PROLOGUE

Our house was originally built in 1854. According to the yellowed parchment mounted behind hand blown glass above the vestibule archway, the style is "Renaissance Gothic Victorian." The Smithsonian says that there never was a Renaissance Gothic Victorian style, but then again, they've never seen our house.

We've explained to the kids that the word "renaissance" means "rebirth" a mode not unknown to this old house. It has been reborn so many times that I'm not sure it quite knows what style of house it is anymore.

When Michael, our number one adopted son first walked through the entrance and looked up the massively curved staircase to the third story, 36 feet above him, his mouth fell open. The only word that escaped his lips was (with the deepest respect), "Awe...some!"

Since then the kids call it "Awesome Victorian." I like it!

Everything about the house is huge. Huge rooms, huge closets, huge windows, huge doors, huge (12 foot) ceilings, huge fireplaces (4 foot logs), and huge stairs (the littles take a step up, then 2 steps across, then another step up, etc.).

We thought it only fitting that a huge family should live there. Of course, with the huge family, we have huge laundry days, huge garbage piles, huge telephone bills, and huge clothing bills. But to offset the huge negatives there are many, many, huge, loving hugs!

There is also a huge attic. It fills the area between the front and rear towers, hugging and following the inside curves of the third floor bedrooms. It is daylight illuminated by a myriad of small, dormer windows facing away from the east wing. It contains everything that ever was valuable and cherished by us. It's the place my wife and I use to store memories. Mike says if we cleared out all the junk we could build a super haunted house.

There's no junk up there! All are treasures in my attic.

~

"Why are you doing throwing this away?" I picked the tiny green, square flower pot and clear lid from the pile Laurallyn was making. "This is not junk!"

Laurallyn shrugged, answered, "Look honey. When you want a little pot to plant something in someday I'll buy you a new one. This one has seen better days."

I gently removed the battered green pot from the castaway pile and put it on one of my shelves. Had Laurallyn forgotten?..."

Shakespeare wrote, "...to thine own self be true."

Jessica wholly embraces this concept. I doubt anyone is more true to herself than is Jessica.

Let me tell you a little about her. Jessica attends Peterborough Middle School with 480 other students. "You're A Good Man Charlie Brown" was selected for the school play. When time came for casting, Jessica was selected (by invitation) for the part of Lucy Van Pelt. She was told, "Hey, just be yourself! Don't worry about acting."

In the theatre it's called "type casting."

Remember Lucy Van Pelt in the Charlie Brown cartoons? Loud, obnoxious, disrespectful, opinionated, rude, ill-tempered are just some of the words that come to mind when thinking about Lucy. Jessica would have won an academy award for her portrayal of Lucy. But, then again, she was just being herself.

Please don't misunderstand me. I love Jessica dearly but sometimes. . .

Last night the family sat in the living room talking, playing games, yelling, watching TV, fighting, you know...a normal family home evening activity? It was raining. And I mean raining. When you looked out the window it was as if the jolly green giant was emptying a bucket of water over the house. The water came down in sheets.

Outside our house plastic toys the kids had left in the yard were floating by. "That's not so terrible," you may say, but, we live on the side of a mountain."

It had been raining this way since three o'clock. My nearest neighbor, Frank, not known for taking chances, had rigged a tarpaulin over his driveway underneath which he and his son were attempting to get their motorboat engine running. It was a truly bad omen.

As if the torrential downpour wasn't enough, lighting bolts cast strong beams of light into the room making the TV difficult to see and the constant thunderings reverberating up and down the long staircases, almost drowned out the screaming kids.

At one point, Jessica, having lost an argument with a younger sister, stormed up to her room where, like the maelstrom outside, she raged for some time. After we turned the TV off we sauntered out to the family room for snacks and puzzles. The rain was unabated. But Jessica's room was quiet, at last.

Suddenly we heard a door slam and Jessica yelled, "Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" She raced to the staircase, slid sidesaddle down the curved banister screaming all the way, "Oh no! Oh, no!" She dashed past us through the family room, flung open the patio doors and went racing out into the storm. It was like watching a scene from "Gone With The Wind."

