Diana's Chapter

The fourth daughter. The sixth child.

I’VE BEEN TOLD BY MOM that I started falling down for no apparent reason when I was three years old. I have no memory of this. They began taking me to Dr. Menton, our first family doctor. He could find nothing. In time, a small discoloration started to appear on my left ankle. This first sign still went undiagnosed. Eventually the discoloration grew and spread up my ankle to my lower leg and eventually to as far as my thigh. As it spread, slowly, the skin hardened, the connective tissue disappeared, and limitation of movement and pain set in. The entire process occurred over a four-year period. Dr. Menton was stumped and referred me to Illinois Research Hospital in Chicago, Illinois. I started going there—first to the outpatient clinics. I remember Daddy waking me up at 4 a.m. for the drive to Chicago. He and Mom in the front seat, me in the back with a blanket and pillows. It always felt like a wonderful adventure on the one hand but ended up being very scary when we got there. Mom would always bring a thermos of coffee and I loved the smell. Daddy would stop at a grocery store in Sandwich, Illinois and buy a box of soda crackers and Mom would make cheese sandwiches as we drove. There were no interstate highways, so I imagine it took at least four hours to get there. The hospital was huge, with high ceilings and marble floors. We sat in a hallway with other sick kids and their families and waited for our name to be called. We had to wait for hours. Daddy would wait outside and when they finally called my name I’d usually be afraid to go in. There was always a team of doctors in white coats examining me and sometimes it made me feel special. Mom was never really verbal with me about any of these events. She usually was unsure of herself and deferred always to the doctors. At some point, I got hospitalized there for the first time. The disease had progressed to the knee by then. I had a huge ulcer on the knee that wouldn’t heal. I remember the visiting nurse coming every day to change the dressing. By now, I wasn’t going to school, so I also had a tutor named Mrs. Lynch. I just loved her. I also liked getting out of going to school. I got to stay home and I’m pretty sure we had TV by then. During the later stages I had more pain. I remember having my leg rubbed and massaged by not only Mom and Dad but also by Marilyn and Pat McFarland—our neighbor friends. Sometimes, when the pain woke me up at night, Mom would call Dr. Menton and he would make a house call and give me a pain shot. His coming would scare me and I’d hide in the closet. He was very kind and gentle and would try to coax me out. I’d scream when he gave me the shot and cry. He was a short, fat, ruddy-faced little man with a big mustache. I think he lost his license for performing illegal abortions, and everyone felt so sorry for him. We loved him. The first time Mom and Dad took me to stay in the hospital in Chicago, I was put in the girl’s ward. I remember being so frightened when they left me that I put the covers over my head and cried myself to sleep. But soon I got very comfortable there and liked it. I made friends with a little Mexican girl named Loopy Gonzalez. Her parents came a lot because they lived in Chicago, and they always brought us fruits and candies. I caught hair lice from Loopy and had to have my hair cut. She and I and the other girls in the ward who could get out of bed, would have wheelchair and cart races down the hallways. Sometimes we’d fill balloons with water and sneak onto the roof of the hospital and try to drop them on people walking floors beneath us. We did this for a long time before we got caught. On Friday nights we had a wonderful nurse named Pat who would take money left in our “banks” and order us greasy hamburgers from the Greek restaurant across the street. It was always a thrill. On Saturdays there was often a party in the boy’s ward with decorations, balloons, cake, punch, games, and clowns. Sometimes the staff put on skits. I’d wear one of the three special dresses that Mom had given me. I loved them. They were like Cinderella dresses—lots of lace, ribbons and full-length skirts. I was so proud of myself in them. Otherwise, we wore little hospital dresses that were very plain and smelled like bleach. On Sundays, the nurses delivered all the ward kids to a chapel downstairs. A volunteer played old religious tunes like Come to the Church in the Wildwood and Rock of Ages. We all hated going to church, but then we’d have visitors. The Sundays that Mom and Dad didn’t come, Arjean Moos or Grandma Hobson would