Uncle Carl

Sometimes Uncle Carl drives us crazy. Like the time he comes all the way from Pittsburgh and persuades us to stage a mini opera.

Uncle Carl makes balloon animals for his great nieces.

My little brothers are not remotely interested in opera. I am ten-years-old, however, and dying to play the part of the long suffering Mimi who dies in her lover's arms. That my lover Rudolfo is also my little brother Joe slightly diminishes the thrill, but I’m willing to overlook it for the role of a lifetime.

Uncle Carl rehearses with us in the basement barely concealing his irritation at my brothers’ less than adequate performances. Suddenly his eye is caught by a large stain on the ancient Persian carpet. It’s the very carpet that Uncle Carl himself made as a gift to Mom and Dad.

“My God,” he moans and places a hand over his heart. Uncle Carl is often dramatic like this.  “What's that?” he points to the offending stain.

Our four-year-old sister Debbie, lounging on the battered old basement sofa, follows his gaze. “That’s where Duchess had puppies,” she offers agreeably before jamming her two favorite fingers back in her mouth.

Uncle Carl is livid, and the opera is forgotten before it even begins. My brothers are delighted, but I’m fairly crushed not to inhabit the character of the doomed Mimi.

A lifelong bachelor, Uncle Carl takes care of our Grandmother Brown in Pennsylvania but commits to visiting us regularly - mainly, we suspect, because he regards us as uncivilized hoydens. Uncle Carl makes it his mission to refine us.

“Happy hour!” he sings out at three o'clock on summer afternoons, and we tumble from our rooms or from outdoors to indulge in a fizzy soft drink served on a tray with sweet cookies arranged artfully on the side. Everything is a gala event when Uncle Carl arrives. Tall and cosmopolitan with an elegant eastern accent, he introduces us to a world of crystal goblets, napkin rings and linen table cloths. Before bed, we line up at the bottom of the staircase for “Penny, Penny, Who’s Got the Penny?” Whenever we correctly guess which of Uncle Carl’s fists conceals the penny, we progress up the stairs until one of us reaches the top and is jubilantly declared the winner. He makes balloon animals, has all the time in the world for a game of Monopoly, and marches us around the block like tin soldiers.

We adore Uncle Carl.

If we don't always appreciate his determination to refine us, we do look forward to the big Christmas box he sends without fail every year. Filled with individually wrapped gifts for each of us, it's always the last box we open at Christmas time. The Hamers, our only cousins and a family of seven boys residing on the other side of the country, receive an equally large box. All year long, Uncle Carl combs thrift stores, white elephants and yard sales collecting presents and mementos that eventually will be wrapped and stuffed in our Christmas box. In addition, every member of our large extended family - aunts and uncles and second cousins - receives birthday, anniversary and Valentine cards. Uncle Carl forgets no one. Even as we grow older, marry and produce children and grandchildren of our own, Uncle Carl is meticulous about recording names and births for inclusion in the Christmas box.

"I'm still waiting for those names," he calls to scold me one day shortly before Thanksgiving. During one productive year, several of my nieces and nephews have become parents, and I've forgotten my promise to record the names of Uncle Carl's newest great, great nieces and nephews. Uncle Carl's reminded me on three different occasions, and rather than face his wrath, I make up fictitious names for three new babies.

"Why does Uncle Carl think our grandchildren are called Miranda and Kevin?" my brother Rick stares at me accusingly the following Christmas Eve. I've forgotten all about the made up names. Rick laughs out loud at my discomfiture. "You don't even know the names of my grandchildren," he shakes his head.

"Don't tell Uncle Carl," I sigh.

The truth is, Uncle Carl tends to be just a tiny bit controlling. When my sisters and I get married, he kindly offers to make floral arrangements. We don't realize the hefty price to be paid for this generous offer. Uncle Carl not only takes charge of the flowers but everything else besides. Before Deb's wedding, he orders all of us out to the river to collect green foliage for the altar at St. Mary's Cathedral. We have no idea what we're picking. If it's green, we stuff it into giant garbage bags and obediently haul it to the church. Uncle Carl completely ignores the elderly pastor who tells him that under no circumstances are wedding decorations permitted on the altar and, behind the old priest's back, creates a magnificent arch of greenery precisely around the forbidden area. Father is furious when he discovers the arrangement too late and nearly speechless when, during the ceremony, he spies marijuana leaves skillfully woven through the arrangement.

In spite of his high handedness, we never doubt Uncle Carl's devotion to us. He flies from Pennsylvania in a thunderstorm to be with us for our mother's funeral, and twenty years later he rushes to our sides for Dad's. He even comes from Pennsylvania one year for Rick's high school graduation and my college graduation. In all the craziness, our baby brother Jeff, who's just completed kindergarten, is nearly forgotten by everybody except Uncle Carl.

"Da, da da da, DA DA!" Uncle Carl sings out the notes to "Pomp and Circumstance" as Jeff, with grave dignity, marches through the back yard. Uncle Carl throws a party right there, and we all congratulate Jeff on his remarkable achievement.

This coming March, Uncle Carl will turn 90. He's begged us time and time again to visit him in Pittsburgh, and at last I promise him we will come for his 90th. But a few weeks ago, on a warm October afternoon, Aunt Patty calls me from her home in Virginia with sad news. Uncle Carl has died.

"A stroke," she says hoarsely. I catch the controlled emotion in her voice. My 87-year-old aunt, Dad and Uncle Carl's younger sister, is the last remaining sibling. I'm glad Uncle Steve and her strong sons are nearby.

Our stepmother Kris Nolan Brown with Aunt Patty Hamer.

We've not all been to Pittsburgh together since a long ago visit in 1968. At the time I am 13, and Tom and Jeff aren't even born. Mom and Dad board all eight of us on a TWA jet bound for Pittsburgh, our first airplane trip ever. Grouped together in the rear, we enthusiastically explore air vents and overhead lights as Mom, with our baby sister Caroline on her lap, threatens that if we don't settle down, she will "turn this plane around and head right back home". Upon our arrival in Pittsburgh, we squash into two taxi cabs and careen under the hills through the Fort Pitt Tunnel before bursting forth from darkness. Just like that Pittsburgh rises before us - a city of steel, lights, and skyscrapers glowing in the night sky. The great Allegheny River meets the Monongahela to form the majestic Ohio River, and one day soon Uncle Carl will disperse pennies among us to toss into the waters where the rivers meet as one.

