Manchester's Melting Pot

Dec. 23, 2024

 

In the summer of 1974, my Mom uprooted my five siblings and me from our home in northeastern New Jersey, a stone’s throw from the George Washington Bridge, and relocated the clan to Manchester’s North End. For Mom, it was a homecoming. She was raised by my Grandmere and Grandpere Pare on Lafayette Street, on the city’s predominantly French-Canadian West Side.

 

Mom’s brothers – my Uncle Arthur and Uncle Bill – were a pair of studs, playing football and baseball for the Giant Killers of St. Joseph High School for Boys (now the co-ed Trinity High School). William “Bill” Pare later played football at Fordham, and was inducted into the Trinity’s Athletic Hall of Fame in 1988. But it was my Uncle Art, who would go on to become a Jesuit priest, who would change the trajectory of my athletic life.

 

While a novitiate in Beirut, Lebanon, the future Father Pare was introduced to global “football,” the sport we call soccer. He was absolutely smitten. When Mom suggested that we were interested in football, Art quickly interjected: “Jane, you really need to have the boys play soccer.” It was a serendipitous moment in my sporting “career.”

 

In the early 1970s, New Jersey was a true social melting pot, an early hotbed for American soccer. My brothers and I were incredibly fortunate to meet a remarkable coach, Joseph Camilleri, a native of Malta who founded the Leonia Soccer Association a few years earlier. We had the O’Connors – the sons of Irish and French-Canadien parents – plus Italians, Greeks, Germans, eastern Europeans, Central Americans, and South Americans. The teams reflected the extensive ethnic diversity of Leonia, which I loved.

 

When we moved to New Hampshire, following my sophomore year in high school, I had no idea what to expect. Though we regularly visited Grandmere and Grandpere during my childhood, I didn’t know many other kids. I couldn’t wait for Central High’s soccer practices to start, so I could meet a few fellow students before classes began. Given my somewhat limited experiences with local teens, I expected a fairly lily-white turnout. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

School athletic teams, as anyone who has played knows, are microcosms, small groups within larger groups. We represent the schools we play for, but aren’t always representative. Manchester of 1974 wasn’t nearly as ethnically diverse as it is today, but our soccer team certainly was. It was like the United Nations. We had names from various and sundry backgrounds, including French-Canadian (Gelinas, Cusson, Chaput, Benard), Greek (Kaliora, Lekkas, Venagas), and Equadorian (Carachuelo). We had a Luce, Larea, Demenchuk, Zito, Witcher, Johnson, Hamilton, and Connelly. Our goalkeeper was a studious senior with All-American good looks named Doug Zesiger. But the unquestioned stars were a pair of Colombian imports – Jimmy Sierra and Henry Saldariaga – and a wonderfully talented and comical Haitian, Danny Lascase.

 

“My first experience with real soccer came the summer following my freshman year at Central,” says Steve Long, a fellow junior on that 1974 team. “I played a game on a team that was shorthanded, and mostly manned by folks from the Greek community. I credit those guys with my introduction to the sport, since they encouraged me to keep playing.”

 

While Central soccer teams had rarely been anything special, Coach Robert Veilleux and the rest of us quickly realized this squad could be dominant. Except for one early season hiccup against powerhouse Alvirne squad, we ran the table, capturing the city championship with a 12-1 mark. Meanwhile, I developed the useful talent of cursing in five different languages.

 

“Hey, No. 1,” a ref once snapped at me during a game. “Repeat what you just said to me. In English.”

 

“I can’t,” I honestly replied, smiling and running away. “I have no idea what it means.”

 

What we all knew, almost intrinsically, was that soccer was game that rewarded teamwork. When all 11 players were on the same page, working as a unit, we were all but unstoppable. And we enjoyed every moment.

 

“I agree it was a special group,” says Long. “As a young soccer player, I really admired the seniors on the team, and loved joking around with my peers.

 

“I also learned a lot about being a good team member,” he says. “The 1974 team was my first brush with ethnic diversity. That helped prepare me for joining the Peace Corps and meeting my wife-to-be from Mumbai in graduate school. As a provincial kid from a New Hampshire mill town, I wouldn’t have gotten very far without my exposure to the ethnic diversity that came from playing on that 1974 team.” 

 

Today, I can’t help but think what we could all learn from my 1974 team. A half-century after that magical fall, I still look back fondly on that collection of boys who took to the rocky pitch alongside Hillside Junior High to play “the beautiful game,” and played together beautifully.