come. I have only vague memories of these visits, but have been told about them. I remained close to Grandma Hobson through the years. I’d visit her home in Geneseo and she got to meet Kelly as an infant. I remember having to go to school in the hospital. My memories of the number of hospitalizations is vague, but I was there several times for varying lengths of time, the longest being several months to a year. During one of my first stays, I remember vividly getting a spinal tap. I can still visualize the little room and being told not to move. Mom was with me. They couldn’t get the needle in after several attempts, so no doubt I was screaming bloody murder. The good news today, as I think about all of these traumatic events, is that I was able to be open with my feelings, even though Mom never was. She always presented herself in a quiet, deferential, sweet way, and never talked about any of her own feelings. She must have been tortured with worry, and probably guilt, but she never let on. My treatments, to my best recollection, were penicillin shots on such a regular basis that I was constantly black and blue. Also, I was given cod liver oil every morning in orange juice. The nurses had to fight me to take it every day. Also, the occupational therapy department had us all doing little craft projects that really did seem to entertain us. I remember making tons of pot-holders on a little hand-loom of some sort. Maybe that’s why I hate to cook today. I think I may have also been given cortisone shots on an experimental basis. Sometimes I think my current health problems might be a result of all the antibiotics and cortisone I received. I’ll probably never know for sure. The doctors would make rounds daily in a big group. It always frightened me. They would discuss what an unusual case I was. Finally, they gave up on the treatments and decided to amputate my leg, apparently to save my life. By now I had been diagnosed as having localized scleroderma. It was in my left hand, on my left chest wall, and a little on my right hand, in addition to my left leg. They discharged me from the hospital to give Mom and Dad time to prepare me. I remember the day Mom told me about the surgery. She was on one side of the kitchen table and I sat facing her. She told me, very sweetly but matter-of-factly, that the doctors wanted to cut my leg off. This way I wouldn’t have pain any more and I could wear dresses and I could go back to school. Also, the Moline Daily Dispatch wanted to send out a photographer to do a human-interest story on me. I remember reacting in a happy, excited way. Daddy was just getting home from work, and when I cheerfully announced to him that I was getting my leg cut off he got angry and more or less reprimanded me for being so happy about it. He also said no one was taking any “God-damned pictures.” I went from feeling excited to feeling I had done something wrong. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. Later, I was told by my older sibs that the first time they had ever seen Daddy cry was after my surgery. While I was hospitalized, Mom and Dad would come to visit on some weekends. I remember putting on one of my three dresses and waiting for them. I knew they were coming when I heard Mom’s high heels clicking in the hallway. She was always the one I wanted to see. They always brought me some kind of homemade food and presents. Lots of times she’d bring me fried chicken. Once, she brought a huge basket of presents donated by church. They were marked and I could pick one a day to open. This is one of my fondest memories—picking a present every day. Maybe it was a storybook, doll, or a book of puzzles, or a teddy bear. It didn’t matter. It generated a lot of excitement with all my little girl friends and nurses. The day of my surgery, Mom was at my bedside. They put me on a cart and I remember being wheeled into a long hall, onto an elevator, and delivered to a small room outside of an operating room. I felt cold. I was left alone there. I started feeling afraid. I sat up and peeked into the other room. I thought I saw blood in the next room and started crying. They wheeled me into the operating room. I was wide awake. They put a heavy rubber mask over my face and turned on the ether. My last memory was one of terror and suffocation. When I woke up I was back in my ward with Mom at my side. I was nauseated and vomiting. I told Mom my leg hurt and she told me it couldn’t be hurting because they had cut it off. I remember looking down and seeing that it was gone, but insisting that it hurt. I was furious because I was strapped down. They took the arm