A Mother Remembers
A tribute to my twenty-year-old son, Kyle Brennan, who died tragically on February 16, 2007 in Clearwater, Florida. . . . It is in the early morning that I often make the journey to where my youngest son now sleeps--beneath the shadow of Monticello Mountain. There--in the day’s new beginning--the mountain light is crisper, the birdsongs are clearer, and the dew on the grass is still cool. On my way to the cemetery, I drive past the college he once attended, and past Carter’s Mountain where Kyle–the little storyteller–once entertained his young classmates. On the empty passenger seat beside me sits a bouquet of wildflowers and red roses. The backyard gardens of his youth now supply the flowers for his final resting place. When I tend to his grave I find myself singing him soft lullabies, the very same I sang him long ago. It is then that I feel the full weight of my loss. Though life seems as constant as the moon and the stars, and sunshine seems but a day away, I now reside in a sadder place. It is a world filled with memories and reminders of what will never be . . . a world without my Kyle.
Danny Boy
Oh Danny boy, the pipes , the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside
The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you
And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you’ll not fail to tell me that you love me
I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.
I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come for me.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The Angels of Bamberg
An early December wind sweeps up the narrow cobblestone street- like a spirited entity. In search of celestial heights, it spirals upward enveloping the facade of the old church. St. Michael’s Cathedral—perched on the town’s highest hill—is a work of architectural brilliance. Built in the twelfth-century, the Romanesque-style structure makes a magnificent sentry tower. Saints carved from stone gaze solemnly from their niches in quiet contemplation of the ever-changing world around them. The soft morning light adds a deceptive warmth to the beautiful vista that lies below—the medieval town of Bamberg, Germany.Standing in front of St. Michael’s, my seventeen-year-old son, Kyle Brennan, is mesmerized by the massive house of worship. Locked in eternal conflict atop the cathedral’s central peak is Kyle’s hero—Archangel Michael, the Prince of Light. As the statue’s centerpiece, St. Michael, wings fanned-out in triumphant strength and glory, is spearing the serpent Satan. In defeat the Prince of Darkness vainly reaches out into the void of space and time.Inside St. Michael’s, we are welcomed by the nave’s brilliantly white walls trimmed in lustrous gold and copper-green. Overhead, the vaulted ceiling is beautifully adorned with local and exotic flora illustrated in the seventeenth century. Looking up, we notice pineapple, cotton, and tobacco plants. Bishop Otto of Bamberg’s tomb, which dates from the mid-1400s, rests heavily behind the altar. To Kyle the church’s atmosphere is one of tranquility and timelessness.Opening St. Michael’s heavy wooden door, and stepping out of the church’s candle-lit nave, we are met with the contrasting glare of morning sunlight. As our vision adjusts, Kyle carefully studies the cathedral’s exterior. His mood is quiet and introspective. "Mom, I really like this place," Kyle says after a moment, "it’s special. . . . It makes me feel good just being here."But standing amidst a large, open cathedral square—atop Bamberg’s tallest prominence—is not the best way to stay warm. The cold northern wind has not subsided and it strikes it’s victims a merciless blow, benumbing the extremities of those foolish enough to venture in it’s path. As we descend along a cobblestone street, Kyle walks backwards taking brisk steps, his back to the upward-rushing current. In his hurriedness, he seems not to care if he falls or twists an ankle.Picking my way carefully down the ancient pavement, I ask Kyle if he feels a spiritual connection to St. Michael’s. "I think I would call it an inspiration," he responds. "Think about it . . . when they built the cathedral people still believed the world was flat, the printing press had not been invented. Generations of people have come and gone from this earth, wars have been fought. It would take days for us to name everything."
"While looking at the church," he continues, "I realized that there’s one thing that has stayed constant throughout time."
I listen intently to hear my youngest son’s revelation.
"It’s an instinctual part of man to conquer evil," says Kyle. "The battle of good over evil in this world has not changed. It has remained constant throughout the millennia." Continuing along the cobblestone thoroughfare, we rehash this theme from the prospective of literature and the movies. I bring up King Arthur—Kyle mentions Star Wars.But the howling wind is unyielding. Somehow our jackets, sweaters, and scarves are just not enough. It’s mid-morning as we enter Bamberg’s old lower town. Small shops line the narrow strip of road. With the Christmas season approaching, the storefront windows are alive with nutcrackers, crèches, and loaves of stollen in neatly stacked piles. Kyle stops abruptly in front of a small shop, a venue that some would consider drab next to its gaily festooned neighbors. "Wow!" he exclaims. "Mom, look at this!"Bent over at the large window, Kyle is closely examining lead soldiers once belonging to a boy now long gone. Lined up in perfect formation, they stand at attention in the storefront display. Crouched together, we admire the pristine condition of the leaden platoon. It’s obvious to us that these are "green" soldiers who have never experienced the hardcore combat of a backyard battlefield.