The Hamers. From left: Ken, Brian, Uncle Steve, Aunt
Patty, Pete and Tim.

Mom and Dad are long gone, but here we are, nearly 40 years later, careening through the same Fort Pitt Tunnel. Abruptly, the skyline appears to conquer the black night with its light studded brilliance, and Uncle Carl feels very near. Our loyal stepmother Kris accompanies us along with our young stepbrother Nolan and his sweet wife Brianne.

Mark, Uncle Carl's roommate for the last four decades and the most important person in his world, meets us at the door of the funeral home. He's a lovely man who composedly greets us and all Uncle Carl's friends. At last we find our adored Aunt Patty and Uncle Steve. Tim, Peter and Kenny, our kind, handsome cousins, are there, too. Brian will arrive tomorrow, but our cousins Stephen and Kevin, like our own siblings Terri, Carry and Jeff, are unable to attend. We long for the missing members of our family - living and dead. Paul Solomon, however, Dad's cousin who always makes us laugh, is thankfully here.

In front of Uncle Carl's Pittsburgh apartment. Bottom row from left: Nolan and
Brianne Clare, Brian Hamer. Second row from left: Paul Solomon, Mary Brand,
Joe Brown. Top row from left: Ken Hamer, Pete Hamer, Tom Brown, Deb
Durning, Rick Brown, Cathy Howard and Mick Brown.

When at last we've caught up with each other's news and all the guests have departed, we stand together to gaze upon the body of our brother and uncle. Aunt Patty, in her wheel chair, sits silently, her great blue eyes brilliant with emotion. Uncle Carl's face is unlined and almost youthful. Only recently has his dark hair finally turned gray. He seems remarkably the same, and I can hardly believe we will never again hear his elegant voice.

Three o'clock happy hours, "Penny Penny, Who's Got the Penny", and Christmas boxes now become cherished childhood memories, and with the passing of Uncle Carl comes the passing of an era. My cousins and siblings and I feel it keenly. For all our lives, Uncle Carl's filled our unremarkable days with light and brilliance and sometimes high drama.

He is like his beloved Pittsburgh - the explosion of light at the end of the tunnel. In an instant, the world glows bright with promise. There are presents to open, operas to perform, plans to be made.

And for a little while, anything is possible.

Kenny and Vannie's Wedding

I pray for Kenny and Tommy to marry nice girls. They're only toddlers, but I figure you can't start too early.

Kenny and Savanna

Kenny is a freshman at Denver University when he falls in love the first time. He brings home a girl too shy to speak to us directly.

"Would you like sour cream with your enchiladas?" my husband John politely asks at dinner. She is horrified to be put on the spot in such a blatant manner. Finally she whispers her preference to Kenny.

Slightly embarrassed, Kenny responds. "She doesn't like sour cream, Dad."

The next day I start a 58 day Novena prayer. It's what Desperate Catholic Mothers do. I plead with God.  "Get rid of her,"  

By day 23 she's history. But I finish the Novena anyway. I like to cover all my bases. It is the last time I pray for a girl to go away. I'm not entirely comfortable ordering God around like a mafia hit man.

Two years ago, Kenny brings home Savanna. "Vannie", he calls her. She has purple hair, majors in English, is a sometime vegetarian, and waits tables to put herself through school. My big, gruff husband doesn't scare her in the least.

"You're a vegetarian?" John says in mock horror. "I killed a buffalo for you!"

She cocks an eyebrow. "I didn't say I was a good vegetarian."

I like this girl. I like her a lot. Kenny does, too. In fact, it's as plain as the nose on his face that he adores her. Laughing, they tell us how they meet each for the first time through an online dating site. Kenny has posted a ridiculous photo of himself. He has decided, he explains, to be completely honest. Vannie, when she sees the photo, makes a quick decision.

Kenny's online dating photo

"I figure either he's a complete freak," she tells us, "or that he's the perfect guy for me."

She's the perfect girl for him, too. Vannie falls in love not only with Kenny but with his big dog Sarge. Vannie, in fact, is passionate about all animals. She interns for a pet shelter and bonds with mysterious breeds of animals that I am afraid to look at let alone touch. An iguana lovingly wraps itself around her head. She builds by hand a doggie wheelchair for a pup with paralyzed hind quarters. One day she adopts a sweet shelter dog called Luna who, along with Kenny's Sarge, completes their crazy quartet.

Never in my life have I met a girl like Vannie. She is an inveterate reader.  I remember the day she texts me a picture of the book she loves most - a well worn, dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. I gasp. Jane Eyre is my all time favorite book. I am not acquainted with one other person who loves it like I do. In that moment, I know she will marry my son.

"Because of Jane Eyre?" my husband snorts. Laugh all you want, I think knowingly. She's the one.

Vannie and Iguana friend

And she is. Last Friday, on a warm day in June, Kenny and Vannie tie the knot under a cloudless blue sky in Colorado's Denver City Park. The place is full of poignant memories for my siblings and me. We grew up in this park paddle boating on the big lake with our Starbuck cousins on the Fourth of July. Dad hurled my brothers and me in our saucer sleds down the big hill in front of the Museum of Natural History. City Park was home to us 45 years ago, and I wish with all my heart that Mom and Dad were here for this great day.

But John's 92-year-old mother is still with us, and surrounded by her children and grandchildren before the ceremony, Ruth Howard chokes back tears. I do not become emotional until I see my own siblings marching up the rise toward us like a small army. My sister-in-law Sheryl leads the charge. Wave after wave of brothers and sisters and spouses and children and our stepmother Kris come all the way from our small town in Nebraska to celebrate with Kenny and Vannie.

It is a wonderful day, pure and simple. Vannie is a vision in her dress. She wears no veil. Her hair hangs loosely around her radiant face, and peeping below her dress,as she marches down the aisle, are blue denim shoes. I smile. My beautiful daughter-in-law is uniquely and proudly herself.

Later, we crowd into the boat pavillion for eating and dancing. Vannie's gorgeous mother Ronda and her talented friends have transformed the ancient boathouse. With warm Texan hospitality, Ronda charms our huge family and guests while her affable husband Rob takes care of things behind the scenes. Vannie's handsome father Bobby offers a loving toast to the bride and groom. Our younger son Tommy, as his brother's best man, offers his own toast. He recalls the day long ago that he snatches the last Little Debbie from our cupboard and flaunts it in front of Kenny who immediately smashes it so that neither one of them will enjoy it.