restraints off and I pulled out my i.v. They put the restraints back on. My stump had a huge bandage on it and was connected to a series of pulleys and weights at the end of the bed. My next memory is the physical therapist insisting I get out of bed and walk on crutches. I refused. Finally, after a series of refusals, two therapists loaded me onto a cart and took me on a tour of the boy’s ward. At each bed they would tell me what was wrong with the child. At one they told me, “This little boy will never walk.” “This little girl can’t see,” etc. After the tour, I got out of bed and walked on the crutches. I actually got to love the hospital—to the point that on the day of my discharge I didn’t want to go home. I cried. When I got home, I remember being the center of attention. Daddy took me to a prosthetist in Davenport, Iowa, and they made my first leg. Daddy was totally fascinated with all of the mechanics and watched every step of the way as they constructed this leg. He learned how to make adjustments on it and, when the weather changed, was an expert at getting the tension just right and any squeaks out. He loved to show this leg off to his buddies, and I remember many times standing still while he described the workings to them. He’d be so excited I actually felt a sense of pride. It was an unusual and sweet way to bond with him. In later years, when discussing some of these memories with Mom, I asked her how she managed. She said that on my discharge the doctors told her to just treat me like one of the other kids. “So,” she said, “I did.” Again, she was so trusting of doctors that this good and simple advice helped her to raise me to be at least partially sane. Somehow, I got enough compassion and love, and enough good, practical reality. I’m sure I had many exceptions made for me, but I honestly felt that I became just another one of the kids. I remember feeling the saddest when my sisters went swimming at the city pool in the summertime. Both Mom and Dad would make sure to spend that time with me—either Daddy taking me for a ride in the car for an ice cream or just into the country, or Mom playing cards with me or us baking cookies together. I felt bad that I couldn’t ride a bike. One summer I decided I would at least just sit on the bike and prop myself against the steps. I would kick off and roll down a little hill and practice keeping my balance. I didn’t believe I’d ever be able to ride and shocked myself one day when I started to actually peddle. I was so ecstatic that when I fell down, I got right back up and rode into the street. After one more fall I ran to Mom to show her. I could hardly contain myself, and I’ll never forget the look on her face. To this day, one of my greatest memories of accomplishment is that. I had no intention of teaching myself to ride a bike. I was guided by some kind of unconscious force. I tell this story to my clients and I remind myself of it today when faced with a problem I feel fearful of. When I reflect on all of my early traumas, I sometimes wonder why I’m not crazy today. I think maybe it was a blessing that Mom had seven kids to care for and didn’t have time to indulge and overcompensate for me. Being always loved and never neglected, I must have felt safe and cared for. Mother had a low drama profile and this probably served to help minimize the consequences for me. I realize that I overcompensated for my loss by overachieving in school. This overcompensation had the downside of causing me a great deal of anxiety, but then again, it had the upside of motivating me to work hard, achieve and be able to care for myself and contribute something back. So, all in all, I am a nut case. But, in the scheme of things, a small one.

My very earliest memory was of Carol falling down in Virginia’s garden and cutting her knee deeply. All of us girls were there, including the McFarland girls. When we saw the blood, we started screaming. We were in a strawberry patch, and I remember thinking that a big strawberry was a chunk of Carol’s knee. I went screaming home and remember Carol being taken to the hospital by Virginia. Another early memory is Carol’s babysitting of me, Dee, and Barb. Dee decided it would be a good idea to write our names on the garage with a piece of charcoal. Barb and I joined in, and when Carol found us, she treated us with the threat of a big spanking by Daddy when he got home. This displeased us enough that we started throwing rocks and even a brick at her as she stood on the back porch. When Daddy got home, we got the promised spanking. It was one of the few any of us ever received. He lined all three