 

FINIS

 

A version of this essay first appeared in the September 2024 issue of New Hampshire Magazine.

Magic Bus – My Adventures with Grandmere

Dec. 22, 2024

                            Illustration by Peter Noonan

 

During a recent visit to Boston, I squeezed down the crowded aisle of an MBTA bus before exiting. I felt badly for the customers waiting curbside, their faces masked in resignation. Boston busses are a mode of transportation, nothing more. They aren’t fun. The other riders weren’t reveling in the experience.

 

What a difference 50 years can make. Then, riding the bus was pure adventure for me, made all the more enjoyable by a special traveling companion, my Grandmère Paré.

 

Grandmère, my maternal grandmother, introduced me to the art of bus riding before I started school. Though I grew up in New Jersey, our family often made the pilgrimage to Mom’s hometown of Manchester, N.H., and my grandparents’ home on Pickering Street. Here, during the 1960s and early ‘70s, I learned the fundamentals of big-city public transportation.

 

My grandmother got her license late in life. She was almost 70 before finally taking her driver’s test, after my grandfather suffered a heart attack. Still, Grandmère rarely drove. Taking the bus downtown – to the Queen City’s beating heart – seemed more reasonable, more practical. She let someone else do the driving.

 

The best bus rides came during winter, with whispers of light snow snaking across the freshly plowed Manchester streets. Bundled in layers – it would take us forever to get dressed, with rubber buckle-up boots and heavy snow pants – Grandmère, my siblings and I would shuffle down to the bus stop on Webster Street.

 

At least two of us would hold tightly to Grandmère’s hands. She always wore fine black gloves that she somehow never misplaced. I remember the bright green woven cap that kept her coiffured silver hair in place, and a large black and green overcoat that brought the ensemble together.

 

Her cheeks, like the young faces of her entourage, turned a healthy red in the brisk winter gusts. Though well into her 60s, Grandmère had the energy of a woman a third her age, and our walk to the bus stop was more of a race. All five of us would typically tire well before she did.

 

Climbing aboard the bus, my stubby Irish nose barely rose above the coin box. Grandmère would converse cheerily with the driver while we fumbled for the change hidden in our mitten-covered hands.

 

I never questioned whether Grandmère actually knew the driver, or the dozens of passengers she would greet with a crisp “Hello” as she ushered us to an available seat. I just figured she must. Her dazzling, infectious smile was always returned in kind. The passengers probably weren’t elated about having these rambunctious youngsters interrupting the serenity of a quiet bus ride downtown, but Grandmère always won them over. Her exuberance was contagious.

 

Like Grandmère, I couldn’t sit still. Usually, I’d try to coax a neighboring passenger into light-hearted conversation, boasting about a new toy or inquiring about this and that as Grandmère tried to corral me back to my seat. Those were especially prized moments, when just the two of us – Grandmère and me – rode to town and back. I loved the powerful, steady hum of the bus engines, and the excitement of discovering a new city with Grandmère, with stores to explore and restaurants to sample.

 

In the 1980s, Grandmère still enjoyed remarkably good health. When she celebrated her 90^th birthday, she didn’t look a day past 70. She eventually moved from the house that my grandfather built to an apartment complex off River Road. But she kept riding the bus, maintaining a fabulous rapport with other passengers, bringing many into her ever-expanding circle of friends.

 

It’s been decades – a lifetime, really – since I last rode a Manchester Transit bus. We lost Grandmère in 1994, at the age of 98. I miss the sublime sense of adventure of those wintry days on the Webster Street bus. But I cherish the memories.

 

FINIS

 

This essay originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of New Hampshire Magazine.

 

Joyeux Noel!

 

December, 2024

 

To all our friends and family,

 

Happy holidays from 11 Homestead Circle in Hamilton. It’s been a busy, and eventful, 2024. 

 

The biggest “family news” is that we’ll be officially welcoming a new member 2025, as Maddi and her partner Kate are now engaged, and will be tying the knot next October. Can’t wait to get the entire family together. Maddi continues her admirable work at Hopeful Journeys with kids on the autism spectrum while pursing her master’s degree in special education. She continues to coach volleyball with a local elite program, and plays alongside Kate – a middle school teacher, Buffalo native, and a proud member of Bills Mafia – for Amoskeag Rugby (the squad had a great fall season, making it to their league’s championship game). It’s been a blast watching her playing this new sport! We love having both Kate and Maddi – as well as their wonderful rescue hounds, Alfie and Bruce – close by, and we get to see them fairly often, which is always fun.