"When you crushed that Zebra cake, Kenny," Tommy laments, "you crushed a little part of me."

My evil sister-in-law Mary Turner nudges me. "So you're the kind of mother who let her kids eat Little Debbies?" she mocks me. She loves it that I have no homemaking skills

"I couldn't bake that day," I pretend to be indignant. "I was behind with my scrapbooking." We laugh raucously.

Vannie's sister Ashley, the maid of honor, offers a toast with sisterly words of love and tenderly kisses Vannie. Then we dance. Vannie's mother has secretly arranged a flash mob dance inviting all of us to participate. She leads the crowd assisted by Vannie's father and beautiful stepmother Sherri. I am not a dancer, though, and think I will bow out. My sisters, however, will not allow me to retreat.

"Loosen up!" my younger sister Mary scolds.

She is absolutely right. How many times does your oldest son get married? We dance and laugh and sing. Kenny hikes his pants up to his chest and struts his moves like Pee Wee Herman. Even on his wedding day, my 6 ft. 10 son cannot find a suit with sleeves long enough to reach his wrists. My sister Terri, beaming like a teenager, bounces out on the floor to match Kenny's outlandish dance moves, and I think I have never laughed so hard.

Suddenly the DJ is playing We Are Family. We sing along in thundering unison. It is absolutely the cheesiest moment ever, but it occurs to me that in this hot little pavillion, I am surrounded by almost all the people in the world I love most. My dad's cousins, Peggy and MaryLee, whose voices I have known all my life, are here with their families. Past and present generations of Browns, Howards, Hansons,Turners, Tighes and Ryans mingle together. A new generation will begin with this eventful night. It is a moment divine. Perhaps the highlight of the evening, however, is Vannie's delightful grandfather,"PaPa", who strums his beloved guitar and sings for the newlyweds.

"I only like two kinds of music," PaPa's eyes twinkle. "Country and western!"

Finally, I slip outside for a breath of cool air. Ashley, Vannie's sister, is also there, snatching a moment of quiet.

"I was so nervous about my toast," she confides all at once. "There was so much I wanted to say."

She tells me about "Sibling Night", a weekly event which she and Vannie and their younger brother Ben hold dear. They cook and talk and spend time together.

"Then Vannie brought Kenny, and when Tommy moved to Denver, he came, too," Ashley explains breathlessly. "And now Kenny and Tommy have become like my own brothers. And that," she finishes at a gallop, "is what I really wanted to say in my toast."

Vannie and Kenny - June 17th, 2016

Suddenly, I like this lovely, regal girl very much. Wordless, I grip her arm. Ashley cannot realize how happy she has made me. Kenny and Tommy are on their own living 400 miles away from us. In a flash, however, I know if anything should happen to my sweet boys, they will be among family. I try to thank Ashley but realize I will only sound like an over-emotional mother. One day I will try to tell her what a great gift her words were to me on the day of my son's wedding.

On June 17th, 2016, Kenny and Vannie's wedding night, the moon is full. I take a moment to stand by myself and savor the cool night air and the City Park lake shining in the moonlight. Mom and Dad feel very near. I hope they know about Kenny and Vannie - about their tender hearts and their quirky humor. I hope they know that a beautiful girl has captured their grandson's heart - a girl who loves helpless animals, blue denim shoes, and Jane Eyre.

And a sweet, lovely, very tall boy whose sleeves are never long enough - not even on his wedding day.

Carry Short

Even when she's five, my sister Carry is a drama queen. Nobody can turn a skinned knee into a near death experience quite like our baby sister.

"My knee! Oh my God, my knee! Oh my God, Oh my God!"

We are forbidden to use the Lord's name in vain. Ever. But Carry's entire vocabulary is built upon her histrionic invocations to God.

Carry (front) with our siblings Mary, Rick, Terri, Tom and Jeff

She is a little like the Boy Who Cries Wolf, and we tend to ignore her outbursts. One afternoon, however, when we are all lounging in the tv room, we hear her shrieks from the kitchen. Her OhMyGod's seem even more desperate than usual.

My mother rolls her eyes. "Somebody better check on our little Sarah Bernhardt," she says to no one in particular.

It's probably good that we do. Nimble as a monkey, Carry has maneuvered herself up the kitchen cabinets to secure the peanut butter from the top shelf. Losing her tenuous grip, she tumbles but is saved when her underwear fortunately hooks to the knob of the silverware drawer. Suspended in mid air, she flails furiously.

"My God, my God!" she hisses when we laugh helplessly but make no move to disengage her. "Why don't you help me!"

In spite of her passionate dramatics, we adore Carry. She is the eighth child of the ten of us. I am the oldest and nearly 13 when she is born, and the second she comes home from the hospital I am utterly captivated by my baby sister. Like Mom, she is a dark-eyed beauty. Small and lithe, she darts around the house and through the yard like a long legged nymph. She is not tall like the rest of us. Rather, she is so small that she burrows next to our giant of a father in his huge recliner and all but disappears under his big arm.

When Carry is 8, Mom is diagnosed with breast cancer. We are a family in denial and refuse to believe she will be taken from us. Her death knocks us off our feet. In a bewildering cloud of grief, we understand our lives will never be the same. But our small siblings are especially vulnerable.

Dad is our savior. In spite of his own terrible pain, he makes the ten of us feel safe, and we try to embrace the new normal. Dad rouses us all for school in the mornings when the alarm blares. As soon as he closes the door in the bathroom to shower, Carry crawls into Dad's big bed, the bed he shared with Mom. She yanks the covers around her and listens to the sounds of Dad gargling and showering. Paul Harvey spouts his morning perspective from the bathroom radio. It is the only time she feels safe.

My siblings and I become especially close after Mom dies, and we are especially protective of Dad and each other. Carry and I, in fact, become like mother and daughter.

She grows into a beautiful young woman, and I am proud of her. Immediately after high school, all by herself, she bravely moves to Denver to become a nanny. There she meets Craig Short, and by the time she is in her middle twenties, Carry seems to have everything she has ever craved - a husband, a family, and a beautiful home.