of us up in our little living room and then made us clean the garage. One of my saddest memories was of Mom lying sick in her front bedroom with pneumonia. The doctor would come to visit and tell her she had to stay in bed. She looked so pale and was so rarely sick in bed that it scared me to death. I thought she might die. I’d sit next to her for reassurance. This had to be an early memory, because she was still sleeping in the front bedroom with only the curtain at the door. The room was big enough only for a bed and a dresser. At some point, they took down the wall between the living and bedroom to make a bigger living room, and even then, it is, to this day, a fairly small room. Before this change, I remember that Barb and I would sleep on a hideaway couch. So, we really had no room of our own. This also had to be before Daddy added on the two bedrooms and bathroom, because we had only an outhouse then. I can still remember it vividly and also how elated we were when the new bathroom was added on. Before that happened, Mom would put two big aluminum tubs in the kitchen, heat water on the stove, and we’d take our baths in those tubs on Saturday night. Later, after the addition, we’d use those same tubs outside to play in on hot summer days. I remember how we liked to play in the rain on warm summer days. We were allowed to put on bathing suits and run out into the rain. If we saw or heard lightning we were ordered to get into the house immediately. I also remember playing on an Army blanket in the front yard in the shade of a tree with my sisters and neighbor friends. We would sit for hours and play with our dolls or paper dolls. Sometimes we had real paper dolls and sometimes we’d cut clothes out of the Sears catalog. Most of our childhood we played out in the yard. If we drifted too far from home, someone would call us home from the front porch by hollering our name at the top of their lungs until we came home. We all played together a lot. A favorite activity was jumping rope, and as I think about it, I’m sort of surprised that I could keep up with that so well. We used big ropes and played in the street, and would compete with each other. We had favorite rhymes to sing as we jumped. If we weren’t jumping rope, we might be playing Jacks or Hop Scotch. Sometimes in the summer, we’d sit on the sidewalk or porch and play. In the winter, we played on the kitchen floor. At school, there were Jacks contests. We played during recess. Once, in 6th grade, I won some kind of ribbon. Another early memory was playing Ring Around The Rosie and Drop The Hankie in grade school. My first day of school, I cried so hard that Mom had to stay with me. I can vividly remember the kindergarten room and my nap rug. Every year at school, the nurse checked us for ringworm and also probably head lice. She used some kind of special colored lamp to look. I think Bob and Bernie caught it and had to wear a cap made from a nylon stocking on their heads. I have few early memories of living with Iris in the house. I was six when she got married. I do remember her propping us up on a kitchen counter and cutting our hair, especially the night before school pictures. We always hated it because she cut our bangs too short. I have more memories of Bernie. One time, I got in trouble for walking on Mom’s wet kitchen floor, so she put me in the corner on a chair and started waxing the floor. I felt trapped. I was really mad. When Bernie came home I started crying and tattled on Mom to him. I was crying so hard he picked me up and saved me. When Bernie was still at home, we had a 45 record player on a stand in the hall. We’d put on a stack of records and listen to them over and over. Bernie played operettas and Mario Lanza. The girls played Johnny Mathis and Elvis. The 12th of Never by Johnny Mathis was my favorite. My memories of Bob make me feel sorry for him. He had to carry his four younger sisters to school when he got a car. We were always late or fighting about clothes. In hindsight, this must have been real torture for him to be the only boy, with four younger sisters. By then Bernie had moved to Chicago. I remember Bob playing with Billy Johnson. One winter, the two of them built an igloo in the garden lot between our houses. It seemed they worked on it for days. The Moline Daily Dispatch put a picture of the igloo in the paper. This igloo adventure caused a lot of excitement. I’ve already related a lot of Carol memories. As we got older, she continued to play a big role in my growing-up years. As the oldest sister of the remaining kids at home, she had a lot of authority over and responsibility