Dormageddon

Yesterday, yet again, we helped the girlie move into her dorm for the coming year.  But this isn't just any year, this will be her SENIOR year.  I find this concept baffling since I'm pretty sure that she was a high school senior only 10 minutes or so ago.  I mean, I know I'm not getting any older, so how can she be?  It's a mystery.

After arriving in town Friday evening and grabbing some dinner we drove out to a friend's house to reclaim her car, which he had been watching over while she was home for the month of August.  What exactly he was watching it do I can't say, though I like to think he used it to herd his alpacas around their pen in lieu of a more compact and furry 4-footed herding companion.  After all, even a poor little Saturn should be allowed to dream big.

Saturday morning we went to collect the girlie's room key, went to the storage unit to load up our rental minivan (Stow and Go seats, you rock my world) and headed back to the dorm to unload.  Because the girlie's roommate is of the awesome, she stashed one of the giant orange utility carts littered around the campus in the suite for us after moving herself in earlier in the week.  This was quite the boon since those carts tend to be hard to get on move-in and move-out days.

I'm pretty sure that cart has a pig snout.

We loaded up the first cart and started to take it upstairs, only to discover a magically deserted second cart with which I promptly absconded.  Thus began what amounted to a move-in bucket brigade, with the hubs and the girlie taking one cart and unloading it upstairs while I loaded up the second cart at the car, then swapping them out and starting all over again.  At one point during the proceedings, a couple of German students who were standing outside having a smoke bemusedly watched me loading up carts.  Halfway through my second cart, they finally commented that my student had "packed the entire house."  While not expressly true in and of itself, her collection of SCA accoutrements over the last three years has nearly doubled the paraphernalia housed in her room.  When I was nearly done loading, one of the boys did ask if I needed any assistance, by which point I obviously didn't.  So much for chivalry.

Because we couldn't get everything from storage into the van in one go (yay, armor!), we once again hid the orange cart in the suite, released the second, and took a lunch break with the girlie and her roommate.  Then it was back to storage with a quick trip to Target on the side.

One trip to Lowe's, two to storage, three to Target and 4 orange carts of chattel later (never mind the 6 packs of bubble-wrapped books we took on the plane), we finally got the girlie moved in for her senior year.  The first Target trip was for standard cleaning/restocking sorts of supplies.  The second was for a curtain rod for her closet and a pack of underpants because she couldn't find any clean ones, having not had time to wash her Pennsic clothes before flying home.  The third trip was to return the curtain rod (which turned out to be the wrong size) and to exchange said underwear for the correct style.  I should have gotten a picture of the underpants and curtain rod for my collection of awkward shopping photos, but didn't.  I did get this one, though.

"Brain bleach on Aisle 6..."

The truly sad part was discovering today at the airport that I still had a Target gift card in my wallet, which somehow got missed on ALL THREE of the Target runs yesterday.  Clearly I need to staple it to my shirt or something because I'm pretty sure this is about the 10th trip I've made to a Target since receiving the card and I still haven't managed to use the blasted thing.  Ah, well...one of these days I'll finally achieve the elusive bullseye.

We spent the rest of the evening nomming pizza and catching the end of the recent Les Misérables movie.  Frankly, I still can't take Russell Crowe remotely seriously in the role of Javert; you'd think he'd be good at that sort of character but his clear preoccupation with getting the singing right (which he didn't, considering he sounded most of the time like he had a serious sinus infection or possibly a dirty sock wedged down his esophagus) rendered him virtually incapable of any acting barring the odd scene or two (when he notably was not singing).  On the plus side, when all the deceased characters came back at the end to sing the finale, I got to watch the hubs nearly spew soda up his nose when I casually commented "I see dead people."  So it was all good.

In spite of the approximately 900 trips around town, move-in went relatively smoothly though I find it difficult to believe that the next time we schlepp the girlie's possessions, it will likely be to take them off to her grad school residence.

Time really needs to stop flying past so quickly.

Dormageddon

Yesterday, yet again, we helped the girlie move into her dorm for the coming year.  But this isn't just any year, this will be her SENIOR year.  I find this concept baffling since I'm pretty sure that she was a high school senior only 10 minutes or so ago.  I mean, I know I'm not getting any older, so how can she be?  It's a mystery.

After arriving in town Friday evening and grabbing some dinner we drove out to a friend's house to reclaim her car, which he had been watching over while she was home for the month of August.  What exactly he was watching it do I can't say, though I like to think he used it to herd his alpacas around their pen in lieu of a more compact and furry 4-footed herding companion.  After all, even a poor little Saturn should be allowed to dream big.