Let me back-track a little here. Jessica is allergic to rain. I wonder sometimes if she thinks she's biodegradable and will dissolve in water. For instance, last week I asked her to go out and close my car windows. It looked as if it might rain.

"You've got to be kidding," she replied. My hair will be ruined.

"Your hair will be damaged by closing a car window?" I asked.

Jessica rested the back of her right hand on her hip, cocked her head to one side, then the other, staring at me the way a small demented boy might watch a spider eating a fly. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and replied slowly, "Nooooo! The rain will ruin it!"

"But it's NOT raining now," I said. "Please?"

She looked down at me through slitted eyes and rehearsed slowly, as if she was trying to explain the concept of photosynthesis to a two year old. "I want you to understand so listen carefully. Pay attention to each word I speak. I don't want to have to repeat myself because you're not listening. OK?"

I nodded my head in resignation.

"OK. Now let's assume that I do what you ask. It's not raining now but it could be. In fact it probably will begin to pour just as soon as I walk out the door. Yes! I'd say that was very likely. Look at those clouds. See their color? They're not white, are they? Of course not. They're black and black clouds make rain. And the rain will fall on my head and soak my hair and the little curls will disappear. Do you know how long it took to get those curls to..."

"Never mind!" I interrupted. "I'll do it myself."

Memory is short. The other day her mother called for her to come out and help take the groceries out of the car.

"I can't. It's raining."

I looked at the wispy afternoon fog. It wasn't raining. I told her.

Jessica walked over to the broom closet, removed a broom. She dug through the jars in the kitchen looking for a long, slim one which she slipped over the end of the broom handle. She then opened the door and held the broom handle with the jar on it's end out the door for several minutes. After bringing the experiment in and closing the door, she removed the jar and held it up for me to see. On the outside of the glass was a barely visible film of fog.

So there we were, the patio doors opened to the elements and our biodegradable Jessica out in the great storm raging about us. Our silence was deafening. We just stood there with our mouths hanging open, in wordless shock.

Moments later she emerged from the storm, drenched to the skin, soaking wet hair blown every which way over her face. Water streamed from her hair down her nose to the floor. She was a soggy mess.

She stared through us, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. In her outstretched hands she held a tiny green flower pot. In the pot was the storm-battered remains of a baby Venus fly trap I'd given her to raise a couple of days before.

"I don't believe what I just did," she whispered. "I just don't believe it. I went outside in this just to rescue a stupid plant. I really don't believe I did it. I never do this! Never! Never!"

Over and over she whispered these words speaking to all of us and to none of us. Through several repeats we remained motionless, struck dumb at the sight of a sopping Jessica.

Jessica slowly moved over to the counter and gently laid the potted plant down. She stared at it, then said, "You're just a stupid plant! I don't believe I rescued a stupid plant. I don't believe what I just did!"

She looked down at her sopping self. Small pools of water began to form around her slippers. Her nightgown clung to her wet skin. Then she stared again at the plant. She reached over, took the clear plastic top from the counter and snapped it over the pot. "There," she said to the fly trap. "You'll be okay in the morning."

Suddenly aware of our presence she restated what she didn't believe more loudly and described the rescue operation in full detail as if we hadn't watched the entire performance.

Melody grabbed a beach towel and lovingly placed it around Jessica's shoulders. The twins, Katrina and Nikki, raced over to be near her.

Our heroine had returned safely from her impossible, unbelievable mission, a changed girl, and we loved her even more because of it.

~

"Daddy? Is this a picture of Keri?"

I took the photo from Ryan's hand and looked. There was Keri, holding her delicate hand high in the air, a piece of bread held out between thumb and forefinger. Seagulls were circling her, trying to get brave enough to snatch the piece of bread from her outstretched hand.

"Yes, Ryan, It's Keri." I reached out and drew Ryan close to me, hugging him. A moment passed.

Ryan looked at me, his wide eyes searching my face, "Daddy? Do you miss her?"

My eyes filled with tears as I remembered that never-to-be-forgotten day when the wave grabbed her away from me forever. One moment frozen in time; she sitting near the water's edge building her sand castles and the next moment, gone, snatched by the elusive wave.