for us. Because she was older and had jobs, she bought new and pretty clothes that we coveted. We’d sneak her clothes and hide them under our coats. She had wonderful sweaters especially, and she’d yell at us if and when she found out we were wearing them. Also, she was old enough to buy True Story magazine. These were marginal soft porn. She’d hide them under the tub. We’d sneak and read them, of course. She was also a big leader of the Peppy Steppers 4-H Club. In some ways, she was like a second mother. I can still remember her leading the meetings at Mrs. Holder’s house. One year, Carol and I both won a trip to the State Fair by doing demonstrations at our local county fair. I made a coffee cake. I secretly believed for years that they rigged the competition for me to win so Carol could take care of me at the State Fair. She took me on a Double Ferris Wheel, bought me cotton candy, wouldn’t let me sleep in the top bunk, and tried to get me to hold a baby pig. She wouldn’t let me play too many sideshow games. She told me they were “rigged.” My memories of Dee are as a sweet playmate. I remember how she loved to play Canasta and 500 Rummy. We’d sit at a card table in the basement on hot summer days and drink Kool-Aid and play cards. In our teen years we’d all pile into Carol’s car and go to the Milan drive-in. Carol would make a popper full of corn and Dee would hide under the army blanket in the back seat to get in for free. I always admired Dee’s ability to make her ice cream last. On Saturday nights Daddy would drive us to Roselles. We’d get strawberry cones with fortunes in the bottom. When we played, Dee was the peacekeeper. As soon as a fight broke out, you would see Dee heading for home. When she went to beauty school I was her first customer. As much as I love, trusted, and adored her, she still wrecked my hair! Daddy used to take us to Stardust Carnival. It was a permanent little carnival on 23rd Avenue. Our favorite ride was the Tilt-A- Whirl. Sometimes, Daddy would also take us to the drag races on Saturday night. Barbara and I were littermates. We shared the same bed, and eventually the same room until we left home. We probably did most everything together. I think, looking back, that I probably tortured Barb a lot. First, by being sick and hogging the attention, then, by terrorizing her at night by pretending I was a witch. We fought a lot, but mostly had a childhood filled with long, warm easy days of play in a safe environment with Mom always present and plenty of sisters to serve as stepmoms. Because we were the last of seven, there was more financial security and Daddy had mellowed into a grandfatherly way. Every Sunday night we would make fried egg sandwiches and put them on soft white bread with catsup and dill pickles. We laid on a blanket in front of the TV and watched Lassie Come Home—one of our favorite shows. We made prank phone calls together. We got in trouble for calling Ruth Reichenberg and telling her that her daughter Carolyn was under suspicion for some crime. Barb was pounding on the typewriter in the background. Somehow, Ruth suspected us and we eventually got caught. But my favorite Barb memory was the time that she, Kent Reichenberg, and I were playing Show and Tell in the orchard in a cement sewer pipe. Bernie caught us and told us if he ever caught us doing that again he’d tell Mom. That night at dinner we were frozen with fear. It was Barb’s idea to play this game. Barb and I would use Carol’s car. Sometimes we’d sneak it. One time, I forgot to put the emergency brake on when I parked in front of my girlfriend Mary Dumase’s house. The car rolled down the hill, swerved and went into the neighbor’s yard and was stopped by a tree. Amazingly, no dent. I never told. When I was in high school, I was an overachiever and got straight A’s. I’d stay up late studying and Barb suffered the consequences. I’d have Mom awaken me early to study and drill me. She’d be packing lunches, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. I could never get my hair right, so I’d be the first to get up and use the one bathroom. Mom used to say I was a piddler. We took turns in the bathroom on school days. If we missed our turn, we were out of luck. Daddy ended up using the men’s room at the filling station sometimes, because with four girls in the house he could never get his turn. I remember how all of us helped with the garden. Our summer life revolved around it. First, Grandpa Williams, when he was alive, did most of the work. Then, Mom would can it all. We girls would shell peas by the hour, husk popcorn ’til our fingers got sore, and