Saturday morning we went to collect the girlie's room key, went to the storage unit to load up our rental minivan (Stow and Go seats, you rock my world) and headed back to the dorm to unload.  Because the girlie's roommate is of the awesome, she stashed one of the giant orange utility carts littered around the campus in the suite for us after moving herself in earlier in the week.  This was quite the boon since those carts tend to be hard to get on move-in and move-out days.

I'm pretty sure that cart has a pig snout.

We loaded up the first cart and started to take it upstairs, only to discover a magically deserted second cart with which I promptly absconded.  Thus began what amounted to a move-in bucket brigade, with the hubs and the girlie taking one cart and unloading it upstairs while I loaded up the second cart at the car, then swapping them out and starting all over again.  At one point during the proceedings, a couple of German students who were standing outside having a smoke bemusedly watched me loading up carts.  Halfway through my second cart, they finally commented that my student had "packed the entire house."  While not expressly true in and of itself, her collection of SCA accoutrements over the last three years has nearly doubled the paraphernalia housed in her room.  When I was nearly done loading, one of the boys did ask if I needed any assistance, by which point I obviously didn't.  So much for chivalry.

Because we couldn't get everything from storage into the van in one go (yay, armor!), we once again hid the orange cart in the suite, released the second, and took a lunch break with the girlie and her roommate.  Then it was back to storage with a quick trip to Target on the side.

One trip to Lowe's, two to storage, three to Target and 4 orange carts of chattel later (never mind the 6 packs of bubble-wrapped books we took on the plane), we finally got the girlie moved in for her senior year.  The first Target trip was for standard cleaning/restocking sorts of supplies.  The second was for a curtain rod for her closet and a pack of underpants because she couldn't find any clean ones, having not had time to wash her Pennsic clothes before flying home.  The third trip was to return the curtain rod (which turned out to be the wrong size) and to exchange said underwear for the correct style.  I should have gotten a picture of the underpants and curtain rod for my collection of awkward shopping photos, but didn't.  I did get this one, though.

"Brain bleach on Aisle 6..."

The truly sad part was discovering today at the airport that I still had a Target gift card in my wallet, which somehow got missed on ALL THREE of the Target runs yesterday.  Clearly I need to staple it to my shirt or something because I'm pretty sure this is about the 10th trip I've made to a Target since receiving the card and I still haven't managed to use the blasted thing.  Ah, well...one of these days I'll finally achieve the elusive bullseye.

We spent the rest of the evening nomming pizza and catching the end of the recent Les Misérables movie.  Frankly, I still can't take Russell Crowe remotely seriously in the role of Javert; you'd think he'd be good at that sort of character but his clear preoccupation with getting the singing right (which he didn't, considering he sounded most of the time like he had a serious sinus infection or possibly a dirty sock wedged down his esophagus) rendered him virtually incapable of any acting barring the odd scene or two (when he notably was not singing).  On the plus side, when all the deceased characters came back at the end to sing the finale, I got to watch the hubs nearly spew soda up his nose when I casually commented "I see dead people."  So it was all good.

In spite of the approximately 900 trips around town, move-in went relatively smoothly though I find it difficult to believe that the next time we schlepp the girlie's possessions, it will likely be to take them off to her grad school residence.

Time really needs to stop flying past so quickly.

Remembering Mom

For most people April 14th is primarily about finishing the taxes they spent all of Spring trying to avoid.  For me, however, April 14th is slightly more significant than just attempting to fly under Uncle Sam's radar. That's because my mother passed away one year ago today.  Her death was not completely unexpected; she'd had Parkinson's with dementia for several years, the onset of which began with Alzheimer-like symptoms shortly before my father died.  Still, it's not every day one has to say that final goodbye to a parent.

Mom's high school graduation photo (Class of 1950).

To be honest, the week after Mom died was a bit of a blur involving three trips to the Indianapolis airport in 2 days and a 16-hour road trip through four states on a different day.  I flew up the day before the funeral then had to go back to the airport the next day both to pick up my daughter as well as to return her to school later that same day once the services concluded so she could finish completing assignments due before the end of the semester.  The day after the service I drove to Tennessee with my brother and niece for my mom's interment.  The hubs met me there.  Afterwards, I threw my stuff from my brother's vehicle into our van and we drove off in opposite directions.  All told, I think I personally drove around 10 hours or more that day.

