I got married at 18.  One year and one month later, I had Pat.  Eighteen months later I had Becky.  And eighteen months after that I had Amy--who lived nine days--tragic.  Then along came Scott eighteen months later.  I was twenty five and had had four children.  Time to quit.

They pretty much took care of each other because I was constantly overwhelmed with military life, moving, cooking, cleaning, sewing and trying to keep us all fed, shod, in clothes, and making ends meet.  Ken would bring the paycheck in, give it to me and say something like, "You're doing a good job.  Press on," a Marine Corps slogan.  He was seldom around.  (Just long enough to father a bunch of kids.)  He expected me to manage the money, and everything else.  He never complained and never criticized.  He knew it was hard, but there was nothing more he could do than what he was already doing.   We made it.  And it was good.  Love covers a lot of problems.

Nine years after Scott was born, after Ken got back from Viet Nam and retired from the Marines, Pat, Becky and Scott were pretty much capable of managing almost anything.  Even me being pregnant.  Accidents happen.  Pat was almost fourteen, Becky twelve and Scott was nine.  When Jonathan was born, I was very sick with a tumor in my heart and couldn't take care of him.  So the three of them took him over and handed him back and forth for months and months.  We all tease Jon now and tell him that he didn't learn to walk until he was five, because someone was always carrying him.

Of course Scott, who had bugged me for years to get him a brother, (and save him from a house full of women), proceeded to torment his new brother like boys will do.  But one day a few years later, when Scott came home from college and jumped Jon and wrestled him to the floor--like brothers do--Jon rolled him, pinned him and said, "Say uncle."  Jon had grown into a bruiser.  All muscle.  Scott was tall and extremely fast.  Jon was shorter and extremely strong.  Very different.

Jon just sat on Scott.  Forever.  It finally became obvious to Scott that the jig was up.  And he said, "Uncle."  And Jon said, "Don't mess with me anymore."  Scott didn't.  Ever.