Stacked behind the infantrymen is a host of once-cherished possessions, items the now long deceased once marked as worthy of saving. Iron crosses from the First World War compete for space amongst a large assortment of button-eared, and love-worn, stuffed animals. Movie memorabilia and old postcards scrawled with elegant script rise haphazardly between the linear rows of more saleable items."Let’s go inside," says Kyle.A bell rings above us as we enter the shop, alerting the proprietor. From behind a low counter, an elderly be-spectacled gentleman looks up from his paper to observe his new patrons. "Gutten Morgan," we pronounce as we walk between low shelves holding journals and sheet music. When he asks us a question in his native tongue, I apologize in broken German for my inability to speak his language. Kyle is relieved that I could at least speak German well enough to apologize for not being able to."Are you Americans?" the gentleman asks in perfect English. Kyle and I pause at this question, wondering if our response will alter how he receives us."Yes," answers Kyle. "We live in the State of Virginia." "How do you like my town?" he asks, looking over his reading glasses. "Are you enjoying your visit?"
"Bamberg is beautiful," says Kyle, "and the churches are magnificent!"
"This is true," states our new acquaintance, "but Bamberg also has a dark history that is not so beautiful."
"What kind of dark history?" asks Kyle. "Well," says the proprietor, putting down his paper, "Bamberg burned a lot of women at the stake during the witch hunts in the 1600s." Kyle, with heightened interest, steps closer to where the German gentleman is seated. "What a horrible way to die," Kyle says. "Is that the reason I’ve seen witch trinkets in all of the tourist shops?""Yes," says the shop owner. "People want to make money and the tourists buy those things." "Hmmm," responds Kyle, nervously tapping the top of the camera slung around his neck. "I wonder how those women who were burned alive would feel about that?" With this comment the gray-haired gentleman looks up at Kyle over the spectacles that have now slipped down his nose. It’s as if he notices the young man standing in front of him for the very first time. "People forget the pain of others," says the German plaintively.In the awkward silence that follows, Kyle reaches for an old book whose dusty cover has not been cracked open for decades. He turns the brittle-yellow pages, looking with feigned interest at the German text. I know what is coming—he is preparing a litany of questions, an impromptu interview."I don’t see anything from World War Two in your store," says Kyle, returning the book to its slot. My son gives the old man no time to respond to this statement."Did you live in Bamberg during the Second World War? Were you in the German Army?""The gentleman holds his gaze steady. He looks directly into Kyle’s face. "I was a child . . . a boy, when World War Two happened." Without pausing he answers Kyle’s first question: "It’s against the law to sell World War Two items in Germany." "I have lived here my whole life," he proceeds. "I saw many things during the war. Yes, some of them were very bad. . . . I was young, only six or seven years old. I still remember things I saw then, but at the time I was not old enough to understand the world that adults occupy."The proprietor’s directness does not deter the interviewer. Kyle explains that he is not passing judgment, he simply enjoys listening to the life stories of others. With this statement, the shop owner’s countenance softens. He removes his glasses and carefully sets them on his newspaper.
"Did Bamberg have many Jewish families living here during the war?" my son asks. "Did they survive the war?"
As the gentleman prepares his answer I can hear Kyle’s foot tapping the grey wooden floor. It’s a newly acquired nervous tick, an uncomfortable SOS that I immediately decipher.
