Father's Day Renewed

     Father's Day wasn't the same after my dad died in 2002. What made that first Father's Day without him even more poignant was he died only nine days before. He was buried with a few Father's Day cards, unread. 
     While he was alive, I made sure to wish him happy Father's Day every year. A few years we played a round of golf or went to a ball game. Some years it was nothing more than a phone call or going out to dinner. In 2000, we went on a weekend trip to Cooperstown to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. The love of baseball was the one thing we shared in common. That was the last Father's Day I spent with him. The following year we weren't speaking, after he and my mom briefly separated and I was not real happy with him. I wish I would've handle it differently.
     Ever since his passing, I make a trip to a cemetery near Brookville, Ohio to visit his grave around Father's Day. I like to spend a few minutes giving him an update on what's going on in my life. This year, I made my visit on the way home from visiting my birth mother's grave in Greenville for the first time. Needless to say, I had a lot to share about finding my birth parents and family. I know he would've been thrilled for me. 
     Typically on Father's Day, I receive a lovely card from my mom, my wife makes me a special breakfast, and my son gives me a big heartfelt hug. All of which are perfect in every way. This year though, I received a Father's Day gift I won't soon forget. I woke up to a warm and gracious message from my birth father, Darrel.
     I've never met Darrel in person, but over the past month since reconnecting, we've talked on the phone several times. As Father's Day was approaching, I wasn't sure how to handle it. I feared a Father's Day greeting from me might be too assertive, given the newness of our friendship. But I also was concerned if I didn't acknowledge the day it could lead to hurt feelings. I certainly didn't want diminish his role in my life. After all, if it weren't for him I wouldn't be here. So, after much contemplation, I sent him a short greeting on Friday afternoon. This morning, he conveyed to me his gratitude upon reading the message. I feel like the foundations of a father/son relationship are being laid and I couldn't he happier.
     I would have never guessed reconnecting with my birth parents and family would lead to such joy and contentment. Before I began my search, I read horror stories of adoptees being rejected by their birth parents while trying to reconnect. On some level, I prepared myself for such disappointment. But other than my birth mother still being alive, I can't imagine my story being any better. Every nugget I uncover in my search is a shining reminder of how lucky I am. 
     For me, Father's Day has been renewed and I look forward to many more with Darrel. 
      

A Letter from the Past Cont.

Here is a copy of the letter my birth mother wrote on 9/11/1969, seven days after my birth. I certainly am conflicted at times and especially tonight. I love my mom very much and am thankful for everything she's done and continues to do for me, but I am terribly sad for my birth mother, Rosie. Though I've known it was not a easy decision for her at the time, reading her words today make me realize how much turmoil she was experiencing and how painful giving me up truly was for her. I have no doubt if things had been different for Rosie, she would've provided me a good home and would've been a caring mother. I've said it before, but I'm thankful, no matter how hard it may have been, I was given up for adoption and placed with the family I was. I've been blessed to have not one, but two selfless mothers looking out for me during my life. And just as my mom does today, I'm sure Rosie is still looking out for me from above. 