Ryan reached up with his chubby hand and wiped a tear from my eye. "Don't cry, Daddy. I'm here. So's Keri. We will never leave you. We're forever!"

I hugged Ryan to my bosom and kissed him. He relaxed in my arms. Then, "Daddy. Tell me about Maine again. Please, Daddy?"

Every year, after school closes for the summer, our family takes off for the last outpost of civilized tourism, Millbridge Maine, 35 miles north of Bar Harbor. A couple of months strolling on the beach, sailing in our little 13' cutter and falling asleep to surf pounding upon the shoal, renews our lives and readies us, once again, to face the hustle bustle of everyday living.

The family room window of our cottage faces a lobster pound in a protected cove where the lobster boats moor for the evening. Directly in front of the window, beyond a grassy strip lies the marbled beach, a pebbly, sandy strip about 30 feet wide. Beyond that the rocky coast juts out into the cove. One large tidal pool is a gathering place for seagulls. As it fills and drains, small crustaceans and tiny crabs remain to feed the gulls and plovers assembled there. But there is never enough to satisfy the birds.

Whenever we have chicken or turkey for dinner, one of the kids takes the carcass out to the tidal pool and throws it in for the seagulls. Since this is a regular occurrence, you'd think the seagulls would expect it to be something edible. But no. It's the same ritual every time.

Plop, goes the chicken carcass into the tidal pool. The child runs back to the cottage and we all sit on the porch waiting for the curtain to open on the evening's entertainment.

The seagulls look at the chicken-thing bobbing in the water. After a few moments, one of them meanders over to the rocking food and sniffs it. Then he (or she) walks on as if there were nothing interesting there. This to fool the other gulls, I suppose, but it never works. Some gull, a youngster perhaps, smells the food and squawks the news to the others. The gull who discovered the food first hurries back squawking, "Hey, that's not fair! I saw it first," attempting to get part of the meat before the rest devour it. He never makes it. He starves.

Near the end of one summer's stay in Millbridge, my littlest lovely grasped my hand.

"Daddy?" Keri asked, "Who will feed the seagulls when were gone?"

I thought about that for awhile as the surf pounded.

"Do the park people come down and feed them in the winter?"

"No, I don't think they do," I replied.

"But if nobody feeds them won't they die?

"Some of them will, I suppose." I continued watching them strolling on the beach.

"Oh! Poor things." She looked very sad.

We watched the seagulls together. Then she queried, "Can't we come back this winter and spread food around so they'll have something to eat?"

It was time for a lesson on survival of the fittest. But for Keri, who cared too much for all living things, it was slightly more difficult.

I explained that wild animals are governed by Mother Nature. She provides food for seagulls from the sea. When man came to Maine to fish, the seagull population began to feed off the garbage left by human habitation. Many of them became lazy and stopped foraging for food from the sea. But when winter comes and man stops fishing for the season, the seagulls have to revert to the sea for food. "The weak ones," I told her, "that are used to feeding on leftovers can't feed themselves and they die. Only the strongest gulls survive."

"But, Daddy, what about the babies? Aren't they born during the warm times when people fish? How can they know how to fish from the sea when all their lives are spent eating what people leave behind?"

"That's where Mother Nature helps," I said. "She tells the babies how to fish from the sea."

That seemed to satisfy her. But I thought about the questions she would ask tomorrow night when, in our nightly ritual, we sat in the big chair and rocked together.

But, for Keri, tomorrow night never came.

That night I sat in the big chair rocking slowly, watching the stars. Keri climbed up into my lap, laid her head against me and said, "Daddy, where does God live? What light is His?" We searched the sky. Suddenly she pointed to a extremely bright point of light. "He's there, daddy. That's where I'm going with Him."

"Not too soon, I hope sweetheart. We will all go with Him someday."

Keri turned and looked deep into my eyes. "You will miss me won't you daddy?"

I pulled her toward me and hugged her and planted kisses all over her face. "Daddy's heart would break if I lost you, Keri, so don't plan on leaving us yet, okay?"