"I have been told," says the German, "that many of Bamberg’s Jewish families, sensing the impending danger, fled Bamberg years before the war broke out. The war against them, of course, had begun when Hitler came into power. . . . But sadly some stayed. Perhaps they had no place to go—maybe they were hoping that things would change. It was after November of 1938 that everything was turned upside down.""What happened to the people who stayed?" asks Kyle."Early one morning the SS came into the town," answers the shop owner. "All of the remaining Jewish men and some of the women were sent to Dachau. The women with small children were taken to Auschwitz. Thank goodness there were not many. . . . I don’t think any of those people survived.""I think one is too many if it happens to be your life," responds Kyle. "No one said anything? No one spoke up for them? What kind of people would send children and babies to their death?""My people," answers the German sternly."If one individual had spoken up," he continues, "it could have given the weaker the courage to do so. It was easier to stay silent.""Does it upset you to talk about it?" asks Kyle."We don’t like to talk about the things we saw during the war," responds the old man. "And young people like yourself seldom ask questions.""One memory is particularly painful. . . . One morning, while walking on the outskirts of town with my grandfather, we noticed a train stopped on the tracks. It was pointed toward the east. . . . One of the cars was open and I saw inside the faces of children huddled together. Young mothers, too, holding their infants. Soldiers with weapons slung over their shoulders were walking alongside the train. . . . When the car doors were closed we heard people crying out, begging for food and water. The soldiers told my grandfather to leave, to take me home. And my grandfather, seeing the children, told me not to look, but of course I did.""The faces of those children, the sound of them crying, has stayed with me my whole life," he says touching his chest just above his heart.Kyle’s face reddens with emotion. He stares at the floor, avoiding eye contact."Do you think some of those children could have survived?" my son asks in a broken voice."One can hope," answers the shopkeeper. "And if some did . . . perhaps they are fortunate enough to have a grandson who would be just about your age."
"That’s not the story I expected to hear," says Kyle, deeply moved. "I guess you have to be careful when you start asking questions." Then, turning away from the German gentleman, he says to me in a low voice: "I think I should leave now."
Back outside—and despite the cold wind—we decide to walk back up the steep slope to St. Michael’s. Kyle comments on the irony of the saintly, hilltop cathedral overlooking an ancient town that has witnessed so much evil. Inside the church, we light a candle for all of the innocent lives lost. "But Mom," he says, as the small taper flickers and brightens, "they have no names.""They did have names," I answer, "but today we’ll call them the Angels of Bamberg."••••••••••It’s the end of our week-long visit to the medieval Bavarian town—the very morning we’re leaving—and Kyle wants to say goodbye to the kindly shopkeeper. He rushes to the store only to find it closed. He never gets a chance to say farewell, or to thank the German gentlemen for sharing his story.
Copyright © 2008 by Victoria L. Britton
Kyle Brennan-April 2, 1986-February 16, 2007
In 2007 my forward-looking 20-year-old son, Kyle Brennan, died in Clearwater, Florida, under extremely suspicious circumstances while visiting his Scientologist father. (Clearwater, of course, is the site of Scientology’s headquarters.) We lost the subsequent wrongful-death lawsuit we filed against Kyle’s father, prominent Scientologists who were involved, and the Church of Scientology itself. Because of the legal expenses incurred, we’ve yet to purchase a proper headstone for our beloved son. Will you help us?
"While looking at the church," he continues, "I realized that there’s one thing that has stayed constant throughout time."
I listen intently to hear my youngest son’s revelation.
"It’s an instinctual part of man to conquer evil," says Kyle. "The battle of good over evil in this world has not changed. It has remained constant throughout the millennia." Continuing along the cobblestone thoroughfare, we rehash this theme from the prospective of literature and the movies. I bring up King Arthur—Kyle mentions Star Wars.But the howling wind is unyielding. Somehow our jackets, sweaters, and scarves are just not enough. It’s mid-morning as we enter Bamberg’s old lower town. Small shops line the narrow strip of road. With the Christmas season approaching, the storefront windows are alive with nutcrackers, crèches, and loaves of stollen in neatly stacked piles. Kyle stops abruptly in front of a small shop, a venue that some would consider drab next to its gaily festooned neighbors. "Wow!" he exclaims. "Mom, look at this!"Bent over at the large window, Kyle is closely examining lead soldiers once belonging to a boy now long gone. Lined up in perfect formation, they stand at attention in the storefront display. Crouched together, we admire the pristine condition of the leaden platoon. It’s obvious to us that these are "green" soldiers who have never experienced the hardcore combat of a backyard battlefield.