A Letter from the Past

     In 1993 I received a biographical health summary of my birth parents and their immediate families. Twenty years later I found a similar letter dated from 1970 which my parents received when they adopted me. Perhaps my late father knew this letter was in the family safe, but my mother had no recollection when I found it. I don't think it was kept from me intentionally, rather it was probably filed with the rest of my adoption papers and forgotten. Much of the information is consistent in both summaries, but there are a few details which needed clarification. In the l970 letter, it is stated "there are twins on the father's side of the family." The 1993 letter reads the father "has a twin sister." These two statements are not conclusive. Which letter writer is correct? Why did the writer of the 1970 letter not include my father was the twin, instead only saying "there are twins in the family?" There is a big difference between “being a twin” and “having twins in the family.” Also, the 1993 letter refers to my birth father in the past tense. It reads "he had," while the 1970 letter read, "he has." Since beginning my search I know he is alive—I've talked to him and will be writing about this aspect of my adoption story later. But when I received this summary in 1993, I had no way of knowing he was still alive. Perhaps the letter writer knew something about his fate which I didn't.
     One of the other inconsistencies, though small and insignificant in the grand scheme, is the 1993 letter mentions my birth mother reports allergies to soap and fur. The 1970 letter neglects to mention either. I did my best to avoid soap, but I must not have inherited her allergy as my mom made sure I was bathed and never had any allergic reactions. I did however test positive for an allergy to horses in a skin prick test administered by my pediatrician. Thankfully, my parents never bought me a pony. But these small incongruences made me wonder what other information might be missing.
When I sent in my birth records request to the Ohio Department of Health, I received my original birth certificate and adoption papers. There was nothing in the packet resembling the information found on either biographical letter. I was perplexed by this inconstancy. I always figured the information would be the same at both the local and state level. Clearly, there were two adoption files—one with the state and another with the agency that facilitated my adoption. In this case, it was the Family Service Association located in Dayton, Ohio. At the time of my adoption, they were known as the Red Feather Agency and they are also a private organization with their own private files. This is where the biographical information came from in 1970 and 1993.
     After a few weeks, I decided to inquire about my adoption file. Instead of calling then directly, I Googled the name of the social worker who provided me the 1993 information and sent her an email. I didn't call because they typically need such requests in writing and I thought an email would offer more credibility. I can imagine these agencies get calls and requests like this all the time and probably have their guard up. Plus, I've read some private adoption agencies are less than forthcoming when it comes to releasing details and I figured if I needed to get an attorney involved having everything in writing would be wise. Either way, it didn't matter. After not hearing back for about a week, I called and left the social worker a message and returned my call informing me she was now working for a different agency. She did however suggest I call the agency directly and ask for more information.
     When I first called the Family Service Association, I spoke to a very kind woman who politely listened to my story. She took my contact information and gave me the name of the person who would be researching the file and calling me back. After a week or so she called back and I briefly explained to her my story and the discrepancies with the two letters. She asked what I was looking for and wanted specifics. Immediately, I thought this was a ploy on her part to stonewall me or gauge my true intentions. No doubt in her position she's probably heard all kind of crazy stories from both adoptees and birth parents and needed assurance I wasn't some scammer or troublemaker. I told her I had already been in contact with my birth mother's family and that she had passed away. I also told her I had talked to my birth father and was looking forward to developing a friendship with him. And, I had the corresponding documents to support all of my claims and I would be glad to send them to her. Then she asked why I wanted to know what was in the file. I told her, "A", she's my birth mother and I wanted desperately to find a copy of her handwriting and signature. And "B", I'm writing a book and if there was something in the file which could shed more light on my adoption story it would be "miraculous!" At that very moment, she said “You're in luck!” She revealed to me there was a letter in the file signed by my birth mother, Rosemary. I'm not lying when I say I think I heard angels singing in unison. I asked if she could scan or fax it to me, but she said it was against agency policies to send documents in this manner. She asked me to FAX her my ID and current address and promised to drop it in the mail the next day.
     After I got off the phone, I called my wife and the conversation began as to what the letter contains. In my exuberance, I didn't ask the social worker to discern whether it was a personal letter or a signed administration document or adoption form. Is it possible, forty-six years ago when Rosie gave me up for adoption, she wrote a letter to me in hopes of me one day reading it? Given what I know about her now, this is very likely the case. She was a writer and I have no doubt she would be compelled to explain the circumstances of my birth and why she made the decision she did. My wife wholeheartedly believes this is the case. I spoke to my aunt and uncle about the letter and they seem very hopeful as well. But I'm trying very hard to keep my expectations at a reasonable level. However, of everything I've learned about Rosie or have been given by her family, including many photos, her engraved silver baby cup, a volume of plays she wrote for her church, stories about her, and the wonderful gift of her family and our new friendship, next to my life, a personal letter from her may be the most incredible gift I could ever receive.
     Needless to say I'm anxious to get home and check the mailbox.

A Father's Voice

     Today I heard my birth father's voice for the first time on the telephone. I had seen his picture on Facebook, but planned to contact him later after digesting everything I've learned about my birth mother Rosie, and her family. But in that process, an unexpected death stopped me in my tracks and set me on a different course. During my investigation into my birth mother's life, I located her second husband, John, to whom she had been married when she passed in 2005, and his two sons, step-children she helped raise, on Facebook. I was concerned with contacting him directly, afraid my asking such personal questions about his late wife would be too intrusive and could bring up painful memories of her death. My desire is to be as accommodating and cordial as possible, never forgetting this adoption story does not belong only to me. I decided instead to contact his sons, thinking they might be more sympathetic to my inquiry, being sons themselves. My Uncle Jerry told me Rosie's family all knew about me, so I wasn't too concerned they would be suspicious of some stranger claiming to be their step-mom's long lost child. I sent both sons, now adults, a message and the youngest replied after only a few hours (I'm not sharing names out of respect for their privacy). He was both stunned and pleased I had found them. I assured him I wasn't interested in anything more than hearing stories and memories of his late step-mom. He promised to send me some photos, video and more details about who Rosie was as a person and a mother. I thanked him and told him to take his time. If out of the blue, someone contacted me asking for details on the life of one of my deceased loved ones, I'd need some time to gather my thoughts, too.