pit cherries. I realize, now, how much I loved the comfort of having all this family around me. Mom never complained about being tired or overworked, so most of these family memories are ones of sweetness and warm feelings and fun. In our high school year, all four girls would pick and shine tomatoes. Daddy would take us to the produce department of the store to sell them. He told us to put the biggest and best ones on the top. We’d save our money in separate containers in the kitchen. Dee always accumulated the most and held on to it the longest. When I went to college, Carol, Mom and Daddy drove me down. After we unpacked and got me settled in my dorm room, they drove me to the gymnasium. I didn’t want to get out of the car. Daddy said, “You don’t have to get out, Dolly. Come home and go to Moline Public Hospital’s Nursing School.” Mom turned around and said, “No, you have to get out.” Carol was crying and said, “Don’t go. Don’t go.” I got out. I was scared to death. After the first week of school, I realized I couldn’t make the long walk from my dorm to the school of nursing. I called home and told Mom I had to have a car. In hindsight, I was really amazingly presumptive in this request. A few weeks later, Iris and Bill presented me with a 1954 blue Ford. I named it Tillie the Toiler. It ran perfectly for four years. The last week of school it stalled. It took me fifty cents worth of gas to drive it and that’s how much I’d pump. If I hadn’t had this car, I could never have stayed in school. I hope I’ve thanked Iris and Bill for this and, if not, I do now. Carol tells me today that Daddy went to Bill and asked if he would buy a car for Diana. This must have been hard. I have an earlier memory of Daddy being on strike from John Deere & Company. I remember he was supposed to go back, but settlement talks failed. Mom told Daddy she didn’t have money for groceries. I overheard this conversation. I took five silver dollars I’d received as gifts in the hospital and tried to give them to Mom. She said, “You keep these, honey. We’ll be okay.” That same day, Iris drove up in her station wagon. It was full of bags of groceries. She started lugging them in, one after the other. I was so relieved. Mom just stood and cried. My college days were hard. In hindsight, I should have relaxed and had more fun. I was too compulsive and fear-based. I had a vocational rehabilitation scholarship and had to keep high grades. The nursing program required the most time of a major, and so I was relieved to graduate. My first college roommate was a nightmare. She smoked cigars and went to bed at 10 p.m. with earplugs and an eye mask. She was pretty scary. One of my best friends was Martha Kawada, a Japanese girl from New York. I still love going back to visit the Illinois Wesleyan campus when I visit Barb. It’s pretty. In high school I was ashamed of our house. Daddy left junk in the yard. I decided to beautify it by planting a flower garden. Daddy dug up a big one behind the garage with a rotor tiller. I got starts of perennials from Mrs. Rohrer, our neighbor, whose house had been, at one time, a rabbit hutch. I bought the evergreen tree starts in the Sunday supplement for one dollar. Daddy told me not to. When they came, they were small as toothpicks. I felt like a fool. I planted them, and almost every one grew, and some are still in Dee’s yard. The garden was really pretty. I still like to garden to this day. I just don’t enjoy it as much in the Florida heat. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned going to the water works with Daddy when our well ran dry. He had a water tank rigged on a flatbed trailer, and we’d go to the water works together when he got home from work. It would take an hour to fill the tank. We’d come home and he’d transfer it to the well. I’m still pretty conscious of wasting resources today, probably because of these early hardships. Neighbors would also come over with wagons and share the water. Well, I’m sure I could just continue to reminisce and go on and on. Overall, even though there were painful and scary moments growing up, my experience of it was mostly one of laughter, warmth, and excitement. Our family is amazingly exceptional in the way we each became successful in our own unique ways. But moreover, we are exceptional in the way we have maintained a loving and supportive role in each other’s lives. We have all shared our moments of glory and beauty and our moments of pain and sorrow. So, even though being raised in a family of seven required sacrifice, we have all been doubly blessed by the intensity of our love and devotion to one another.