Keri never answered. She, in the way she always did, cocked her head, listening to that unheard voice. Then she pressed her nose to mine and sweetly kissed me. "I love you so much." It was her last kiss.

Keri went home the following morning. It was only five months after her baptism. It was as if Father waited for her until after she was baptized. Not that she needed baptism. Perhaps this is the daddy in me speaking, but Keri had no faults except that she cared--perhaps too much--about everything and everyone. Keri was our miracle.

I know that when children are born, they have just come from Father. There is a certain aura about newborns. Keri never lost that aura. She always seemed in the presence of Heavenly Father. Her actions bore that to us. She radiated love and warmth and joy to everyone who was near to her. Keri listened to an unheard voice. She actually paused before answering a question as if she was waiting to be prompted. And when she prayed, I felt that Father was in the room with us.

Last Spring, Keri helped me hang a swing from the tree house I'd built a year earlier. She stood on the topmost step of a ladder with me a step below holding the swing. After the eyelet was in the hook she looked down at me with that radiant smile I loved so much but there was a wistfulness about her. "Daddy," she said, "I love you too much." Then she leaned over and planted a long kiss on my cheek. "I won't forget you." I didn't think much about that timeless instant until Father took her home. I believe she knew something we didn't, even then.

Now, each summer evening, as the wind softens and the sun lazily seeks it's retirement in the West, I amble down to the grassy knoll and watch the plovers, terns and loons cavort in the gentling breeze. The large tidal pool, now abandoned by the flying gulls, slowly drains with the outgoing tide and our little cutter, gently rocked by the sea, rests from a day of sailing. It was here that Keri often found me, slipping her tiny hand into mine, watching the day end with me. Now I'm alone with the breeze and the stars and the sea, no Keri at my side.

But then, again . . .

I often wonder if Keri was taken home without tasting death; if Father came for her that morning on the beach and the two of them walked home, hand in hand. If any child ever had that opportunity it would be Keri.

Daryn, Denell, and I were in the attic looking for a long blue drinking glass. It was originally meant to hold a half yard of ale, but I like to use it for soda. "Is this it, Dad?" Denell brought over a thin green vase.

"Not a bad try, Denell. Don't you remember the first time we went to Red Lobster? I saw that glass and bought it?"

"I remember the glass, a little, but I didn't know you bought it."

"Here it is, Dad." Daryn handed me the long blue glass. "Dad? Do you remember when we went to dinner with you and Mom on Valentine's Day?"

I have never forgotten that time.

Valentines day was the day of our marriage. Usually we left the kids to fend for themselves, but this time we decided to take them all with us for dinner.

"Hello? Red Lobster?"
"Yes, may I help you?"
"I'd like to make a reservation for Friday night."
"I'm sorry sir, we don't take reservations."
I knew that! I ignored her.
"The reservation is for this Friday at 6 p.m."
"I said we don't take reservations."
"There will be two adults and nineteen children."
Dead silence.
"I understand. Nineteen children. Will they order from the children's menu?"
"Is lobster available from the children's menu?"
"You want twenty-one lobsters?"
More silence.
"Thank you, sir. Your reservation has been made."

This is not the only time we took the horde out as a family unit. There was the time we went to Great America Theme Park in Illinois. Why there? Simple. They had a family rate: $28 per family not limited to the number of kids. It was great. The following year Great America limited the family rate. I can't imagine why.

One year we took the horde to Palmyra to see the Hill Cumorah Pageant. They loved it, except the little ones who screamed during the destruction sequence. To this day they still talk about it. We stayed at Holiday Inn. Remember the Holiday Inn family special? Kids go free? Have you ever wondered why that policy was changed?

When Howard Johnson restaurants still roamed the earth they offered a Friday fish fry, all you could eat for $2.77. Most of our kids loved fish. Funny thing though. After a while the Howard Johnson Restaurant chain disappeared. Extinct as the dinosaurs.

So there we were. The Macy family table. I sat at one end and Laurallyn at the other. Our anniversary dinner, sitting face to face with 19 kids in between. It was quite an experience. As usual, the other diners would glance at us, then quickly look away whispering to their escorts. At last the waitress came over. She looked up and down the table and asked, "Is this a club of some kind? Surely they're not all yours."

