BILLY

Strange is it not, how one, single, solitary word can open up chapter upon chapter of memories from the book of life? The memories of nineteen years, belonging to our brother, Billy, come tumbling back so easily, precious keepsakes that defy time and the fact, that I am now seventy-two years old.

My sister, Jo, was four and yours truly was six when our Mom ‘n Dad told us they were going to have a new baby, and we would become big sisters! Two years, previously, they had sorrowfully buried our baby sister, Cathy, at the tender age of three months. This new baby would be so welcomed and dearly loved.

Jo and I were given the all-important task of saving money for the hospital bill. Mom handed us an empty Crisco can; all cleaned out and ready to receive any and all contributions. That first night we sat on the parlor rug as our Dad handed us coins to drop into the can. For us, access to money was quite easy because our grandparents, two aunts and an uncle lived across the alley. They were, as was sometimes said, “easy touches.” And now, that we were saving for a baby, well the purses and wallets flew open.

Dinner couldn’t come fast enough for us each night because we knew what was coming afterward. Jo and I would run into the parlor to empty out the ever growing contents of our Crisco can. We’d lay the coins flat on the rug and get giddy as our pile kept growing and growing, becoming wider and wider. January was so-o-o long that year, then came February and still no baby.

As a first grader at Visitation Grammar School, it was customary for students to walk home for lunch, no matter the weather. If Abe Lincoln could do it, so could we. So it was on a cold February noon I came home to discover Mom and Dad had gone to the hospital to “buy” our baby. I walked back to school waiting and wondering. What was taking so long? The afternoon dragged on and when Sr. Felice, the principal, personally rang her dismissal cowbell, I raced home. The news was so marvelous!!! Our brother, Billy, had been born that afternoon, February 25, 1947. Just imagine a baby brother! He came home with two adoring parents to his “big” sisters, his pretend “mommies.”

As he grew his hair was soft brown, unlike our blonde hair. His eyes were dark in comparison to our blue eyes. He was so cute, chubby and forever smiling. It is safe to say, without exaggeration, we adored him. At the age of two Billy became a tried and true toddler getting into anything and everything. One suppertime, as we sat in the kitchen with our Mom, the doorbell rang. Down in the front hallway stood Mrs. Manske holding a limp Billy in her arms. The three of us screamed and cried as she told us she had watched, horrified, as he climbed out our parents’ second story bedroom window, walked to the edge of the roof that hung over the first floor porch and stepped off into the spring air. Our Dad came rushing home from the firehouse and our parents took Billy to the hospital. Mercifully, that little bundle of curiosity, suffered only a broken shoulder. God watched over him and so did our relatives and neighbors who all came to visit him bearing gifts.

That Christmas season, Dad was again at the firehouse when Billy walked into the parlor and decimated the Christmas tree. Mom had seen a decorating idea in Good Housekeeping Magazine and decided to trim our tree with the usual lights, but instead of ornaments, she had us place candy canes on every branch. There were scads of them hanging on the tree and how was a little guy suppose to resist that temptation? The thud of the tree and crashing of candy canes (none cellophane wrapped) into a million pieces could have been heard in Indiana. It certainly was heard at our grandparents house because Pa came over and whisked the three of us to his house while our Mom’s tears mixed with a bucket of Spic ‘n Span.

As Billy blew out more birthday candles was it any wonder he became a cowboy with his best friend, Jimmy Hennigan, who lived on the first floor? There were so many seasons of their young lives when they became The Long Ranger, Hop-a-Long Cassidy or Roy Rogers, without Dale. Billy’s Christmas list for Santa always had something for a cowboy’s life on it. And Mom, with her flair for decorating, turned his bedroom into a cowboy’s bunkroom with knotty pine wallpaper, a bed made with a half wheel from a covered wagon and drapes styled with a Western motif.

Billy rounded up his school supplies, one September day, and walked to Visitation Grammar School where a first grade room with 59 students and one, poor nun awaited him. God Bless her soul, at last at peace, but let’s be realistic; one nun and 60 first graders?! It was a wild rodeo of education. Some kids saddled up to their little reading chairs and learned their lessons well. Billy was not one of them. His struggles all through school were heartbreaking to watch. It seemed no amount of help from us at home, or tutors eased his learning experiences. His studies continuously faltered.

Not so his personality! He was an A+. His laughter and sense of humor drew friends from the neighborhood and school. As a teen, he had a crew of great friends; Stankewicz, Sexton, Johnny, and others whose names, like colorful balloons, have drifted off in the wind. He and Jo would ride the bus to Rainbow Beach all summer long with Jo’s girlfriends. If Billy didn’t come along they truly missed him.

His high-school years were an on-going struggle, but when it came to fun times, pranks, swimming medals and dances Billy excelled. It was while he was at “Our Lady of Calumet” (pun intended) that he decided to join the Marines. The dream had been with him since his teen years began, and now as a junior, he could envision it coming true. He needed our Dad’s signature as he wasn’t yet eighteen. He began his campaign and, when only a few months shy of eighteen, Dad relented and signed the papers.

Billy left for Camp Pendleton and the rigorous training the Marines were known for. Christmas of 1965, before he left for Nam, he came home for a surprise visit. Those days were so filled with excitement and happiness they were like bubbles of joy that surrounded us all, and refused to burst. He loved playing with his nephews, Jack and Mike, and eagerly anticipated the births of Jo’s first baby, Julie, and our third son, Billy.

His swimming skills were put to good use in the jungle rivers around Chu Lai. Though he was the youngest member of his platoon it was Billy who swam those rivers with supplies on his back. His letters spoke about making the Marines his career, as he was already a Corporal, or perhaps becoming a Chicago fireman. His plans ended on October 18, 1966 when Billy was killed.

Today would have been his 65th birthday. In my mind’s eye I can envision that thick, gorgeous, dark hair with flecks of gray. Perhaps he would have married his high school sweetheart, Mo, and have a wonderful family. We’d all celebrate tonight at a great party and feel once again the warmth of his hugs, the sound of his laughter and the one liners that kept us all laughing.

Billy, our brother, is forever nineteen; tall and tanned, adored and remembered. His friends, Jim Hennigan, a retired Chicago policeman and Jimmy Stankewicz, a doctor and professor at Loyola Hospital, have never forgotten their cowboy friend, their St. Sabina pal. Much can be learned from their steadfast, decades long loyalty.

As for me, not a day passes that he isn’t in my heart. At seventy-two years of age, I “now have more yesterdays than tomorrows.” When God is ready to call me, I dream of two stalwart, tall, handsome Marines waiting at heaven’s gate. They are both nineteen, they are both mine; Cpl. William Halpin and Lcpl Jonathan Collins USMC.

I hope they recognize this aging woman, this great-grandmother standing in line. In my heart of hearts, I think they will, for does not love shine through, no matter what age we are? It has been said Christ’s greatest message was simply, “Love One Another.”

We did.

Billy