Mom frantically tries to contain our excitement as we experiment with click-on lights, oxygen vents and seat recliners. "I would hate to turn this plane around," she warns us with a steely look.

The flight is everything we could hope for and more. After landing, we take two taxis to Grandma and Uncle Carl's, and our first view of Pittsburgh is breathtaking. The city rises before us in a halo of light.

Grandma Brown and Uncle Carl reside in a very old apartment building in the middle of the city. In the courtyard, Mick nudges the rest of us and points to the ancient fountain. Two naked stone boys pee into the basin. My brothers snort, but Uncle Carl ignores them and ushers us into the apartment. He and Grandma Brown are very glad to see us but make it clear immediately that there are rules to be followed.

"Don't touch the the walls or the doorways as you walk through," Grandma orders us sternly. We notice right away all the couches and chairs have been covered in plastic. It's clear that Grandma and Uncle Carl aren't used to crowds of kids.

"And don't use the elevator, children," Grandma issues another order. "It's very old, and it's only for adults."

We glance at each other. The first chance we get, we plan to take that elevator for a joy ride.

In the morning, Dad departs for his business trip in Harrisburg, and Mom and all of us are left alone with Grandma and Uncle Carl. We discover there are more rules - no running in the halls or in the courtyard. The windows are never to be opened. If we feel the need for exercise, Uncle Carl will march us around the block.

It's not that we don't have ANY fun. Uncle Carl is the public relations guy for the Pittsburgh Symphony. He treats us to a night at the symphony and another night at the ballet. We throw coins into the Three Rivers and traipse up and down the curious streets of downtown Pittsburgh. In the stifling, orderly apartment, however, we nearly die of boredom.

The afternoon that Uncle Carl scolds us for ditching him and sneaking onto the elevator, Mom finally has had enough. She bursts into tears in the kitchen, and we all feel terrible. With uncharacteristic sensitivity, Grandma saves the day.

"Patti," she orders my mother, "take the babies and go have yourself a nap in the back bedroom. And you children," she looks at us, "are going to a movie."

We can hardly believe this new turn of events. Even Uncle Carl is thrilled to have us out of his hair. He counts out enough cash for us to see Jungle Book and gives us simple directions to the theater. My brothers and I find it easily.

The movie, however, is not Jungle Book. It's a strange flick called Planet of the Apes. We recognize Charlton Heston from the Bible movie, but these apes are like no apes we've ever seen. Nevertheless, we sit in the lovely air-conditioned theater and munch our popcorn contentedly. To our surprise, it's a double feature. The next movie, though, is very odd indeed. An unhappily married couple disects their life together. Joe, Mick, Rick and I decide we're thoroughly bored and rise to go. Just then, the screen erupts with naked people. We gape at each other in astonishment. The only naked adult we've ever seen is Dad scurrying from the shower to his room with the evening newspaper shielding his privates. We slowly lower ourselves back into our seats. There is no question of leaving now. A golden opportunity like this will never present itself again.

Halfway through the movie, though, we begin to feel uncomfortable. After you've seen a couple of naked people, you've pretty much seen them all.

We fully intend to hurry right back to the apartment, but the walk back takes us over a bridge high above the railroad tracks. Mick pauses to spit over the rails. And an amazing thing happens. We're so high above the tracks that Mick's spit arches mid-way in the same way a beautiful baseball curves around home plate. Just like that we're all spitting over the railing mesmerized by the beautiful arcs of our saliva. Then we hear a shout. Startled, we look up to see Uncle Carl storming angrily toward us.

"What are you doing here?" he demands.

Joe finds his voice first. "Did you know your spit curves up here?" he offers helpfully.

Uncle Carl is enraged. "Do you know what time it is? Didn't you know we'd be worried?"

It's no use lying. We might be able to fool Mom, but Uncle Carl is like a detective investigating our every move. When he discovers we sat through not only Planet of the Apes but also a very adult second feature, he is speechless with horror and hurries us home in deathly silence.

Mom is not nearly so angry as we fear. A good nap does her a world of good. She almost rolls her eyes as Uncle Carl describes our heathen adventures. She tries to scold us, but it's not a very convincing scolding. We persuade ourselves to be very quiet and very good and slide quietly onto the plastic covered furniture. Dad's coming back tomorrow, and we can ride out Uncle Carl's wrath for one more evening.

The next day, we are very glad to see Dad and very glad to return to our shabby, wall-smudged, plastic free house on Eudora Street. The Denver air is clear and dry, all the windows are open, and we romp through the house and the yard like wild savages.

In the  days and weeks to come, however, we spend time thinking and talking about our one and only family vacation. Uncle Carl tried hard to show us all the glorious Pittsburgh sights and broaden our horizons. It wasn't ALL bad, we decide. In fact, it wasn't bad at all. We rode in our first airplane, heard a famous symphony and threw coins into the Three Rivers - all in a strange city we'd never even dreamed of visiting.

Best of all, we got to see a movie with naked people.

Hubert and The Bloody Finger

Duchess and Hubert are madly in love.

Our sweet-faced dachshund and Hubert, Monsignor Leyden's red-eyed Bassett Hound, have carried on a torrid love affair for the better part of a decade right in front of us. And I do mean right in front of us. Hubert lumbers the half block from Blessed Sacrament Church, ears flapping in the breeze, eager with anticipation. Then he and Duchess surrender to their passion in the middle of our front yard on Eudora Street.