Her children - Morgan, Jonathan and Joseph - are her life. Carry romps on the floor and plays with them,and I think I have never seen a mother who enjoys her children so much. We are delighted when they all move back from Colorado to Omaha.

Carry with kids Jonathan, Joseph and Morgan

But the marriage does not survive. Carry is a stay-at-home mom with no college education. After her divorce, she is paralyzed with fear. Nevertheless, she forces herself to march into an Omaha car dealership to ask for a job. She gets it, too. Not only that, she becomes one of the top sales people at Baxter Hyundai. She is still a drama queen, to be sure. But the girl's got guts.

Life careens along. Until 2010 when our little sister Terri is diagnosed with breast cancer. Scared to death, she elects to have a double mastectomy. Before we can even catch our breath, however, my sister Deb is diagnosed with hyperplasia, a pre-cancerous breast condition. The jig is up, and we know it. Breast cancer killed Mom and her grandmother, and now it's gunning for all of us. Deb, Mary and I, like our sister Terri, decide with great trepidation to undergo preventive double mastectomies. But Carry digs in her heels.

"I am not having a double mastectomy," she snaps at Mary who pleads with her to consider the surgery. I can hardly blame her. She is a 42-year-old single mother. In her eyes, preventive surgery means the end of her life. I cannot tell her it isn't so. In any case, she is determined that the family gene will never claim her as its next victim.

But it does. Six weeks ago, she discovers a small lump, and by the end of  the month, she has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Carry is 48-years-old. Mom was 48 when she died. There was a time when none of my sisters or I  believed we'd ever live past our 48th year. We convince Carry that she's lucky. She's found this cancer early, and Dr. Janet Grange, our own surgeon, will probably perform a simple lumpectomy.

Carry with daughter Morgan

But it's not that easy. A few days later, as Carry and I sit side by side in  a tense examination room, Dr. Grange explains that Carry's tumor is aggressive. It must be treated immediately with chemotherapy before surgery is even considered.

Carry groans, drops her head and wails. Dr. Grange and I try to comfort her, but Carry, when she raises her head, is angry. "So it's already gone to my organs! AND I'm losing my hair?" she lashes out at Dr. Grange.

I attempt to intervene, but Dr. Grange waves her hand at me. "No," she cautions. "She's just received terrible news. Let her deal with it."

Carry pulls herself together, but she barely listens as Dr. Grange explains that chemo will kill any errant cells. "This is a treatable, winnable cancer," she tells us. Later, though, in the elevator, Carry sobs. She is my heartbroken baby sister, and we cling to each other for dear life.

It is not fair that my two little sisters have been stricken by this terrible disease. Terri and I are in the car after visiting Carry one day. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by the family affliction. When will we be done with it? I have 18 gorgeous nieces. Must they all live in fear of cancer? Are we a family of women destined to lose our breasts?

"Terri," I sigh, "do you ever wish sometimes we could just all go to Heaven and leave this business behind?"

But Terri's having none of that. My little sister is a cancer survivor. She's fought too hard to wish her life away. "It'll be okay," she says soothingly.

Immediately, I am comforted. Terri is the sister who made all the rest of us brave. She will make Carry brave, too. And she has. My brother Joe, a cancer survivor himself, texts us. "Everything will be all right." My brother Rick sends us a special prayer to say. We band together, like we always do, and I am supremely grateful for my good brothers and sisters. It is one more hurtle we will conquer together.

Only a few days after the terrible morning in Dr. Grange's office, Carry makes an appointment to be fitted for a wig. Yesterday, Dr. Grange inserts a port in her arm, and next Wednesday, she will begin her first chemo treatment. Her close friends will invade her house this Saturday, and they will shave Carry's head.

"I'm not waiting for my hair to fall out," she says briskly. She has also decided, after her chemo, to have a double mastectomy. In the meantime, she is taking caring of her children and selling cars. She is that little girl who climbs the kitchen shelves determined to get the peanut butter - all by herself.

But she doesn't have to do this by herself. Surrounded by her kids and good friends and family, Carry will plow her way to the other side. Because that's what she's done all her life.

She's a drama queen, my baby sister. But she's a tough cookie.

And we'll be with her all the way.

Sheryl Strobel-Brown

You should meet my sisters-in-law.

Sheryl and Tom

Every last one is gorgeous. And smart and strong and funny. As well, they're hopelessly devoted to my brothers. To be fair, they didn't have to grow up with them like my sisters and I did. They never endured underwear shoved over their heads or being pinned to the floor forced to swallow brother spit. Just the same, they manage my brothers very well, and they welcome with open arms the rest of our enormous and hugely dysfunctional family.

My sister-in-law Sheryl and my brother Tom usually host Christmas. All 60 of us tumble into their big beautiful home. We read the tender story of the Nativity aloud, sing carols - the three we remember all the words to, exchange with hilarity white elephant gifts, and eat and drink much more than we really should. Mostly we enjoy each other.

Tom and Sheryl, who never worry about spills or small house fires, make it look easy. Even as we sing and laugh, though, I am drawn to the sweet girl in the picture frame across the room. She is caught in time - a laughing, eager teenager with her brilliant smile and eyes that brim with fun. Only 15-years-old, she is a joyous extension of my sister-in-law.

She is Frankie.

I have never met her, but I feel close to her. Sheryl tells me stories. About Frankie's reluctance to be a cheerleader for her high school in the village of Clarks.  "Mom," Frankie rolls her eyes, "I'm not a shake-your-poms-fake-kind-of-smile-girl."

About how Frankie excels in volleyball, basketball, track, and does, after all, love being a cheerleader.

About her devotion to her younger brothers, especially her baby brother Ace. "Boo Boo!" she croons.

And about the time Sheryl asks for a good place to hide a pair of leather gloves she has purchased as a gift for Frankie's stepfather.  "Hide 'em in my underwear drawer," Frankie suggests. "If he finds them, we'll know he's a pervert."

Frankie loves to help her mother with projects around the house. She helps Sheryl remodel their kitchen. She loves to bake and meticulously copies a recipe for monster cookies. "Walnuts optional," she prints carefully on paper.

She thinks about going into the field of advertising someday like her mother. In fact, she wants more than anything for her mother to be proud of her.

One November day, Frankie drives to basketball practice, her school driving permit in hand, but turns right back around to collect gas money.