LEE

Lee Kenneth Brady was born September 1st, 1926, in Troy, North Carolina. He was an only son but lived in close proximity to his extended family, which included several doting aunts. His mother, Bess, was a physical therapist and his father, Francis, a salesman. He was named for his grandfather, Leonidus Bray Brady, who was the owner and proprietor of a country grocery store that Lee worked in throughout his youth. Lee was always big for his age and, when he turned fourteen, he qualified for varsity football. He was the school bus driver at this age also. The school board hired mountain boys to drive because they were the most skilled in maneuvering the treacherous mountain roads. He was an honor student, played the cello in the orchestra and was a member of the debate team. Lee was a scholar and people who knew him well soon realized he was brilliant. Not only did he read any and every category of book but remembered all he had read, as well. When he turned sixteen, he had his father sign for him so that he could enlist in the Navy. He became a Naval pilot flying missions for four years in W.W.II. He remained a staunch patriot his entire life. After his discharge from the service, he married, entered Harding College and was ordained a minister in the Church of Christ. In time, he became the rector of the largest church in Chicago. He enrolled at the University of Chicago to work on an MBA, after which he fell away from the church to become a high school English and History teacher in a ghetto school on the South side of Chicago. He was assigned forty students, all black immigrants from the South. He told me he would put the brightest in the front and teach to them, and the slower students in the back where would pick up whatever they wanted to. By that time, he had three children, two boys and a girl. To make additional money to support his growing family, he sold insurance on the side, using the boiler room of the school as his office. His insurance business prospered. He left teaching and opened his own insurance agency. His business was a huge success, but his marriage failed. I met Lee three years after his divorce. Daddy liked Lee but viewed him with suspicion because he said Lee was a “Chicago Bingle.” The first time I brought Lee home to meet the family, Daddy had just retired and was the new and proud owner of a motor scooter. Everyone was a little scandalized by this. Daddy offered Lee an invitation to take a ride on it—probably hoping he’d take a spill and kill himself. But that ride went down this way: Lee got on, sized up the machine, turned to me and said, “Hop on Di.” As I did, without hesitation. We sped off leaving Daddy standing there in our dust hollering like mad, “Get off, Dolly, get off!” Following this incident, Daddy seemed to accept that Lee had claimed me, and they remained good friends till Daddy’s death. When Daddy had his stroke, it was Lee who encouraged and took Daddy to the hospital. Mom adored Lee, and he loved her to pieces. He named her “Ethel Red.” I’m not exactly sure why the bond was so strong. They were both early risers and they’d drink coffee and smoke cigarettes together. He was one of her biggest fans. When Lee was in the insurance business he was a democratic political activist. He was campaign manager for his best friend, Sy Fox, and remained an ardent liberal his entire life. Of course, his favorite pastime was fishing. After moving to South Florida, we discovered the Florida Keys and one of the best deep-sea fishing grounds in the world. Every Friday, after work, we loaded the station wagon and headed for the Hurricane Motor Lodge on Marathon Key. There, we would spend the entire weekend fishing—all day Saturday and all day Sunday. Lee never tired of it. He was happy if we did or didn’t catch fish. He would say, “We’re going fishing, not catching.” Our most memorable fishing tale was in our first year. We were on a party boat with about twenty other people, King Mackerel fishing. I handed my rod to Lee to go to the lady’s room. The minute I stepped away, a huge Sailfish took my bait. Lee hooked it and landed it. “The Marathon News” printed his picture but we decided not to mount the fish because it was so expensive and besides, we thought, we’d probably land many of these in our life. We’ll, it was a regrettable decision because never did he or I meet up with one again. But, the tale lives on. Lee loved people and he liked to talk. People liked him and those who met him would invariably describe him as articulate, charming, well read, astute, and funny. He adored little babies, especially his own. Christmas was his favorite holiday and every year he religiously and reverently unpacked Mom’s ornaments. He would admire each one anew and hand it to me to hang. She made him two that were his favorites. One had a shamrock on it and another a gold fish. He cherished them. He could be a tough and discriminating businessman but underneath was a heart of gold. His favorite charity was Habitat for Humanity. He had a generous and soft heart, and never said no when a loved one asked for help. He struggled with his personal demons in his life, and ultimately his smoking addiction took his life. He was my biggest cheerleader and supporter, and even though my grief subsides, my memories of the wonderful life we shared seem not to fade. I miss him every day, and will never forget his hearty laugh, freckled skin and beautiful hair. Lee died of lung cancer January 28th, 1995. January 28th is Mom’s birthday. I never viewed this as a coincidence. The morning of Lee’s death I looked out the bedroom window and saw a circle of white birds, diving for fish in the lake behind our home. As I stood watching this beautiful and amazing sight, I had the feeling that it was Mom coming to take Lee with her. It was a highly personal and spiritual moment for me. Two hours later, Lee died. To this day, when a white bird crosses my path, I think of them both, and feel comforted.