     I'm not sure if life or time is more fleeting. Neither are guaranteed to anyone and I was reminded of this brutal truth last week. A few days later, the son I had corresponded with called his dad to let him know I had found them on Facebook. He too was elated and asked his son to give me his phone number so I could call. The next evening, after having dinner with some friends, John died suddenly. Sadly, we never got the chance to talk. I had waited to contact this side of  Rosie's family out of fear they might not want to hear from me. Even though Uncle Jerry felt they would be open to it, I had no way of knowing for sure how they would react if I reached out to them. I'm less afraid of rejection, than upsetting someone else's life. And of course, I had no way of knowing John would die unexpectedly. If only I had taken the initiative and contacted them earlier, perhaps we would've been able to speak about his late wife and my birth mother. Perhaps he would've felt some closure on behalf of his wife. In the end, though, maybe knowing I found them gave him some closure on this part his life, after all.

     After hearing this tragic news, I spent the following weekend pondering whether I should reach out to my birth father or wait like I had planned. Again, thanks to Uncle Jerry and Facebook, I knew who he was, what he looked like and where he lived. Fortunately for him, he lives in Florida. Much too far away for me to stalk him. And as a side note, how did we ever live without Facebook? Many people have criticized the state of Ohio for not unsealing the adoption records until 2015 and I agree. However, I can't imagine trying to trace my roots or finding my birth parents without the internet, let alone Facebook. Imagine how many hours it would take to sift through stacks of phone directories or newspapers at the local library. Or calling dozens of wrong phone numbers until finding the correct listing. And God forbid sending letters via snail mail. It took roughly twelve days for my original birth certificate to arrive in Xenia from Columbus. It would've taken me less time to walk there and back. Email, messaging, and Facebook has made this whole process easy and to some extent, enjoyable. For this, Mark Zuckerberg and Google have my sincere thanks. I digress. Since he was right there, only a click away, I decided to message my birth father. I felt like I couldn't wait any longer or tempt fate. I needed to at least make contact, if nothing else. Again, life is fleeting and I couldn't risk something happening before we at least spoke. He got my message and responded. After a few failed attempts, tonight we finally talked to each other for the first time. It was only for a few minutes, as I was in the middle of my radio show, but I could hear in his voice he is eager to talk and has much to say. I look forward to learning about him and his family and the circumstances surrounding my birth. It'll be interesting to see where it all goes.

Nature Vs. Nuture

     Your guess is as good as mine. Is a person fashioned more so according to their nature or the nurturing they receive in their formative years? It's a debate which likely has no definitive answer. Clearly, childhood experiences inform the people we become; likes and dislikes, beliefs, behaviors and even talents. But it's not all written in stone. As humans we can change our ideas on a subject or discover hidden talents to express our point of view. 

     When I was a youth, I often wondered where I got my zeal for attention and creative imagination. I would put on concerts and plays for my friends, sang and told jokes in talent shows, built stage settings in the basement, danced in show choir, and eventually went into broadcasting as a writer and a performer. From there I did theatre and improv, began writing poetry, short plays, and opinion pieces. While none of us are limited by what our parents did before us, there is certainly an argument to be made someone like me must've been inspired or influenced during their upbringing. My mom sang as a teenager and my dad taught himself to play the Lowrey Cotillion organ, but that was the extent of my family's artistic side. My parents were both encouraging and supportive, but I know at times they were left scratching their heads wondering where my ego and need to perform came from and exactly what they should do with me.  

     Finding my birth family and discovering who my birth mother really was as a person has answered for me many of these questions. Rosie was a singer, wrote plays, loved to laugh, had a sense of humor, and performed on stage many times throughout her life. And like many performers, she was also very shy. As I never met her, I would never assume to know her heart. But you can tell a lot from pictures and stories and I believe we shared more than DNA. I certainly don't mind being the center of attention, but I promise underneath my pudgy exterior is a fairly shy person. I think I've created a persona which allows me to step forward into the spotlight or be the clown and willing target for razzing. My skin is thick and it's not just from too many beers and chicken wings. 

     Last night my newly acquired uncle, Jerry, presented me with a stack of short plays Rosie wrote for her church. After reading a number of them today, I now know where, if I can be presumptuous enough to say, any aptitude I might posses for scribing came from. Certainly teachers, friends and even news directors and editors helped sharpen my tools along the way. They still do. But at the risk of being melodramatic, in her words I can vaguely hear my own voice. The works are ecclesiastical in nature, but even my secular sensibilities can feel her devotion to subject and can discern the care she used in placing each word precisely. To me, these works are truly a treasure and I'm honored to include them in my library. 

     My only wish, is there was video or audio of her singing or performing. Then there would be no doubt where I got my jazz hands. 