"I've got just 11 bucks!" Sheryl hands her a fistful of cash.

Frankie throws a brilliant smile over her shoulder and dashes back out the door again. From the window, Sheryl watches her daughter drive away.

Sheryl and Frankie

"God, I love that kid," she sends a prayer of gratitude to the heavens.

It is the last moment she and Frankie will ever share.

On her way home from practice, Frankie loses control of her vehicle, rolls down into a ravine, and is thrown 200 yards. It is Sheryl's brother who tells her over the phone that Frankie is dead.

Sheryl remembers only that she drops to her knees. The words are incomprehensible and have to be a mistake. Later, at the funeral home, she stares down at her daughter's body. Frankie is wearing her blue Hyvee shirt. She is unchanged. Suddenly, a small mucous bubble erupts from Frankie's nose, and for one wild second, Sheryl believes her daughter is alive.

"It's just the body shutting down," a funeral home attendant tells her as kindly as possible. The day her daughter leaves this earth is at once the end and the beginning of everything. All the rest of Sheryl's life will be divided into two parts - before and after Frankie. She cannot know on that terrible day that her marriage will fall apart. That even as she can hardly breathe, some friends will fail to understand her seemingly endless grief and others will tell her that Frankie's death is part of God's plan.

Frankie and her dog.

Sheryl cannot fathom a God who would allow her child to be taken. Even so, she cannot live the rest of her life without the belief that somewhere, Frankie's spirit exists, understands, loves and waits for her.

As a single mother, she has two small boys to raise. When the grief threatens to overwhelm her, she shuts her eyes and tries to talk to Frankie. Making an appointment with a counselor, she begins the long process of working through the pain and making a life for herself and her boys. She learns to find comfort and strength in the wisdom and words of others.

"The only kind of courage that matters is the kind that gets you from one moment to the next" becomes one of her mantras.

When Frankie's anniversary rolls around, Sheryl leaves her world for a day and takes a solitary road trip. "I try to have no expectations," she says, "except to think about Frankie all I want, write, and just be with my sadness by myself."

Eventually she is hired by NTV as an account executive. It is 2007, three years after Frankie's death. Sheryl is at the Grand Island Conestoga Mall working on a Christmas ad when she meets my brother Tom, the head of security.

"Sheryl," her friend Melissa, part of the mall management, slides up next to her, "Tom Brown thinks you're kind of cute."

Sheryl blinks. "Who? That guy with the short pants?"

Sheryl isn't sure after two marriages and the loss of Frankie that she's ready for Tom. But Tom is no stranger to grief. He is ten-years-old when our mother dies. I remember at Mom's funeral the way Tommy sits next to our heartbroken grandmother and softly pats her back as she sobs. He will not be put off by Sheryl's own grief.  My little brother is as good and gentle as a spring rain.

"You know, Mom," Sheryl's son Jake says one day after she and Tom are married, "I think Tom saved you."

Maybe they have saved each other.

Frankie has been gone 11 years now. Five years ago, Sheryl and her nieces instituted the "Frankie Lyn Anderson Volleyball Tournament." More than 300 people arrive in Clarks to play sand volleyball each year. Sheryl's brothers build the court, and even Sheryl's mother, who deeply loves her lost granddaughter, helps with the day. The money raised is donated to Frankie's high school in Clarks for band camp, athletic camp, science camp or any kind of school camp scholarships.

Fifth annual Frankie Lyn Anderson Volleyball Tournament

Sheryl forges ahead with other dreams, too. Although Tom and she have combined Tom's three children - Karley, Casey and Kelsey - with Sheryl's two, they decide to take in foster children. Two years ago, 16-year-old Alyssa arrives followed by brother and sister duo Chris and Kaitlynn, 9 and 7. This last summer, they load everybody in the car and head to the Lake of the Ozarks for a family vacation.

Tom, Sheryl and the whole crew at Lake of the Ozarks.

Their house overflowing with eight children is all because of a bright, beautiful girl called Frankie. On the outside, her mother Sheryl's life seems happy, full and busy. If it is, it's because Sheryl's made a conscious choice that it should be that way.

Even after 11 years, however, there is still the fresh and piercing pain that takes Sheryl by surprise. This Christmas, she finds Frankie's carefully copied recipe for monster cookies.  "Walnuts optional" she reads in her daughter's handwriting through a sting of tears.

These last 11 years, she has tried to be the mother Frankie would be proud of. She tries, in fact, to be the person Frankie was. On Frankie's grave marker, Sheryl has the following words set in stone to describe her daughter:

  "To value God's creations, to find the best in others, to give one's self, to leave the world a little better, to have smiled and laughed with enthusiasm, to have shed tears with a tender heart, to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived...This is to have succeeded."

Frankie's marker.

Perhaps it is only Frankie herself who truly understands her mother's heart and the monumental courage it's taken for Sheryl to travel this long road without her.

Sometimes Sheryl thinks about a particular date - April 10th, 2020. That will be the day, Sheryl says, that Frankie will have been gone from this earth longer than she inhabited it. She doesn't know why the day has become such a significant milestone.

"Perhaps it's because I have always, as long as I can remember, been Frankie's mom - from the time I was a kid myself, really," Sheryl ponders. "Maybe on that day I am going to climb a mountain. And maybe," she smiles, "it will be just a mole hill. I will figure it out as I go - one moment to the next."

Laurie Kulus

Laurie Kulus is strikingly beautiful. And fit. Lordie, is the girl fit.

She was, in fact, training to run the Nebraska State Fair half marathon on Aug. 29th, an event she couldn't wait to sink her teeth in.

"I was gonna rock that race," she laughs. "My goal was to run it in less than two hours."

Scott and Laurie Kulus

But a routine colonoscopy two weeks ago changed everything. Only days before the race, Laurie would check into St. Francis Medical Center for major surgery to remove almost a foot of her colon. Her very first colonoscopy had revealed a dangerously large polyp that, her doctor surmises, had been growing for ten years.

For a girl who's always taken care of everybody else, this was foreign territory. Laurie has always watched out for her widowed mother. She sat with her dad as he took his last breath, and she is, as her husband Scott and kids Bradley and Amber will tell you, the rock of their family.

"We've been hit hard this past year with lots of pain and struggles," daughter Amber says, "but Mom always says there's a reason for it. She says we just have to believe that something great will come out of it all."