Stacked behind the infantrymen is a host of once-cherished possessions, items the now long deceased once marked as worthy of saving. Iron crosses from the First World War compete for space amongst a large assortment of button-eared, and love-worn, stuffed animals. Movie memorabilia and old postcards scrawled with elegant script rise haphazardly between the linear rows of more saleable items."Let’s go inside," says Kyle.A bell rings above us as we enter the shop, alerting the proprietor. From behind a low counter, an elderly be-spectacled gentleman looks up from his paper to observe his new patrons. "Gutten Morgan," we pronounce as we walk between low shelves holding journals and sheet music. When he asks us a question in his native tongue, I apologize in broken German for my inability to speak his language. Kyle is relieved that I could at least speak German well enough to apologize for not being able to."Are you Americans?" the gentleman asks in perfect English. Kyle and I pause at this question, wondering if our response will alter how he receives us."Yes," answers Kyle. "We live in the State of Virginia." "How do you like my town?" he asks, looking over his reading glasses. "Are you enjoying your visit?"
"Bamberg is beautiful," says Kyle, "and the churches are magnificent!"
"This is true," states our new acquaintance, "but Bamberg also has a dark history that is not so beautiful."
"What kind of dark history?" asks Kyle. "Well," says the proprietor, putting down his paper, "Bamberg burned a lot of women at the stake during the witch hunts in the 1600s." Kyle, with heightened interest, steps closer to where the German gentleman is seated. "What a horrible way to die," Kyle says. "Is that the reason I’ve seen witch trinkets in all of the tourist shops?""Yes," says the shop owner. "People want to make money and the tourists buy those things." "Hmmm," responds Kyle, nervously tapping the top of the camera slung around his neck. "I wonder how those women who were burned alive would feel about that?" With this comment the gray-haired gentleman looks up at Kyle over the spectacles that have now slipped down his nose. It’s as if he notices the young man standing in front of him for the very first time. "People forget the pain of others," says the German plaintively.In the awkward silence that follows, Kyle reaches for an old book whose dusty cover has not been cracked open for decades. He turns the brittle-yellow pages, looking with feigned interest at the German text. I know what is coming—he is preparing a litany of questions, an impromptu interview."I don’t see anything from World War Two in your store," says Kyle, returning the book to its slot. My son gives the old man no time to respond to this statement."Did you live in Bamberg during the Second World War? Were you in the German Army?""The gentleman holds his gaze steady. He looks directly into Kyle’s face. "I was a child . . . a boy, when World War Two happened." Without pausing he answers Kyle’s first question: "It’s against the law to sell World War Two items in Germany." "I have lived here my whole life," he proceeds. "I saw many things during the war. Yes, some of them were very bad. . . . I was young, only six or seven years old. I still remember things I saw then, but at the time I was not old enough to understand the world that adults occupy."The proprietor’s directness does not deter the interviewer. Kyle explains that he is not passing judgment, he simply enjoys listening to the life stories of others. With this statement, the shop owner’s countenance softens. He removes his glasses and carefully sets them on his newspaper.
"Did Bamberg have many Jewish families living here during the war?" my son asks. "Did they survive the war?"
As the gentleman prepares his answer I can hear Kyle’s foot tapping the grey wooden floor. It’s a newly acquired nervous tick, an uncomfortable SOS that I immediately decipher.
"I have been told," says the German, "that many of Bamberg’s Jewish families, sensing the impending danger, fled Bamberg years before the war broke out. The war against them, of course, had begun when Hitler came into power. . . . But sadly some stayed. Perhaps they had no place to go—maybe they were hoping that things would change. It was after November of 1938 that everything was turned upside down.""What happened to the people who stayed?" asks Kyle."Early one morning the SS came into the town," answers the shop owner. "All of the remaining Jewish men and some of the women were sent to Dachau. The women with small children were taken to Auschwitz. Thank goodness there were not many. . . . I don’t think any of those people survived.""I think one is too many if it happens to be your life," responds Kyle. "No one said anything? No one spoke up for them? What kind of people would send children and babies to their death?""My people," answers the German sternly."If one individual had spoken up," he continues, "it could have given the weaker the courage to do so. It was easier to stay silent.""Does it upset you to talk about it?" asks Kyle."We don’t like to talk about the things we saw during the war," responds the old man. "And young people like yourself seldom ask questions.""One memory is particularly painful. . . . One morning, while walking on the outskirts of town with my grandfather, we noticed a train stopped on the tracks. It was pointed toward the east. . . . One of the cars was open and I saw inside the faces of children huddled together. Young mothers, too, holding their infants. Soldiers with weapons slung over their shoulders were walking alongside the train. . . . When the car doors were closed we heard people crying out, begging for food and water. The soldiers told my grandfather to leave, to take me home. And my grandfather, seeing the children, told me not to look, but of course I did.""The faces of those children, the sound of them crying, has stayed with me my whole life," he says touching his chest just above his heart.Kyle’s face reddens with emotion. He stares at the floor, avoiding eye contact."Do you think some of those children could have survived?" my son asks in a broken voice."One can hope," answers the shopkeeper. "And if some did . . . perhaps they are fortunate enough to have a grandson who would be just about your age."
