This first installment is from Joe Burns (5th child of Teresa and John Burns). It is a wonderful story he wrote shortly after my father's death. Here is ...
"Ev-er-ee-bo-dy - get - in - the - car." On hot hazy
humid summer days, when even children couldn't stand the heat, I loved to hear those
words. That was my dad's way of letting us know that it was time to go. My mom, along with
Bobby, Patrick, Sheila, Johnnyboy, Tommy, Marie, Jeannie, and Annie and Danny and Vince
and Terry and I, would pile into the seven passenger bomb and drive off. We were going on
a thirty five minute drive that to us children would seem a lifetime. To mom and dad,
depending on how the fighting was going, it probably seemed like two. We would drive over
the Washington Street Bridge, over to Pennsylvania Avenue, past Gram Burns' and Uncle
Bill's and right before we reached the city limits, with its sign with my dad's name on
it, the bomb would drive over something called "Dix Seal" and for a brief moment
we would feel like we were riding in a Cadillac - it was that smooth.
We knew every turn in the road of our weekly summer journey. Yet,
we would still ask "how long till we get there dad". "Fifteen minutes"
was dad's standard answer. Another lifetime.
After passing where the roller coaster Park Avenue meets
Pennsylvania Avenue, and then the Town Of Binghamton's fire station, we would come to
Quaker Lake Road. A group decision would have to be made here - Do we take a left and go
around hair pin turn and up past Quaker Lake or do we continue on our usual path and keep
going straight? We would almost always keep going straight for another mile or so, just
short of the turn to the shop and where Uncle John would eventually build his family
compound, and take a left on a road that - as far as I'm concerned - didn't have a name.
It was our favorite moment of the ride. Just as we would make this turn we would come
across the sign "Welcome To Pennsylvania." Dad would always stop the car so that
the family members in the front seat were in Pennsylvania and the kids in the backseat
were in New York. "How's the weather back there in New York?" he would ask us in
the back. "GREAT! HOW IS IT IN PENNSYLVANIA?". We did this each time we passed
that sign. We loved it every time.
This landmark also meant we were getting closer. Closer, to what,
for this child, would be the next thing to paradise. "How long 'til we get there,
dad?" I would ask. "Fifteen minutes." The bomb would trudge onward.
The upkeep of Pennsylvania's rural country roads was not great -
they just filled the pot holes of winter which never really stayed filled - so our path
now became bumpy. That, matched with the natural hills and winding of the road, now had us
bouncing and leaning into one another as if we were at the firemen's field days on one of
those fun children's rides. If I were lucky enough to get a window I would look out at the
farms and stone walls separating the pastures and slip away into that daydreaming world
that only a child can go to and leave my brothers and sisters behind.
We would finally come to Four Corners. No matter if we had taken
the way around Quaker Lake or come over Bunn Hill and through Choconut - the way Aunt Mary
would have taken me - one would always have to come to Four Corners. This was definitely a
sign. Just two more clearings in the forest and we would be on our approach. The groups of
children that had formed since leaving the "Welcome To Pennsylvania" sign would
now become one again. "How long now dad?" someone would ask. "We'll be
there in five minutes." "How long is five minutes dad?" No matter the
answer we all agreed it was too long.
The song would begin just after we would make that unbelievable
turn that dad or mom would honk the horn for during the day and flash the lights at night.
To the tune of "The Farmer In The Dell" we would sing, with great enthusiasm,
"we're looking for the lake - we're looking for the lake - hi - ho - the der-ri-o -
we're looking for the lake." Past Saint Augustine's - whose grave yards holds our
great, great, great grandfather, Patrick Burns, who brought the Burns' here from Ireland -
and the first clearing, we would sing this song over and over and over, and then back
again into the woods.
Then as we came out of the last patch of woods we would see the
little white one room schoolhouse. We had made it. I could feel it. What great adventure
would I go on today with Brian and John. Perhaps we'd go to the seminary and watch Dave
Kacyvenski milk the blue ribbon Brown Swiss of Father Philip's. Maybe a dreaded hike to
Cook's. Time would tell. It didn't matter - fun and excitement were ahead. We'd go past
the big stone house with the pond, and then, through the trees, glistening, shining its
silver wonder, was God's great gift to us all. Silver Lake. "We found the lake at
last - we found the lake at last - hi - ho - the - der-io - we found the lake at
last."