As executive director of GRACE (Grand Island Area Cancer Endowment), Laurie writes grants, organizes assistance for families, and stays strongly connected with the Cancer Treatment Center. Because of her job, cancer is no stranger to Laurie, and in the same way she cares for family and friends, she also cares for those in the community stricken by a cancer diagnosis.

GRACE co-founders Lisa Willman and Julie Pfeifer say that Laurie has been a God-send to the foundation. "Her beautiful smile, warmth and compassion are just what our cancer patients need most when they sit with her and feel vulnerable, hopeless and afraid," Julie said.

Lisa adds that Laurie listens with an open ear and heart and is always willing to go the extra mile to find additional resources for patients. "She puts in the time to make a diagnosis less stressful and has really worked hard to form some alliances with other agencies and individuals who can serve as resources."

But Laurie's own possible cancer diagnosis was a blow. After the colonoscopy and subsequent devastating news, she went home to seriously consider her own mortality. Laurie did what women all through time have done in the face of gut wrenching fear.

She cleaned out her closet.

"I didn't want Scott to have to do it after I was gone," she said.

She cried a little, too. Then she pulled herself together. Bradley, her son, arrived from Omaha, and her daughter Amber with her husband Adam and baby daughter Brooklyn also flocked home. They barbecued and laughed, and Laurie played with her granddaughter. With the support of her family around her, Laurie made a decision. She would use her own experience to help others. Because that's what you do if you're Laurie Kulus.

"She's always helping somebody," her son Brad reflects. "I take a ton of pride in calling her 'Mom'. There's never been a time that she hasn't been around for me or anybody else who needed her."

A friend of hers whose own mother had died of colon cancer asked Laurie what she could do to help.

"Don't bring me a meal," Laurie ordered. "Go get a colonoscopy. That's what you can do for me."

It's her new mission in life - to get everybody she knows 50 years of age or older to schedule a colonoscopy.  "There's absolutely nothing to it," she emphasizes, describing the procedure itself as completely painless and prep the day before only mildly annoying.

Although Laurie herself was only 52 with no symptoms, her doctor was concerned at the size and aggressive growth of the mass in her colon.  "Had you waited another two years," her doctor gravely informed her, "we'd be having a different conversation."

Most polyps, if caught early, are not cancerous but can become cancerous if not removed in a timely manner. The size of Laurie's polyp was of great concern to her doctors. "Colon cancer is the most preventable cancer there is," Laurie explains, "and colonoscopies are completely covered by insurance. There's really no reason not to have one."

In the days before her surgery, Laurie talked to everyone she knew urging friends and family alike to take charge of their colon health.  "If I can talk even one person into scheduling a colonoscopy," she says, "then I've done something."

During the dark hours, she took refuge in the support of friends and family. Her good GRACE pals Lisa and Julie presented her with a gift of Scripture readings and a medallion. Laurie pressed the medallion next to her heart. "It meant the love and comfort of my friends," she says, "and that's so soothing to me."

The weekend before her surgery, Laurie and Scott jumped into the car with good friends to take a road trip to Iowa. She posted photos on Facebook.

"Having a great time with great friends and Styx!"  Her beautiful, happy face, close to Scott's, beamed from the photos.

When she came home, she prepared herself for major surgery.

Laurie didn't run in the Nebraska State Fair marathon on August 29th. Instead, though still weak from her operation, she manned a water station flanked by her friends Julie Pfeifer and Lisa Willman.

Her polyp was benign. No cancer. Not anywhere.

"My doctor told me the mass was one stage below cancer," Laurie explains. "Had I waited any longer to have my colonoscopy, it would have been too late. I'm blessed!"

Life, with its profound beauty and endless length of days, will continue for Laurie Kulus. Not content to sit on the sidelines, however, she will work to be an outspoken advocate for colon health.

"There's work to be done!" she flashes her brilliant smile. She will nag her family, friends, neighbors, and strangers on the street, if need be, to schedule their colonoscopies.

But she will also find time to hug her granddaughter, take a road trip with her husband, and begin a training regimen.

Because next year at the State Fair, by God, she'll be running a half marathon.

Dr. Bill Grange

Dr. Bill and Mary Grange are celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary.

Their children - Mary Beth, Jim, Tom and Cass - will arrive with their families from various parts of the country, and Bill and Mary have invited all their friends to the Grand Island reception as well. Still, the Granges do not expect a large turnout.

Dr. Bill and Mary Grange (photo by Connie
Swanson Photography)

"Who would come?" Dr. Grange shrugs.

Three hundred people, that's who. Old friends, young friends, church friends. Their plumber will come. The guy who took care of their lawn and the woman who cleaned their house will come. Many of Dr. Grange's patients from his 45 years in optometry practice will come.

Everybody will come.

It is a chance to show Bill and Mary Grange what they have meant to the Grand Island community all these many years and to celebrate the life of a remarkable couple.

Sixty-five years ago, a young Bill Grange asks Mary to dance with him for the first time at Northern State University in Aberdeen, South Dakota, where they are both students. He has been warned, as have all the other boys on campus, not to have anything to do with the beautiful Mary Matthews.

"She's stuck up," a brazen local athlete, who has been politely spurned by Mary, tells the others. "Don't anybody call her."

In spite of the dire warning, or perhaps because of it, Bill is determined to ask Mary for a dance. She accepts.

 He cracks jokes. She laughs uproariously. They leave, steal the brazen athlete's car, and light out for an evening of joy riding.

"I didn't drive too well," Bill remembers now.

"Oh, we just had the best time!" Mary laughs.

They fall in love and eventually plan to be married. But Mary is a devout Catholic, and Bill is not.

"I don't know anything about being Catholic!" he tells her. "I don't even know how to play Bingo!"

Sixty-five years, five children and 14 grandchildren later, Bill is still cracking jokes, and Mary is still laughing. Bill, incidentally, is as devout a Catholic as they come and a long time member of St. Leo's Catholic Church in Grand Island.

"He still is the focus of my life," Mary says, "and my best friend."

Bill says he and Mary are a team. Mary's always had time for him and listened to his troubles. "We've had a wonderful life, haven't we, Love?" he says to her. He insists that Mary's wisdom and intuitive nature are responsible for their happy home and their happy children. Mary, however, has always relied on Bill's strength, steadiness and engaging sense of humor. Whatever their secret is, the two have brought their family through some dark times.