Kelly Ann Brady was born on December 16, 1968 at 5:56 a.m. at North Miami Beach Hospital. I was thrilled out of my mind, beginning with my pregnancy. She had fine red hair that eventually fell out, leaving her a baldy for two years. According to the nurses, she was the loudest infant in the nursery. But no worry, she soon became a happy, contented, easy baby. Mom was there to help me, both before and after her delivery. In the final days of my pregnancy, Mom and I would sit by the pool and make Christmas ornaments, waiting patiently for the first contraction. When it came, it was a cold night in December, and Mom let me wear her wool orange dress, which I stretched out so badly it was unwearable thereafter. When we brought Kelly home from the hospital, Mom would walk by her bassinet and cover her up. Lee would follow right after, and remove it. It was sweet and fun to watch this battle of wills. Mother usually won. Lee was a sweet and gentle father. He adored Kelly and would sleep with her on his chest at night. He actually taught me how to bathe her so that she wouldn’t scream in horror. Kelly was a beautiful Guild baby with a big round head, and big blue- green eyes. She has a striking resemblance to her Irish daddy but also looks amazingly like her cousins. All of my sisters like to brag about just how beautiful Guild babies are, and Kelly didn’t let us down. But, Kelly was a true Florida baby. She hated wearing clothes. Putting shoes on was a losing battle. When she was eighteen months old, I took her to Moline for the holidays, and bundled her up in a snowsuit for a walk in the snow. I carried her down the stairs and plopped her in the middle of the snow. She refused to walk, and stood frozen in place while tears rolled down her little red cheeks. When I finally got her back in the house, and got the snowsuit off, she proceeded to totally undress. Mom found her on the little back porch dancing in a circle and singing “coolding!” Mom grabbed her up and said in grandmotherly fashion, “You get in here right now! You’re gonna catch your death of pneumonia!” Kelly’s best friend in her elementary school days was Byron Huntsberger. Kelley was two years his junior but five inches taller. They were constant companions, and both of them were daredevils. One day, I looked out the window and was shocked to see them both riding their bicycles down the driveway with their roller skates on. After I heard the inevitable crash, she came screaming into the house with Byron at her heels—Byron terrified by both Kelly’s blood and tears. They were far from angels. One of their favorite pastimes was playing “knock on the door and run away” in the neighborhood, then acting totally innocent of all outraged charges. They both loved Halloween and would spend weeks planning and designing their costumes. Byron’s mother was a designer and would make elaborate costumes for both of them yearly. One year, she designed costumes so that Byron could be The Jolly Green Giant and Kelly his little Green Pea. On Halloween night, when she put an elaborate chicken-wire frame shaped like a pea on Kelly, she immediately burst into tears of pain, and cried, “I don’t wanna be a pea.” Kelly’s favorite childhood foods were homemade chicken and noodles, chocolate chip cookies, and Kraft macaroni and cheese. When she was four years old, she made a Father’s Day card in nursery school that said, “Daddy, I love you more than macaroni and cheese.” It was her greatest literary contribution. Grandma joined our traditional fishing trips when she was down for her yearly winter visit and many nights the four of us would play 500—Mom’s favorite Moline card game. As soon as Kelly could recognize her numbers, we taught her to play and she has the entire score card memorized to this day. She and Grandma were always partners. Kelly got her Masters in Rehabilitation Mental Health Counseling in 1990. Kelly developed an interest in Traditional Chinese Medicine (which she now has a degree in) after being treated and cured of Hodgkin’s disease in 1995. Her courage and strength were put to the test, and not only did she face this challenge heroically, she embraced it and used it to grow into a wise, compassionate and incredibly stellar woman. Underlying her determination and strength is a tender heart. And, as her mother, I cannot describe the intensity of the love and pride I feel for her.