 

Brynne marked her 2^nd anniversary as a full-time resident of Austin, Texas, where she’s keeping the locals happy serving up craft cocktails as a bartender at the high-end van Zandt Hotel as well as a new spot, Verbena. She and her playful Great Pyrenees named Mr. Reddington (“Red” for short) are always up for company, like a visit from Grandmom this past fall (photo below). She also joined Maddi and Kate in Colorado for the surprise proposal. Brynne’s gotten into running and continues to bike, which has been a great way to stay in and shape and expand her circle of friends. We plan to visit this February, shortly after her 26^th birthday, to cheer Brynne on in her first marathon. Miss that girl like crazy, but absolutely love the phone calls!

 

Here at home, Lauri continues to hold everything together (we celebrated 30 years of wedded bliss this summer!). While the loss of her father in late 2023 was a tremendous setback, Lauri continues to care for her family, her friends, and her Mass General Brigham patients with uncommon grace and dignity. I’m truly amazed how she manages to squeeze so much love and kindness into every day. Her faithful commitment to cycling has me concerned that when I do eventually get back in the saddle, I’ll never catch her. And at this time of year, I always delight in how Lauri transforms our little cottage into a winter wonderland. I’m forever grateful for having this beautiful woman as my partner in life. 

 

As for the pet contingent, our mousers Molly and Izzy turned 15 this year, meaning the local mice have much less to worry about. For outdoor cats, though, these sisters are impressive. Our rescue Hobey (“Hobart of the Homestead”) is still the same lovable, goofy hound he was when we brought him home in the fall of 2016. He’s great company for this work-from-home hubby.

 

Though I hit the Big 6-7 in October, I’m not quite ready to cash in my writing chips. Work continues to find me, thanks to a terrific group of editors, and I still love the act of writing (looking for work is another matter, but that’s different story). I’m trying to abide by my father in-law’s mantra to “do interesting work for interesting people.” That, and striving to get back on the bike and shedding a few extra pounds (OK, more than a few) in 2025, so I can resume my favorite pastime of chasing after my wife. We postponed my planned spine surgery in early October to a later date, giving me time to trim down and get stronger. Fingers crossed.

 

As for the New Year, our wish is that 2025 brings us all moments of magic that we can enjoy and celebrate – from simple Solo Stove fires on the back deck to long walks on Singing Beach to Myopia polo matches to spontaneous gatherings of family and friends – all reminders of the all-important ties that bind us together. We are living in uncertain times, which of course is when our faith in one another matters most. I hope we can see you all sometime soon. Joyeux Noel!

 

Lots and lots of love, with big hugs and kisses,

-Brynne, Maddi, Lauri, and Brion (and Hobey, Izzy, and Molly)

 

 

 

Denial ...

Hi gang,

Well, it's been a busy, busy year since my last post, and I need to make more of a concerted effort to tend to my blogs! In less than a month, I'll celebrate the first anniversary of the little "fluff and buff" I had on my right hip, which was necessity by 40-plus years of abuse on the ice and on the soccer fields. Little did I know, at the time, that the hip arthroscopy I had done a week before my 53rd birthday would force me to take a long, hard look at my Peter Pan lifestyle of playing sports into my second half-century.

I've always bounced back from surgery, starting with work on my lower legs (both) to relieve pressure from severe shin splints in college -- which spelled the end to my budding soccer career -- to more recent 'scopes on my knees. The hip work, however, proved to be considerably more daunting. Arthritis is like that. The surgeons can shave bone and repair torn labrums and clean up the frayed cartilege (which, I might add, was plentiful in the ol' hip joint), but there was no miracle cure for the arthritis. So I'm left with a small section of the hip that's bone-on-bone, facing the prospect of hip replacement somewhere down the road, and the very real possibility that my days of playing goalie might be over (the accompanying photo was taken in the spring of 2008, shortly after my team got spanked at a tournament at Lake Placid).

All of which got me thinking about a post I penned a couple of years ago about my brother Chris, and his decision to call it quits from competitive hockey ("competitive" in the most generous sense of the word) after another tournament in Lake Placid the following year. In the true spirit of denial, I revisit that post fairly regularly. In a weird way, it helps me to stay focused on my rehab, now going on 12 months and counting. It gets me worked up into a lather about how I won't give in to Father Time, how I'll keep tilting at windmills. Sure, I don't like my odds. But I've never been much of a betting man. And as long as there's hope ...

Hanging them up ...