In 1974, their handsome, oldest son Jack, only 21-years-old, will die of cancer. He lies on a hospital bed in the dining room of the Grange house, and Bill understands it is a gift that Jack can be home surrounded by his parents and brothers and sisters.

Mary sits beside her son. "If only I could take your place, Jack," she says in anguish one day.

Jack shakes his head. "You're needed here," he tells his mother. "I've accepted this thing."

Never once, Bill recalls, does Jack ever ask, why me? "He was wise beyond his years," Bill says about his son.

Afterwards, Bill and Mary urge their other kids to talk about Jack and help them to heal. But afraid of hurting one another, the two are careful never to burden each other with their own terrible grief.  At a Catholic Marriage Encounter weekend, however, as spouses are asked to confide in each other by writing letters, Bill and Mary at last pour out their sadness over Jack. It is a turning point in their marriage, and finally they are able to get on with the business of living.

There are other tragedies. Their son Tom's infant daughter, Mary Cathryn, dies of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome when she is only a few months old. The Granges rally again.

"Our faith and Bill's strength have carried us through those times," Mary says.

Perhaps it is because of those great losses that Dr. Grange reaches out to people so easily. Most would agree, however, that it is simply his innate nature to do so. He is kind and funny and uncannily gifted at putting all people at ease.

"He really is just as nice as everybody says," Mary beams proudly.

Retired from his optometry business and living with Mary at Riverside Lodge Retirement Community, Bill has learned to adapt to his new life. He volunteers his time at the Grand Island Literacy Council and has been recognized by the Grand Island Independent for his work there.

"The World's Oldest Tutor", as he refers to himself, meets frequently at the city library to help his students read and speak the English language. He coaches one young woman to speak English by asking her to carefully repeat to the librarian behind the desk word for word whatever he whispers to her.

"I love America, and I am trying to learn English," he whispers to the young woman who repeats it dutifully to the librarian.

"My teacher is very old," he whispers again.

His students love his humor and respond by relaxing and learning. "It helps for people to learn just a few key phrases and to have interaction with others they're not acquainted with," Bill says.

He helps a young Vietnamese man pass his citizenship test and another young man from Cuba learn enough English to become gainfully employed.

Worried that he will come across as a "Goody Two Shoes", Bill is anxious to insist that his work is rewarding because it keeps him interested and busy in retirement. "It's much different than when I was still working at the office. Then I'd just want to come home after a long day and sit on Mary's lap."

"Oh Bill," Mary laughs. "Don't say that. Somebody'll think it's true."

One of his current projects, Bill explains, is building birdhouses and bookcases in the little shop that his son Tom has helped him to erect in his garage at Riverside. Bill gives the birdhouses away, but he has filled a bookcase with paperbacks he collects at rummage sales and makes a gift of it to a low income housing project.

He tells the manager of the facility, "Just call me Marian the Librarian."

After reading a story in the Denver Post about "Little Free Libraries", small shelved boxes of books posted at street corners of various low income neighborhoods, Bill is keen to try it in Grand Island.

"I'm not really a great guy for doing this," his eyes twinkle. "I'm just trying to fight boredom."

Dr.Bill Grange says his life has been a joy, but he's worked at it. "I'm the luckiest guy in the world," he says. "I was able to do the work I love, and I was able to marry the woman I love."

And the simple truth is, he really is a great guy.

Charles Hamner

Mr. Hamner was throwing me to the wolves.

I was a 21-year-old, ill-confident student teacher at Grand Island Senior High, and my supervising teacher Charles Hamner was practically guaranteeing that my career would end before it started.

"This'll be a good experience," he tried to reassure me, "a fuller experience."

Charles and Devon Hamner with kids and grandkids

What he meant was that I'd had it way too easy with my other supervising teacher, Mr. Obester. Fay Obester was a kind, gentle old bachelor who taught American Lit. He'd handed over his very best class to me, and I'd taught My Antonia to those exceptional children and loved every minute of it.

Now Mr. Hamner had decided it was time for me to take a stab at the last period General English class. Charles Hamner could handle that class of all boys - boys who'd already failed the course or who had no intention of passing it the first time.  I'd observed him work his magic in that terrifying classroom and even coerce Jesse, the solidly well-built eleventh grader who was the unofficial leader of the pack, into behaving like a model citizen.

Truthfully, I was in awe of the great Mr. Hamner. In every circumstance and in every setting, Mr. Hamner always knew what to say or do. Only a couple of weeks before, poor Mr. Obester had lost his frail, elderly father whom he had lived with and cared for tenderly. When he came back to school a few days later, he strayed almost uncertainly into Mr. Hamner's classroom.

"Fay!" Mr. Hamner jumped up to cross the room and grip the sagging shoulder of the struggling Mr. Obester. "I'm so sorry about your dad," he said with direct, heartfelt sympathy.

Given permission to be a grieving son rather than a stoic teacher, Mr. Obester gratefully talked and talked about his departed father, and his kind eyes welled with tears. Mr. Hamner listened intently, said all the right things, and ministered to his old friend.

He dealt with the anguished Mr. Obester as deftly as he dealt with those ruffians in last period General English. I listened and watched as he talked to the boys about wrestling and hunting and all manner of things.They liked him - so much so that that they read and wrote and participated in class in spite of themselves. They wanted, I observed in a kind of wonder, to please Mr. Hamner.

They wouldn't care about pleasing me.

"Use your height!" Mr, Hamner said to me now. "Try to be a little intimidating!"

But he and I both knew it wouldn't matter if I was ten feet tall. Those boys would only see RAW HAMBURGER plastered across my forehead.

It was so much worse than I ever imagined. Last period passed quietly the next Monday, but I sensed rebellion in the air. It was the knife edge tension that coils to spring just before a prison riot. It was hard to ignore the grins and  knowing glances that passed across the aisles.

Tuesday was D-Day. I had just turned to write on the blackboard when I felt the snap of a rubber band against my shoulder.

Be calm, I said to myself. It's nothing.

Just like that, a barrage of rubber bands whizzed through the air bouncing off my back, my head and the blackboard before settling like so much debris around my feet. Aside from a few irrepressible snorts, the room was silent. They were waiting to see what I would do.