We kids adore the numerous litters of low-slung puppies with ears like sails that result from the union, but Mom tries to discourage the lovemaking. She's tired of finding homes for Hubert's offspring and firmly decides he must cast his seed elsewhere.

Debbie - age 5.

"Get the hose!" she sreams as she spies Duchess and Hubert through the window. Even a cold shower, however, does little to dissuade Hubert. He finishes his business in his own good time, turns without a backward glance, and trots back to the shady grotto of the Blessed Virgin Mary presumably to collapse and have a cigarette.

One day in my sister Debbie's first grade class, Sister Caroline asks the kids to draw a picture of "your family pet having fun." Debbie concentrates hard on her crayon drawing and innocently offers it to Sister Caroline.

It's a detailed depiction of Hubert mounting Duchess. In the background, Deb has thoughtfully added our mother who, with a very round mouth, aims a hose with a long stream of water at Hubert.

Monsignor Leyden, when he receives word of the infamous drawing, laughs so hard he has a coughing spasm. Sister Caroline, however, is far from amused. She mails the picture home and includes a note.

"Mr. and Mrs. Brown," she writes in careful script, "Please help Mary Debra to understand that not everything should be shared at school."

Dad laughs it off, but Mom is embarrassed. She speaks in vague terms about the real nature of Duchess and Hubert's friendship to Debbie who is so bewildered that Mom finally drops the subject.

"Don't put Hubert in any more pictures," Mom instructs her and leaves it at that.

Duchess with Tommy

The rest of Debbie's first grade year passes uneventfully. But when it's my sister Mary's turn to enter Sister Caroline's first grade class, trouble ensues again. It's all because of the Bloody Finger.

Dad loves practical jokes. One day when we are absorbed in a television program, he suddenly prances into the room. Our six foot seven inch father with shoulders like a table top pirouettes in front of us wearing a pink tutu, tights and a blonde wig. We are as thunderstruck as Dad hopes us to be, and he roars his big laugh. Nobody enjoys Dad's practical jokes more than Dad does.

His favorite joke, however, is the Bloody Finger. Returning home from work one evening, he calls to us, his voice gravely serious. On his way home from the office, he tells us, he notices something in the parking lot. It's a detached human finger.

"I brought it home to show you, but whatever you do," he warns, "don't touch it."

We stare at each other. Is he kidding? Why the heck would we touch it? Why would HE?

We lean close as Dad unveils a small box lined with cotton. And there it is. A single finger lies in a small pool of blood. Fascinated and repelled at the same time. we cautiously lean in closer. Suddenly the finger pops up. We shriek and scatter to all corners of the room.

Mom comes running. "What in the world?" she gasps. Dad laughs and laughs thoroughly enjoying his joke. He shows us the hole he's cut in the bottom of the box and reveals the catsup covered finger to be his own.

"That's a great trick, isn't it?" he grins.

Mom's scowl registers deep disapproval, but the rest of us begin to laugh nervously. My brothers decide to play the prank on their friends. Eventually every kid on Eudora Street has been traumatized by the Bloody Finger.

My little sister Mary is horrified by the Bloody Finger. Sweet and shy - so shy that she rarely says a word to anybody but us - she is happiest nestled against Mom and the babies on the tv room couch. In fact, when Terry, Carry, Tommy and Jeff are born, Mary mothers each of them tenderly. But school is difficult. In first grade, her new world of teachers and classmates paralyzes Mary with shyness.

Mary and Tommy

Mom is confident maturity will take care of Mary's perpetual shyness. Dad, however, wants to accelerate the process. He believes Mary needs only a little nudge to come out of her shell.The night before April Fool's Day, he draws her aside.

"You know what the kids at school would love?" he says. "The Bloody Finger!"

Mary is doubtful, but Dad's enthusiasm is contagious. "You'll be a sensation!" Dad says. "Nobody will ever forget the day Mary Brown brought the Bloody Finger to first grade."

The next morning, careful to avoid Mom, Dad produces the cut-out bottom of a small milk carton, catsup and cotton. A few minutes later, Mary walks tremulously the half block to school, her catsup covered finger stuck through the bottom of a milk carton, and prepares to wow Sister Caroline and all her first grade classmates.

The Bloody Finger goes over just about as well as the famous drawing of Duchess and Hubert. Sister Caroline sends yet another note home. This time she wonders if she and my mother and father might sit down to discuss some "helpful parenting methods".

Our beautiful mother is almost never angry. But she's fairly livid now.

"You and your Bloody Finger!" she turns on Dad. "Sister Caroline thinks we're raising hillbillies!" Mom's gentle pride is wounded to the core.

Dad, for once, seems repentant. He doesn't apologize - Dad never apologizes. He does, though, have the grace to look ashamed. "I'll talk to Sister Caroline, Patti," he promises.

We are never privy to the details of that fated meeting between Sister Caroline and Dad. Does she let him have it? It seems unthinkable that a small determined nun should scold our giant of a father.

Mary finishes first grade, and all seems to be forgiven. Dad never encourages any of us ever again to play practical jokes at school. But he's right about one thing.

No one at Blessed Sacrament Elementary ever forgets the day shy little Mary Brown brings the Bloody Finger to Sister Caroline's first grade class.