May 17, 2009

Boston, late evening

I had a bad feeling the moment the email downloaded on my Outlook Express. The sender was my brother, Chris, and the subject line simply read: "Hanging 'em up ..."

I didn't want to open the email, to be perfectly honest. Chris is my younger brother, by 16 months, and we'd just spent a tremendous weekend playing hockey together at Lake Placid. True, our team didn't record a single win (or a single goal, for that matter), but being on the ice with my brother was a real treat for me. I'm one of six siblings, including five boys. Yet, due to myriad circumstances, we didn't get many opportunities to play alongside each other after elementary school, though most of us continued to pursue sports.

Later in life, after my older brother Sean became an accomplished orthopaedic surgeon, our gang of old jocks would joke that our family alone would ensure him a steady practice. And Chris certainly had his share of injuries. He suffered back problems as a kid, and blew up one of his knees playing indoor soccer in college. Recently, there were knee and elbow issues (admittedly, the injury roll-call becomes a blur after a while). But if anyone could overcome an injury, it was Chris.

The guy is built like a tank, and (unlike me) has a real focus and commitment to weight-training and stretching routines. During our old-timer hockey weekend, I marveled at his adherence to his pre-game stretching ritual. Me? I pre-medicated with a 800 mg of Ibuprofen and hoped for the best. Chris was one of the best players on our team that weekend (though I'm afraid I'm damning him with faint praise, given our miserable showing), and on the long drive home we talked about getting together to play again soon. Maybe even another tournament. That's why his email took me aback.

Chris was actually writing to a guy who runs a local pick-up skate, and he had blind Cc:'d me on it. The note was brief and to the point: "Several weeks ago in one of our Monday night skates I collided hard with one of my team mates and hurt my left shoulder. The shoulder won't need surgery but I've decided it's time for me to hang up the skates. One too many sports related injuries over the years, I guess."

I knew about the shoulder injury, but thought it was, at worst, a minor hindrance. That's either a testament to my brother's toughness, or my own willingness to ignore the severity of any injury. Maybe both. Regardless, I'm hoping this is only a temporary setback (I fired a quick reply, asking: "You sure?"), and not permanent. I can't imagine that Chris has played his last hockey game. Otherwise, I'd have to acknowledge that I might be one step closer to calling it quits.

Which brings me back to Lake Placid. We had two pairs of father-son tandems on our squad, and each had the tournament photographer take a separate photo of them after the team photo was taken. I briefly considered having him snap a photo of Chris and myself, but then thought; "Nah, we'll have plenty more opportunities." Little did I know. These moments are fleeting. That's probably why they're so special to us. Enjoy them.

Best,
-Brion

The luck of the draw ...

Sept. 11, 2010

Nine years ago this morning, I was hunkered down in my basement office, furiously tapping away at my keyboard, trying to wrap up a story before my scheduled flight the next day. Lauri called me after dropping the girls off at day care, asking if I'd heard the news -- a plane had flown into the World Trade Center in New York. I hadn't, but my immediate reaction was that it must have been a small, single-prop craft. Maybe a lunatic, maybe just an awful accident. Like the rest of us, my mind wouldn't even consider the reality that eventually came to pass.

I went upstairs, flipped on the tube, and watched the horror unfold. By that time, the second airliner had flown into the South Tower of the WTC, and all hell was breaking loose in Manhattan. I sat there, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what was happening right before my eyes. Terrorism had taken on an entirely new meaning. When the TV anchors announced that the second jet was United Flight 175, a chill knifed through me like a bony finger of the Grim Reaper. United Flight 175 was my flight the next day. Although I was on assignment for Continental, my trip was organized by the Hawaiian tourism office, and they booked me on United, flying direct to Los Angeles, then to Hawaii.

My mood immediately shifted from disbelief to ashen. I was actually shaking, watching the coverage. My story didn't get done. My flight, and trip, were canceled. My life, like the lives of countless thousands, was changed forever. So had the world as we knew it. And we're reminded of that every time we fly, every time we wait in a security line. Our daughters, thankfully, were too young to comprehend the depth of the evil on display that day. Lauri, my wife, was understandably distraught. I, for some odd reason, was simply numb.

That night, I played hockey down at the local prep school. I hadn't planned to, but needed to do something to shake myself out of my stupor. So I grabbed my gear, drove down to the rink, and got into the first fist fight I could recall since high school. It was stupid, a reflection, I'm sure, of the tension that everyone was feeling that night. Not even hockey, a game that was my great escape for most of my life, could provide any refuge.