The Joy of Discovery

     A long time ago, as a child, I stepped on a rusty nail while exploring my grandma's farm. I've written about this on my blog and you can read the gory and hilarious details for yourself. I mention this incident because this past weekend, while meeting with my birth uncle and aunt for the first time, I learned my birth mother, Rosie, also stepped on a rusty nail as a child. As painful as the nail was to me, and as excruciating as it most certainly was to her (the nail came out the top of her foot), I found great warmth in the story. A coincidence for sure, but a connection none the less.  
     I've only begun to scratch the surface of who Rosie was. I know she was a singer, a performer, a writer, a jokester, a step-mom, and a sweet and caring person. I also know she was profoundly changed by giving me up for adoption, as were her family and close friends. From what I've learned, it seems as though the decision wasn't entirely up to her. With no support offered from her parents, she made the best, albeit difficult, decision she possibly could at the time. She wanted to keep me. Her brother (my uncle), her friend (my aunt), and others wanted her to keep me. It wasn't to be. Her mother and father sternly refused to help or support Rose. Maybe this was a bridge too far for them to cross at the time. Maybe they didn't think she could provide me what was needed. Maybe they were trying to look out and protect their daughter from the struggle of being a single parent. No one really knows all the private conversations which took place between them, but I can imagine they were painful. 
     Honestly, in the beginning of my search for my birth mother it was all about me. It was about me finding my roots. It was about me discovering where certain traits or talents came from. It was about me hopefully understanding some of my frailties and weaknesses. It was about me quenching a lifelong curiosity. This self-centeredness was somewhat warranted, having inquired twenty years prior about my parents and being told no one had contacted the adoption agency. As I've mentioned in other posts, I thought my parents were either deceased or uninterested in reconnecting. So, the moment I learned my birth mother's name and the subsequent emails describing her personality, traits, talents and the circumstance surrounding my birth, that lifelong curiosity was fed. But when I discovered I hadn't been forgotten or castaway without a second a thought, my self-centered outlook changed dramatically. 
     I'd been struggling to verbalize my feelings to my wife and others about recognizing the different perspectives of this circumstance; it's a heavy thing when you realize you are the center point of both great joy and great sorrow. My mom and dad and the rest were so happy to make me part of their family. On the other side though, there was great sadness and regret Rosie was pushed to give me up for adoption. I can't imagine the pain, living all those years with a big hole in one's heart. Not every year, but many of my birthday's were big parties with family and friends. And while we were playing pin the tail on the donkey, or putt-putt, or drinking too much on my 21st., somewhere Rosie and her family were thinking about me. They were wondering if I was okay. Wondering where I was and what I was doing. Wondering if I was happy and safe. They wondered, never knowing the answer to those questions. Every year while I looked forward to my birthday, I'm sure there was a part of Rosie and her family wishing they could skip that day. 
     What I realized over the weekend, with my own curiosities now quenched, from here on out this reconnection is really about Rosie's family. Yes, I'm curious to know more, but if it were all to end today I would be satisfied and grateful. And anything extra, like the photo album I received or the silver baby cup which belong to my mother, is icing on the cake. What I think this is really about, is helping a family find closure on a lifetime of sadness over letting me get away, and me working to help fill the emptiness they've felt for nearly 46 years. It's about beginning a new chapter for both Rosie's family--my family--and me. And I have a suspicion my 46th birthday this September 3rd. may be sweeter than most.

All In The Family

     What do you say to a long lost relative? In a few days, I'm going to find out for myself. My birth uncle and his wife are coming to Ohio to visit family in Darke County. This is an annual trip for them, but this year their travels will bring them a bit farther south to Greene County. 
     It kind of feels like I'm preparing for a first date or a job interview; get my hair cut, shave, polish my shoes, clean the toilets. Or perhaps, maybe more of an arranged marriage, of sorts. Kind of like, "here are your new family members...deal with it!" At least if you bomb on a first date or botch a job interview, you usually don't have to see the other party ever again. With family, this isn't necessarily the case (at least not in semi-functioning families.) 
     I don't anticipate any problems, but there is a certain level of anxiety associated with such meetings and/or reunions. Truth be told, we've lined up a number of "dates" over the next few weeks they're in town and I am trying to go into this without any expectations. I'm eager to learn about my late birth mother and plan to hopefully record some stories. I'm also excited to meet this "new" part of my extended family and will be taking plenty of pictures to post. From what I've gathered through our email exchanges and Facebook stalking, we have as many things in common as we don't. Which is awesome, because I think meeting people with diverse interests is what life is all about. And I don't think hanging out with people exactly like me would be very enjoyable.