"That’s not the story I expected to hear," says Kyle, deeply moved. "I guess you have to be careful when you start asking questions." Then, turning away from the German gentleman, he says to me in a low voice: "I think I should leave now."
Back outside—and despite the cold wind—we decide to walk back up the steep slope to St. Michael’s. Kyle comments on the irony of the saintly, hilltop cathedral overlooking an ancient town that has witnessed so much evil. Inside the church, we light a candle for all of the innocent lives lost. "But Mom," he says, as the small taper flickers and brightens, "they have no names.""They did have names," I answer, "but today we’ll call them the Angels of Bamberg."••••••••••It’s the end of our week-long visit to the medieval Bavarian town—the very morning we’re leaving—and Kyle wants to say goodbye to the kindly shopkeeper. He rushes to the store only to find it closed. He never gets a chance to say farewell, or to thank the German gentlemen for sharing his story.
Copyright © 2008 by Victoria L. Britton
Kyle Brennan-April 2, 1986-February 16, 2007
In 2007 my forward-looking 20-year-old son, Kyle Brennan, died in Clearwater, Florida, under extremely suspicious circumstances while visiting his Scientologist father. (Clearwater, of course, is the site of Scientology’s headquarters.) We lost the subsequent wrongful-death lawsuit we filed against Kyle’s father, prominent Scientologists who were involved, and the Church of Scientology itself. Because of the legal expenses incurred, we’ve yet to purchase a proper headstone for our beloved son. Will you help us?
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Kyle Brennan meets President Bill Clinton
"Kyle Brennan meets President-elect William Jefferson Clinton"
In January of 1993, President Bill Clinton started his journey to the White House from Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson in Charolttesville, Virginia. There was a great deal of anticipation and excitement amongst the people in Charlottesville over this historic moment. President Clinton, Vice President Gore and their immediate family members arrived by airplane on the evening of the sixteenth.
I thought this event would be fun for my two youngest sons, Sean and of course Kyle, both whom were under the age of ten. The evening air being chilly, I bundled the two boys in layers of wool to ward off the cold before leaving for the airport.
When we arrived and saw all the traffic, I questioned if I had made a wise decision. From the size of the crowd it was obvious that I was not alone in wanting to experience an historic event.
The three of us made our way through the crowd trying to find the spot that would offer us the best view of President Clinton and his entourage. We were disappointed to discover that a large chain link fence had been erected to separate the president from the throng of people.
Soon, a young man walking through the crowd started to yell out history questions. If you were the first to answer correctly you could then move to the other side of the fence. I told my two sons to get ready to make a move. The young man yelled out the next question, "What do the colors of the American Flag stand for?" I quickly yelled out the correct answer. We were then escorted through an opening in the fence and placed in close proximity to where the president’s plane would land. I had underestimated how many people in Charlottesville knew their history as the exclusive "other side of the fence" rapidly filled to capacity.
Worried that the boys would get crushed by the crowd, I moved them off to the side, away from the people, with the realization that we would lose our opportunity to see the president up close. Kyle and Sean did not seem to mind the change in venue, as this gave them the opportunity to observe the Secret Service in action. They both exclaimed that they were really cool, like James Bond, and they asked me what they where looking for when scanning the crowd.
There was one agent posted not far from where we were standing. Grim and serious looking, his eyes never left the crowd except when talking in a low voice on a walkie-talkie-type of device. I decided I would try to break his serious demeanor. I asked the Secret Service agent if his serious expression was a part of the job, or if he had been taught to look like that while in training. A small smile broke his continence. He walked over to us, "the three loners apart from the crowd," and started a conversation. Kyle and Sean were enthralled. He told us that he wanted us to stay put as he would soon have a surprise for us.
When President Clinton finished his speech and walked down the steps of the podium, our agent friend greeted him and proceeded to lead the president, vice president and their families in our direction. I became concerned about the boys’ safety as I noticed the large crowd was also moving in our direction. When President Clinton noticed the two youngest faces in the crowd he immediately stopped. Before I even realized what was happening, we were surrounded by Secret Service. They held their hands out and told the crushing crowd to step back and move away from us.