Katrina looked at the waitress catching her eye. That's our mommy," she pointed to Laurallyn, "and that's our daddy. We're the Macys!" she explained triumphantly. By that time all diner eyes were on us as Katrina pointed around the table. "That's Daddy an' Bethie an' Amanda an' Margaret and Kathie—they're twins—an' Mike an' Kevin an' Amy an' Keri an' Daryn and Denell—they're twins too—an' Mommy an' Leigh an' Melody an' Shawn an' Randy an' Nikki an' me, Katrina, —we're twins—," she added, smiling, "an' Ruth an' Ryan an' Jessica an' Daddy again." She looked around the table to make sure she hadn't missed anyone. The waitress was furiously scribbling in her book.

"You got all that?" I asked her. She nodded. I was amazed. And even more amazed when later she called each kid by name. I glanced around at the nearby tables. A great many awed people were smiling and shaking their heads. It was something we'd gotten used to over the years as the family grew.

"Do any of you like to draw," she asked? All hands went up. "Fine, I'll get crayons and paper. Now let's start with you, Katrina." Katrina looked up expectantly. "What would you like to drink?"

Katrina looked at me. I knew what was coming.

"Daddy, ‘cause this is special with you and Mommy, an' cause I haven't had one for so long, an' you said it's okay, can I have a Shirley Temple? Please, Daddy?" She looked at Laurellyn. "Mommy?"

We pretended to ponder the matter with grave concern. Katrina looked apprehensive. Then we couldn't hold the pose anymore and laughed.

"That means yes! Yes?"

"Yes, you may have a Shirley Temple. Do all of you want one?" The vote was unanimous — almost. I heard, "DAD!!!!" from the four older boys and Ruth and Jessica. "I take it you don't want Shirley Temples?" Jessica wrinkled her nose and Ruth gave me ‘The Stare!'

The waitress took our orders, returned with the drinks and drawing materials and then we were alone. After ten minutes of furious scribbling and coloring Bethie said, "Daddy, I'm hungry. When are we gonna eat?"

"What do you want to eat Bethie? Do you want lobster?"

"You're gonna give Bethie a lobster?" That was Shawn. "She'll never eat it!"

"Will too!" That went back and forth a few times. "I want a lobster, Daddy."

"Okay. Who else wants lobster?"

So we ordered 16 lobsters, 1 halibut, 1 stuffed scrod, 1 seafood platter, 1 tenderloin steak (Jessica hates fish) and 1 pasta special (Randy's usual diet), 21 glasses of water and 10 appetizers — cheese sticks and fried zucchini blossoms.

I glanced at my watch. It had been 25 minutes since we had the appetizers but no food yet. The natives were getting restless. Suddenly I heard a child scream at the top of her voice, "I'm hungry!" I looked over at Bethie who was standing on her chair summoning food. Slightly embarrassed, I pulled her down, but before I could say anything to her, the food came.

I don't believe I have ever seen as many cooked lobsters and bibs before. The waitresses helped put the bibs on the smaller kids and Red Lobster provided a chef who demonstrated to our horde the way to eat a lobster. I watched Bethie. She was scrunched down looking at the lobster eye to eye. Then she leaned to the left and to the right and back, her eyes fixed on the lobster.

"Why don't you eat your lobster, Bethie? Do you want Daddy to help you?"

"I can't," Bethie said. "He keeps looking me. I can't eat something that looks at me."

Stifling a laugh, I asked the kids if they had any suggestions for Bethie. Mike stood up and came over to Bethie. He knelt down beside her and said, "Bethie, it's okay. I can't eat something that looks at me either. So this is what we'll do." Bethie watched. Mike folded a small napkin in the form of a blindfold and wrapped it around the lobster's eyes, tucking it in the back. "There Bethie, now he can't look at you." Bethie beamed her approval.

"She's such a sissy," Ryan said. "I don't care if he looks at me. He's dead anyway." And with a quick snap he yanked off the tail and held it up. "See, Bethie, he didn't even feel it!"