What I remember most about the funeral is not that it was very small because Mom's few remaining relatives were on the West Coast, or that her mouth/face somehow didn't look quite right (in spite of how many people tried to tell me she "looks really good" in a misguided attempt to comfort me), or even how exhausted I was afterwards.  What I remember most is the flowers.  And the Statler Brothers.

Nasal is as nasal does.

When we were growing up, my mother loved to listen to the Statler Brothers.  Personally I found them far too nasal and "country" for my taste, but then I wasn't in control of the record player.  So we heard the Statler Brothers.  A lot.  I'd mostly forgotten about it till my brother mentioned that he wanted to play a couple of their songs during the service (one of which was the "Captain Kangaroo" song), the titles of which he did not remember.   We ended up pillaging Google in an effort to locate the relevant songs and then drove to Lafayette to search several stores for one of the two CDs in the Statler Brother canon on which were recorded both songs.  We were so proud of ourselves for successfully completing this quest that we failed to listen very carefully to the lyrics of said songs beyond identifying them as the correct selections.  While everyone was settling in and quieting down before the service, a loudspeaker came on and "Flowers on the Wall" began to play.  The tune was quiet and mellow included lyrics like "smoking cigarettes (well, she did) and watching Captain Kangaroo."  Next some last-minute substitute minister came up to do the "service," which consisted mostly of his speaking in religious generalities and reading my mother's obituary because of course he'd never met her and so had no clue who she was.  As a result, the service was short and largely impersonal.  Afterwards, while everyone was still sniffling, the loudspeaker started playing the second selection:  "Whatever Happened to Randolph Scott."  Everyone sat there quietly grieving until a random Statler brother, who had been singing about movie ratings up to that point, suddenly blurted out that "the screen is filled with SEX."  Didn't see that coming.  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  Immediately I was reminded of the Mary Tyler Moore show and the funeral of Chuckles the Clown, during which Mary was trying desperately (and largely unsuccessfully) not to laugh.  On the one hand, my mother likely would have been annoyed by not receiving what she might consider a sufficient degree of gravitas and despondency on our parts; on the other hand, she told me many times that I should wear bright colors to her funeral instead of black and should be happy because she was in Heaven.  I suppose stifling snorts of wildly inappropriate laughter counts as a form of "happiness."   Meanwhile, a friend from high school who I'd not seen in 20+ years came to the funeral and sat right behind me; she was giggling gleefully because the unexpected musical selections sounded like something her own family would do at a funeral.

Chuckles is a NAME, not a COMMAND.  Sheesh.

I also remember the flowers, or at least the significance of the flowers.  My mother was obsessed with flowers her entire life.  She absolutely loved them.  There were always potted plants in our house and she was especially proud of the giant, 6 ft tall lilac bushes that lined one side of our front yard when I was a kid.  Naturally, we had flowers on Mom's casket, and a few people (mostly people my brother knew) sent arrangements.  I only took one arrangement home afterwards since it had to survive the trip from Indy back to Georgia.  I still have it (and it's even still alive, though it could stand repotting).  When we got to the cemetery, there was a funeral spray by the graveside.  My brother thought this was overkill since Mom had already had flowers at the service and couldn't understand why I would have bothered.  But flowers were her thing.  They just were.  When Mom moved to Tennessee one of the first things I bought her was a book about the local flowers and trees and bushes.  As far as I was concerned, she wouldn't be happy unless she were surrounded by flowers at all times.  Besides, it seemed so sad and lonely not to have something at the graveside other than the wilting casket flowers that had come down with Mom in the hearse.   Before we left TN after the interment I pulled a few flowers out of the spray and put them in the little brass vase by Mom's and Dad's headstone, after which I put the rest of the spray in the van to take home.  Once there I salvaged what I could, putting them in a container of my own.  For the next week whenever I went into the kitchen the entire room would smell of flowers...of Mom.  In the mail on the day we got back was a flyer from Teleflora to remind me to order Mother's Day flowers.  What Teleflora didn't realize is that I had already gotten some Mother's day flowers.  They were just a little early.

Because you can never have too many flowers.  Yes, even then.