The gregarious and charismatic president decided to take a minute to have a chat with Kyle and Sean. Sean, being very shy, tried to shrink back from the attention and seemed to want to disappear into my coat. Kyle, then only six years old decided to seize the moment. President Clinton dropped down to one knee so that he could be at eye level with his young fan. Kyle asked him why his plane was late, and told him that he had gotten cold waiting for him. Clinton and Gore erupted into laughter when hearing this. President Clinton asked Kyle how old he was and some questions about his school. The president stood up and lightly tousled Kyle’s hair, thanked him for coming out to greet him, and said," I’m sorry you got cold little buddy." Kyle then held up his small hand to shake all of the hands in the Clinton and Gore family.
When we arrived back home I told the boys to memorize the events of the evening, so that one day when they had children of their own they could tell them the story in vivid detail, about their chance meeting with the President of the United States.
Copyright 2007 Victoria Britton
In January of 1993, President Bill Clinton started his journey to the White House from Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson in Charolttesville, Virginia. There was a great deal of anticipation and excitement amongst the people in Charlottesville over this historic moment. President Clinton, Vice President Gore and their immediate family members arrived by airplane on the evening of the sixteenth.
I thought this event would be fun for my two youngest sons, Sean and of course Kyle, both whom were under the age of ten. The evening air being chilly, I bundled the two boys in layers of wool to ward off the cold before leaving for the airport.
When we arrived and saw all the traffic, I questioned if I had made a wise decision. From the size of the crowd it was obvious that I was not alone in wanting to experience an historic event.
The three of us made our way through the crowd trying to find the spot that would offer us the best view of President Clinton and his entourage. We were disappointed to discover that a large chain link fence had been erected to separate the president from the throng of people.
Soon, a young man walking through the crowd started to yell out history questions. If you were the first to answer correctly you could then move to the other side of the fence. I told my two sons to get ready to make a move. The young man yelled out the next question, "What do the colors of the American Flag stand for?" I quickly yelled out the correct answer. We were then escorted through an opening in the fence and placed in close proximity to where the president’s plane would land. I had underestimated how many people in Charlottesville knew their history as the exclusive "other side of the fence" rapidly filled to capacity.
Worried that the boys would get crushed by the crowd, I moved them off to the side, away from the people, with the realization that we would lose our opportunity to see the president up close. Kyle and Sean did not seem to mind the change in venue, as this gave them the opportunity to observe the Secret Service in action. They both exclaimed that they were really cool, like James Bond, and they asked me what they where looking for when scanning the crowd.
There was one agent posted not far from where we were standing. Grim and serious looking, his eyes never left the crowd except when talking in a low voice on a walkie-talkie-type of device. I decided I would try to break his serious demeanor. I asked the Secret Service agent if his serious expression was a part of the job, or if he had been taught to look like that while in training. A small smile broke his continence. He walked over to us, "the three loners apart from the crowd," and started a conversation. Kyle and Sean were enthralled. He told us that he wanted us to stay put as he would soon have a surprise for us.
When President Clinton finished his speech and walked down the steps of the podium, our agent friend greeted him and proceeded to lead the president, vice president and their families in our direction. I became concerned about the boys’ safety as I noticed the large crowd was also moving in our direction. When President Clinton noticed the two youngest faces in the crowd he immediately stopped. Before I even realized what was happening, we were surrounded by Secret Service. They held their hands out and told the crushing crowd to step back and move away from us.
The gregarious and charismatic president decided to take a minute to have a chat with Kyle and Sean. Sean, being very shy, tried to shrink back from the attention and seemed to want to disappear into my coat. Kyle, then only six years old decided to seize the moment. President Clinton dropped down to one knee so that he could be at eye level with his young fan. Kyle asked him why his plane was late, and told him that he had gotten cold waiting for him. Clinton and Gore erupted into laughter when hearing this. President Clinton asked Kyle how old he was and some questions about his school. The president stood up and lightly tousled Kyle’s hair, thanked him for coming out to greet him, and said," I’m sorry you got cold little buddy." Kyle then held up his small hand to shake all of the hands in the Clinton and Gore family.
When we arrived back home I told the boys to memorize the events of the evening, so that one day when they had children of their own they could tell them the story in vivid detail, about their chance meeting with the President of the United States.
Copyright 2007 Victoria Britton
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