I didn't get mad. I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I did nothing. Because I was young and stupid and humiliated and out of my league, I ignored them. The same thing happened the next day. Only this time, there were no stifled snorts of laughter. I had abandoned ship. The natives had taken over, and chaos reined..

As soon as the bell rang after the longest 50 minutes of my life, I walked straight out of the room and straight to Mr. Hamner.

"I'm in trouble," I confessed.

He sat back in his chair with hands clasped behind his head and calmly listened as I blurted the terrible details of the last three days.  At last I collapsed into a chair across from his desk and stared mutely at the floor.

"So," he said quietly, "what will you do when you walk into that room tomorrow?"

I sighed. "Well, I'm never ever writing on the board again."

He laughed, and I felt marginally better. It was Jesse, I said, who fired the first rubber band, I was sure of it.

Mr. Hamner looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "So maybe," he suggested gently, "the answer is to get Jesse on your side."

I stared at him. "How do I do that?" I sputtered.

He smiled. "That's for every good teacher to figure out for herself."

I didn't sleep that night. Instead, I wrestled with my dilemma, twisting it and wringing it like a rag. All the next day, I carried the burden of it, and when last period arrived, I marched to class like a convicted man walking the green mile to the electric chair.

They were all there - early for the first time that week - waiting and laughing in gleeful anticipation. I instructed them to open their literature books and then deliberately turned to face the board. I didn't have to wait long. The rubber bands rained down like a hail storm. Sending up a fervent prayer, I turned slowly back to face them.

 "Look," I finally gathered the courage to speak. "I know you wish Mr. Hamner was still teaching the class."

They laughed and grinned at each other. Of course, they loved Mr. Hamner. But who was I kidding? Pelting the student teacher with rubber bands was kind of a gas.

"Okay," I corrected myself.  "I wish Mr. Hamner was still teaching the class." I drew a ragged breath. "The thing is, I'm young and I'm not a very good teacher. In fact, I'm probably a lousy teacher. But I'd like to be a good one." I looked up at them. "And I can't do it when you're slinging rubber bands at me. So, if you could just give me a break, I'd really appreciate it."

That was it. I waited. For something. Anything. Some looked ashamed, and many of them were staring at Jesse who sat slumped in his desk observing me in silence. After a second, he rose and slouched up to the front of the room. Then he emptied his pocket of what seemed like a hundred rubber bands and tossed them into the waste basket.  Slowly, he walked back to his desk. I saw lots of them stealing looks at each other. A couple of other kids rose to do the same thing.  Then it was a mass exodus of boys leaving their desks to empty their pockets of every last rubber band.

When they were all seated again, the silence in the room was thundering. I knew I was supposed to say something.

"Man," I squeaked at last.  "That was a lot of rubber bands."

I wish I could say last period English was perfect after that, but Jesse and I continued to do enthusiastic battle over control of the class, and although we achieved an uneasy balance, I never developed the rapport with those boys that Mr. Hamner did.

But they never shot another rubber band.

At the end of the quarter, I collected my final grades. Mr. Obester had given me an outstanding recommendation. I was not an outstanding student teacher, but Mr. Obester liked me, and I was grateful for his report.

Mr. Hamner, on the other hand, was bluntly honest and gave me exactly what I deserved - a very mediocre recommendation. I remember walking out of Grand Island Senior High for the last time poring over his recommendation again and again. The disappointment was keen. Then I noticed his handwritten comment on the very bottom: "Ms. Brown, with a little confidence, shows promise."

It wasn't much. But I'd take it. After all, hadn't I survived last period General English? In the weeks that followed, I swallowed my disappointment, signed a teaching contract for the next fall at Grand Island Central Catholic, and was determined to work on my confidence.

It eventually came, too, waxing and waning with years of successes and failures. I thought about Mr. Hamner a lot. Sometimes, after a particularly good class, I'd think to myself, "Chuck would have liked that." Instinctively, I incorporated all that I learned under Mr. Hamner's tutelage into my classroom management style and silently thanked Charles Hamner again and again for his wisdom and persistence.

Although I never saw him, I was always aware of his presence in town. He and his wife Devon, a blonde beauty, were legends in the Grand Island teaching community. Likewise, their good looking, gifted children were as remarkable as their parents. I remember hearing that Mr. Hamner and his wife eventually retired and thought, as I so often did, that I should write him a note to thank him for all that he'd done for me.But after 38 years, I was sure he'd long forgotten that hopelessly young student teacher.

You'd think since we'd lived in the same town we would have run into each other occasionally, but we never really did. Until two weeks ago last Saturday.

I was shopping at Walmart when I saw him and his young handsome son, Jonathan. I waved, sure that he'd never recognize me. However, to my surprise and delight, he not only remembered me but stopped to talk to me and introduce me to his son.

"How's retirement?" I grinned. "Is it the life?"

He was still youthful and fit and vigorous. But a shadow crossed his face, and he hesitated. "It's good. I don't know if you knew that Devon was diagnosed with cancer."

His beautiful wife. I did not know and was heartsick to hear it. After enduring a very difficult operation, Mr. Hamner said, she was only just able to start chemo treatment.

"We're trying to buy a little time," he said, and his eyes filled.

"I'm so sorry, Charles." I said. It was the first time I'd ever called him by his first name. And I was suddenly remembering how he had comforted poor Mr. Obester nearly 40 years ago after his father died. "I'll be saying lots of Catholic novenas!" I said.

I wished I could have taken it right back. Mr. Hamner was not Catholic, but I could think of no way to comfort him as he had comforted Mr. Obester.

"Thank you," he said graciously, as if I had offered him the one thing he needed most. We embraced, I shook hands with his handsome son, and we parted ways.

Then I turned into the mouthwash aisle and stared at the shelves for a long time

After 38 years, Mr. Hamner and I had come full circle, and I understood his great gift as en educator. He'd taught me always to look for the person behind the face - whether it was an old teacher grieving over the death of his father, an eleventh grade boy who needed the adoration of his classmates, or a young student teacher whose time had come to confront her fears. Only today, he'd shown me another person. The great Charles Hamner was a man who loved his wife very much. In spite of his quiet courage, his agony was a palpable thing. Even the great Mr. Hamner needed a little support.

Charles Hamner and I are peers now. The truth is, though, he continues to influence and speak to me in a hundred different ways.

And he will always be my teacher.