"Yuck!" Jessica said, making one of her famous faces, as she looked at the dangling tail. "Yuck, yuck, yuck! What's that gray stuff dripping off."

I didn't answer her. She deserved to finish her dinner. I would tell her later. Besides we were beginning to get stares from nearby tables.

"That's his guts!" Shawn answered snidely, speaking through a mouth full of lobster.

"Eeeeeyow! How can you say that and eat it. That's disgusting!"

"Pipe down, Jess. You're gonna make me sick! Besides you're eating a cow. A dead cow bleeding onto your plate. Now that's gross!" Randy wrinkled his nose.

Laurallyn and I shushed the kids up before it got too raunchy. They're quite vocal, normally. Between mouthfuls I watched the younger kids struggle with the lobsters. Every so often one of the older kids would help, but most didn't ask—stubborn, willful, I-don't-need-your-help kind of attitude. Drawn butter splashing everywhere, the boys tickling the girls with the lobster antenna, and snapping at each other with the big claws.

I glanced around at our neighbors. They were smiling and shaking their heads, wonder on their faces.

Bethie did quite well. She watched as Shawn and Mike worked to get the meat out of the tiny legs. Finally she tried it. She picked up her lobster fork, sticking one tine into the opening of the leg and twisting to get the meat out. The first try sent the leg flying over to the table behind her. She turned around pursing her lips together. "I'm sorry." By the third leg she announced to the restaurant she'd won. She proudly held up the 1/4 inch of meat. "See? See?" And popped it into her mouth.

Ryan stared. "How'd you do that, Bethie. I can't get mine out." "I'll show you," she said as she got up, spilling her water. "Oops, sorry Daddy."

I was amazed watching Bethie explain the method to Ryan, her little brother. But he couldn't do it. Finally Bethie sighed loudly and did all of Ryan's lobster legs. "That's all? All that work and that's all you got?" He picked up a leg and looked into it. "Okay." He was satisfied.

Most of the kids had finished eating. I looked around the table. "Laurallyn? Where are Keri, Amy and Kevin?" We looked at the kids. All we got was "I dunno," and "huh?" and "bathroom?" Then we heard laughter from the next aisle. One of the laughs sounded like Keri. Laurallyn and I locked eyes, rose up and walked to the other aisle. There were the three missing kids. A lady was holding a fish thing, and Amy was nibbling on it.

"Amy! Amy, what are you doing?"

Amy looked surprised. "Hi Mommy. This is good. It's called, it's called..." she looked at the lady. "Oh, swordfish. Next time I'm gonna get that!"

Laurallyn stood there with her mouth open. "Amy," I questioned, "what are you doing over here? You know better then to pester these people. And why are you eating their food? That's very rude."

Amy looked hurt. "But, daddy, you said we could go around and taste other food, things we didn't order, to see if we liked it. You said. . ."

I cut her off. "Amy, Keri, Kevin. I told you that, yes, but I meant at our family table. I didn't mean you could walk around the restaurant and do this with strangers."

The ‘strangers' who had shared food were laughing good naturedly. "It's quite alright. This has been a wonderful evening. Do you bring your children here often?"

"Fortunately, no. Just on special occasions."

"Well you should. They're delightful. Thank you Amy, Keri and Kevin. We enjoyed sharing with you and hearing about your family." The older man looked into my eyes. "I love kids!"

"Treasures In My Attic (Fireside Press)" is a non-fiction novel about me and my children. The Red Lobster chapter was read by the owner of the Red Lobster, Dick Rivera, who sent me $100 in dinner coupons with a letter which read, in part, "I shared your story with several of my colleagues in the Red Lobster home office and we all had a good laugh. I'm sure taking 19 children anywhere is an interesting experience and I'm happy to know that your visit to Red Lobster was memorable enough to include in your book."

Although the chapters printed above are copyrighted, you, the reader, are prohibited from copying and/or publishing it as is, in part, or in electronic form without the written permission of the author. To obtain permission to use the story in whole or in part, please contact me and list your intended use and where I can reach you by phone.