A month later, I flew to Denver, Colorado, to meet my brothers Matt and Mike. We were headed to the High Lonesome Lodge on the western slopes of the Rockies, and along the way the United States unleashed its military fury on Bagdad. When we arrived at the High Lonesome Lodge, the place looked like a ghost town. Buzz Cox, the manager, explained that the lodge had been booked solid by Cantor-Fitzgerald, the finance firm devastated by the 9/11 attacks.

Americans, to this day, are justifiably outraged at the murderous acts of Sept. 11, 2001. Like most, I will never forget. But I also try to remember how fortunate I was, of the difference that 24 hours can make. Did God "spare" me? I don't think so, because that would insinuate that He didn't spare the 2,977 people who tragically lost their lives that day (and the 19 hijackers He allowed to live long enough to perpetrate such a heinous act). Sometimes I think the Almighty simply sets things in motion, and then lets the chips fall. Why wasn't I on that flight, along with Ace Bailey and Mark Bavis of the Los Angeles Kings and 63 others? It was just fate; the luck of the draw. It's a cruel reminder that none of us are guaranteed anything. Ever.

Which is why we should celebrate everything we do have, and never once take the things we hold dear for granted. I get to enjoy this stunning Saturday morning, and plan to go for a bike ride the minute I get this essay posted. Today, I'll hug my bride and our girls a little more tightly. I'd like to say I do that every day, but I don't. Life, with all its challenges, tends to dull the immediacy of these moments. But every now and then I'm reminded. I need that.

Best,
-Brion

Wild Child

Watching my two daughters - 13 and 11 - playing together in the backyard on this beautiful Saturday morning reminded me of one of my favorite essays, penned a good five years ago for the Trustees of Reservations.

Into the Wild

My two young daughters love being outdoors – in sprawling, windswept fields, lush green forests, and soothing, sandy beaches that stretch forever. Whether that's the result of nature or nurture, I don't know. They’ve never had a choice. My wife, Lauri, and I possess a primal need to flee from our work-a-day worlds. We’ve always found that escape in unspoiled settings. And ever since our girls came into this world, they’ve accompanied us.

Still, it’s not like we’ve got a pair of wool-clad, granola-chomping nature imps. They’ll zone out in front of the Boob Tube as quick as any kid, immersed in the hypnotic pull of SpongeBob Squarepants, Fairly Odd Parents, Jimmy Neutron and Lizzie Maguire. In short, they’re “normal.” To get them outside and engaged, they need a nudge.

That wasn’t always easy, especially when the girls were toddlers. But we managed, graduating from Baby Bjorns to backpack-style kid carriers to all-terrain strollers. What we learned was that children are incredibly adaptable. The key is getting them out before they know any better, so they accept the great outdoors as part of the natural order of being a kid.

The adjustment, ironically, may be tougher for the parents. We're the ones who fret about everything that we think we need to do to make it a great experience. It was my older brother Sean, the father of four, who shook me free of my paralysis by putting parenting in proper perspective. “Brion, you only have to stay one step ahead of a six-year-old.”

He’s right. We weren’t planning an Everest expedition. Armed with Sean’s sage advice, I decided not to let things get too complicated. We started with small trips, for an hour or so, and then just let them build (the girls, we found, are particularly adept at telling us when they are ready to take the next step). We kept it simple.We packed snacks, an extra sweater, bug spray and sun block. Without lesson plans or itineraries, we set out with faith in the idea that when kids and nature mix––something wonderful will happen. And it did. The girls just romped. And we joined them, from the fruitless-but-wildly-entertaining chase of butterflies to the energizing investigation of intricate tidal pools and shadowy forest floors.

Today, my oldest, eight-year-old Maddi, craves open spaces. As we crest the boardwalk at Crane Beach in Ipswich, she inevitably picks up the pace, her spontaneous giggle revealing the unfettered joy of a child with room to run. Six-year-old Brynne takes a different approach, aware that keeping up with big sister is a big undertaking. Instead, she delves into the minutiae of small, secret places, whether on the leaf-filled serpentine trails of Ravenswood or in the scrub pine woods behind the dunes at Crane, uncovering frogs and worms and salamanders.

Watching Maddi and Brynne, something else quite remarkable happens. Lauri and I realize that our girls, with their unbridled enthusiasm for the natural world, spark our own imaginations. With that, they help rekindle our passion for the great outdoors.

North Shore resident Brion O’Connor is a freelance writer and longtime member of The Trustees of Reservations.