Down the winding hill of the lake road the bomb would bring us.
We were never the first to arrive and there were cars already parked in the driveway. We'd
wait patiently as Marty carefully moved his fence in a fashion that would prevent his cows
from getting out, park the car and each of us would run our own way, finding the
McMahon's
and McCabe's our own age to spend this glorious August day with.
The dock would be the heart of the activity at this point of the
day so I would immediately run to John and Brian's room, through the basement door and
change into my bathing suit as quickly as I could so not to miss anything down there. By
the time I got to the dock there would already be a crowd. Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob would
greet me - each with a smile and an affectionate "Hi Joey." This was their dock
and summer home and they would welcome me as if I were their own. Not just me though -
they would greet and welcome all of my brothers and sisters with equal warmth and make
each one feel special. Their love was as real as the sun shining down on us.
Jim and Margaret, Teresa and John, Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob. These
three couples - who were once, astonishingly, six separate people leading six separate
lives - had a gift. That gift was to make all of us children, ours and theirs, feel like
cherished individuals. They knew and know all our names without trying and if someone
would go off missing they would, with some inner radar, immediately know who. Their
children were all there - the grownup and almost grownup McMahon's - Maureen, Denny and
Leo. Then there was Susie and Chrissy and Katie, Brian and John, Bridget and Rita, Marty
and Laura and Philip. Of course, Bobby and Joey McCormick were there. The
McCabe's; Jimmy,
Pat, Tommy, Bobby, Denny, Jerry and Kevin. So when the Burns' - Bobby, Patrick, Sheila,
Johnny, Joey, Tommy, Marie, Jeannie, Annie, Danny, and Vincie and Terry - got down there,
we were really ready to start the fun. My mom and dad would come down to the dock - mom in
her bathing suit with no intention of ever entering Silver's cold, spring fed water - and
dad in his suit that looked exactly like the boxers that he'd changed out of. Margaret
McCabe would come to the dock but Jim, Sr generally would find a nice chair up at the
house. Sister Jean, that very special women of God that I love so dearly, whom we called
Aunt Mary while in her bathing suit so the neighbors wouldn't gawk at the nun out of her
habit, was there as well. Everyone would be coming and going - back and forth - up to the
house - down to the spring - over to the seminary - swimming or paddling across the lake -
going on a hike - driving to Cook's - going to town - maybe throw a hundred rocks in the
lake and earn a nickel. If you couldn't figure out something to do here, well, you just
weren't a kid and probably never had been one. The day would seem to last forever and I'm
convinced that time, that for most of us is unchangeable, would stop a while for us.
As the pine trees began casting their long shadows over the lake,
my dad, Uncle Johnny, would go about his self appointed duties of starting the fire for
the cookout. Without the benefit of modern day charcoal lighter fluid he would have Johnny
McMahon and my brother Tommy, the two who had not stopped laughing since we had arrived,
gather some kindling and then we would watch the old master light the perfect barbecue
fire. He would cheat sometimes and use that fluid but the purists in the crowd claimed
that they could taste it on their hamburgers and the old master didn't want that. And
then, after another example of how Jesus worked the loaves and fishes, all the little and
not so little tummies in the crowd would be filled.
In the distance we could hear thunder and any child still in the
lake was now told to get out before the lightning got within striking distance. We would
all head for the shelter of the screened in porch overlooking the lake. Someone would be
reading aloud from a blue, unfolded letter with the familiar pen, bringing news from
Pakistan for whoever was in ear shot. Rita Flynn with Dave and Marge had magically
appeared along with Fr. Philip and before we would play charades or some other game we
would all sit and talk and watch a storm. This summer day was closing. The sun had come up
and now was gone and only twilight remained. The raindrops would begin to fall and the
world was so beautiful. As beautiful as the man we all loved so well, and who, with only
love in his pockets, unselfishly provided this heaven on earth to us countless children.
Thank you Uncle Bob. We'll see you in paradise.
Joe Burns