Mom used to tell us stories about when we were young kids. The first time I met Don was when Mom brought me home from the hospital as a newborn. Mom said that when she got into the house with me, she had Don sit on the couch and placed his baby sister into his arms. He was so proud and cute holding me, and from then on, he felt it was his responsibility and pleasure to take loving care of me. He did the same for our two younger sisters Margaret and Betty.

There was a story of a time when Don got a hand-me-down tricycle from a neighbor. The trike had a wagon built-in between the back wheels. Don liked to take me for rides in the wagon all over the yard. Mom loved to tell us about a time when “big brother” Don tried to take me further on his trike. Mom used to walk to the grocery store while Dad was at work with the car, Don riding his trike alongside her with me in the wagon. On the way, we would pass a house with ducks in the yard and Mom would let us stand and watch them before moving on. One day, as Mom watched us through the window, she noticed us starting off through a field. She ran after us and asked where we were going. Donny proudly announced, “We are going to see the ducks.” Mom told him she was too busy for us to go that day, and that we were not to leave the yard without her permission. He never tried that again.

When I started walking around more, Don was Mom’s little helper. Mom said I liked to turn on the faucet in the front yard and play in the water. Don would turn off the water and carry me away and occupy me doing something else. He also acted as “unofficial babysitter” to Margaret and Betty. When he graduated to a two-wheeler, Don would give us rides on the front bar. Betty loved that! As we got older, Don encouraged us to go with him to play baseball with him and the neighbors on the “baseball diamond” we had created by clearing a field next to our house, with the owner’s permission, of course. Don remained the protective older brother as we girls grew into our teen years and beyond.

Don moved to Idaho about 10 years ago to get away from the fast pace and crowds in California. He loved it there, but the winters got extremely cold up on the mountain in Orofino. Also, I am quite sure it had something to do with missing our family. In late fall each year Don would drive down to Tracy, California and stay with Mom. While he was there, he put his carpentry and handyman skills to work renovating her house and doing other projects. He also used his mechanical skills to make sure Mom’s car was in good condition as well as fixing up his own trucks.

He enjoyed spending Thanksgiving and Christmas with family. However, by January he would start closely watching the weather in Idaho; he missed his home there as well as his son Michael who had also moved there. Mike lived in town, not on the mountain, so he stayed there through the winters. Don would trek back up in February or March.

Now, I would like to share a story my mom wrote for her speech class when she was back in college advancing from LVN to RN in the late 70’s. Don had been drafted into the Army in 1971.

Mom wrote:

“One of the saddest sights I have ever seen was a young

man of 19 sitting in a Greyhound bus. This was not a

pleasure trip for him, but a trip as a recruit to Army

bootcamp. I sat in the car remembering the many

times he had left home before; most of which were

traumatic for me, but joyful for him. This was the first

time both of us were unhappy.

His first trip lasted all of one day. At that time,

he had grabbed onto his lunch pail and gone

off to school. He was so proud of himself!

I had not exactly been sad, but just a little wistful

that my little boy was growing up and away from me.

His next trip was to his grandfather’s house for two

weeks. He was happy even though I was not

exactly overjoyed.

Several years passed before his next trip from

home. This time he packed his things to spend

a week with his sixth-grade class at science camp.

All the class was boisterous, rowdy, and happy to

be going. By this time, I was beginning to get

accustomed to these separations.

Now he was going away again; and this time he

would be gone for 8 weeks (about 2 months) before

he could come home, and then only for a visit. This

time, it was not a choice for either of us for him to go.

He sat in the bus looking sad and dejected, too old

to cry but with the look of tears in his heart. I did not

want him to see me cry, so I went to the car and sat

there for 5 or 10 minutes with tears streaming down

my face.

The next time I saw this fellow, he was standing at

my front door with a big, shy grin on his face. When

Margaret opened the door he showed affection, which

was rare for him. I stood in the kitchen as he greeted

each member of the family. He picked up Betty and

tossed her into the air as he had many times before.

Squeals of delight from her lips brought back a flood

of memories. Dotty let out a squeak of joy when this

half-stranger with whom she had grown up squeezed

her in a bear hug.

Dad’s face was beaming as he shook hands with this handsome

young man he had helped to shape into the kind of person

he was proud to call son. Tears of joy streamed down

my face as I was folded into the chest of the boy who I

had held in the same way so many times in years past.

On many occasions since, he would be gone, sometimes

for longer periods of time and greater distances. I think

we all really began to believe then that no matter how far

or for how long we would be separated, we would know in

our hearts that upon returning we would still find our own

place in this group we each called family.”

This story from my mom, of course, spoke of the reunions we have here on this earth in this lifetime. Even more so, I look forward to the reunion we will have when we meet again in our heavenly home.