Four hundred words to last forever

Father's Day, 2010

Since I can remember, Father's Day has been a time of reflection for me. This year is no different. Below is an essay I wrote to Dad last year, and just felt the need to post it again (with updates, of course, as Father Time waits for no man). Still miss him, and think of him, often ...

Thinking of Dad

Today, on Father's Day, I find myself torn between generations. On one hand, I'm looking ahead to the coming challenges I face as a dad (my girls are 11 and 13; life is unlikely to get any easier in the foreseeable future). On the other, I'm thinking of my own father. It's been almost four decades since we lost Dad, a victim of a smoking habit he just couldn't break. I say "we" because, by all accounts, Dr. John Joseph O'Connor Jr. was an immensely popular man. That was doubly true under his own roof, with a beautiful wife and six kids who adored him. He finally succumbed to his Camel-induced cancer in August of 1971, just before I began 8th grade. I can't begin to describe the upheaval that loss caused, in part because I probably never fully dealt with it. We O'Connors are pretty crafty when it comes to compartmentalizing our feelings, though some are better than others.

Now that I'm past my own half-century mark, my own memories of Dad are somewhat faded, like the edges of an antique, sepia-toned photograph (similar to the one above, of Mom and Dad on an early date in New York City). I remember watching the ambulance leaving our driveway, not understanding that I'd never see Dad again. And I remember bawling my eyes out at the funeral, when the stark sight of his casket brought home the full impact of our new-found reality: Dad was gone, and gone for good.

The years that followed brought a rough-and-tumble road of highs and lows. Mom, a truly remarkable woman, managed to keep our clan together when a number of her kids – myself included – threatened to veer out of control. Later in life, after I began my career, it slowly dawned on me that Mom had been both a mother and father to all of us. The burden must have been immense, yet Mom never flinched (or, if she did, she never let on to us). So I suppose that, on this day, she deserves credit as well. But she had help. Just before Dad went in for exploratory surgery in January, 1971, he wrote us a letter, parting words of wisdom from a man who knew full well that no one is guaranteed to wake up from the operating table. Mom saved the letter, and made sure we each got a copy after Dad passed away. I wish I could say Dad's words always kept me on the straight and narrow, but I've made too many mistakes. But those are mine, not his.

Still, for a man who understood that he might be looking the Grim Reaper straight in the eye, his words were kind, supportive, almost soothing. Here's an excerpt:

"As for loving and helping each other, this is the greatest gift you can give me. Sometimes it's hard, I know, but it can be done, and once done is a great and warm feeling and a wonderful thing. And you bigger children, watch over and guide Pooken especially – he's awfully little and will need all of you.

"Always stand straight and honest – work hard, hurt no one, enjoy the really good things in life. Look at trees and the sky and flowers and really see them as God's gift to us. Be fair in all your dealings with people. Try to see and understand their side. Don't get into arguments over unimportant things – rise above that – but be strong and steady in your principles. If you have to stand all alone for what you believe to be right, do it! And somehow know I'll be beside you always."

Over the ensuing 38 years, the simple, straightforward 400 words in Dad's letter have buoyed me, nurtured me, and sustained me. They've comforted me, and motivated me. I still cannot read his line about being beside me without my eyes watering. Clearly, the words don't replace the man, but they've kept his legacy alive. There was no better proof of that than the spring of 2008, as my Mom was in the final stages of her own struggle with cancer, and my five siblings and I gathered in Manchester, NH. Our spouses later commented on just how moving it was to see the bond that the six of us have, how close we are, how much we care for one another. This, again, is part of Dad's legacy. He would have been proud, I'm sure.

For the longest time, I was convinced that I'd never have children of my own, due in part to my own fears of what the future might hold, and the possibility of leaving them prematurely. Then I met an amazing woman, one who had maternal instincts in spades. Fatherhood no longer seemed so daunting, not as long as I had Lauri to share the load. We've been blessed with two terrific daughters, Maddi and Brynne. Neither are perfect, but given the fact that I'm their dad, that would be an unfair expectation.

I've now lived longer than my Dad. Maddi, my oldest, is exactly the same age I was when he died. That responsibility sometimes scares the daylights out of me, even now. In those moments of doubt, I still talk to Dad (and Mom), asking for advice, and for patience. I know they're both beside me. More than anything else, they taught me that family come first, no matter what pitfalls life throws in our path. But I also need to find the strength to avoid disappointing them. That's not a burden. It's a blessing.

Best,
-Brion