My mother was, in many ways, a contradiction in terms.   She would boil canned vegetables until they were so limp and lifeless that Viagra couldn't have helped them.   She frequently murdered broccoli and cauliflower and eggplant, the pungent smell of which would hover throughout the house for hours at a time like a gaseous cloud of acid rain.  It has taken me years to learn to appreciate (or even eat) most vegetables and the smell of a couple varieties being cooked will still make me gag.  Our meat was often dry or overcooked and I have lost count of the number of meals she served which consisted only of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and hotdogs.  A chef Mom was not.  Yet every week without fail she would make 4 loaves of the most delicious homemade bread you ever tasted.  I would regularly beg her to make one of those loaves into cinnamon bread, which she occasionally did and which would have me dancing in anticipation.  When I was little she'd let me help knead the dough and would give me a small handful of my own to work, which I would then get to put into a little pot pie tin and bake.  I always loved having my own little loaf of bread!  I couldn't wait to slather it in butter when it was still too hot to eat and would scarf it down anyway, oblivious to the melting butter dripping down my chin or to the burned spots on my tongue.  Rarely a week went by without some form of pie or cake or cookie sitting on the table.   I even got my recipe for snickerdoodles from my mother.  True, I've tweaked the recipe a little over the years, but she is the person who first introduced me to the joy of cookie goodness that is the 'dood.

Mmmmmm...snickerdoodles...

Mom was not an educated woman; in fact, she frequently told me how much she sucked at schoolwork.  This is not really an exaggeration; I've seen the report cards.  She grew up on a farm in Montana and went to a tiny school in the area. Sometimes Mom seemed to move slower (she once got fired from a job for being too slow) or to be just a little slower on the uptake than others.  I've sometimes wondered if maybe this was partly the result of having been born with her umbilical cord around her neck; I'm told that if her grandmother had not been there at the birth, she likely would have died of asphyxiation.  And yet, my mother is the one who instilled my love of reading.  She read countless books to me when I was little and used to argue about my bedtime, always capitulating to allow me an extra half hour to read in bed.   Mom never went anywhere without a book by her side.  True, many of them were Harlequin Romances (about which I ragged her endlessly), but she loved learning the history and geography that was peripherally present in them and dreamed of being a world traveler one day (she longed to visit Australia), never mind dreaming of getting lots of good sex, apparently.  I can remember watching my mother sit reading for hours at a time with a cup of coffee at one hand and a glass of ice cubes (which she chewed) at the other.  She would come back from every trip to the library with a new stack of books to read.  She may not have always been the brightest crayon in the box but she had a passion for at least trying to learn new things (any time she read something she didn't understand she'd run to look it up in the dictionary or would look up unfamiliar places in the atlas) and she always supported my academic pursuits, even though she rarely understood them.

True story.

My mother could also be very passive-aggressive.  She was very shy growing up and never handled conflicts well even as an adult.  So she tended to make her feelings known through sneaky, passive-aggressive ways.  When I was in high school I did a lot of theater and Mom absolutely despised driving.  Picking me up every afternoon from rehearsal when the buses were no longer running used to piss her off because it cramped her reading and soap opera time.  Often when I'd call her to pick me up (back in the days of the pay phone, long before anyone had ever heard the words "cellular phone"), she'd answer "Well, what if I don't want to??" and only halfway (or less) be kidding.  So I'd usually call her bluff by answering that I'd just walk home instead, which would invariably flip her out because she was forever convinced that someone was going to jump out of the cornfield and molest me.  She was incredibly paranoid that one or both of us would be raped at any given moment.  She even dreamed about it sometimes (she had very vivid dreams her entire life).  Years later, before she moved back to Indy, I used to take her out to lunch every week and to do her grocery shopping or run errands.  One day I told her that I was going to have to stop doing the weekly lunch and maybe do monthly instead because neither my health nor my wallet could afford it any longer.  I thought she had taken the news well till we got back in the car, at which point she informed me that she'd "noticed I was getting fat but had decided not to say anything because she 'knew' I'd figure it out eventually."  This was Mom-Code for "I'm pissed that you've decided to stop spoiling me and treating me like the princess I want to be," something she'd never dare say to my face (or anyone else's).

While Mom could be a major pain in the ass sometimes, she was also very loving in her own way.  Mom and Dad felt bad that they couldn't afford to help me pay for college so when Mom used to write to me every week she'd often stash a $5 or $10 bill in each envelope.  Sometimes those few dollars were the difference between whether I ate that day or not, though I doubt she knew that.  Mom also made sure that both my brother and I knew we were adopted even before we were old enough to know what "adoption" really meant.  I grew up knowing that I was chosen.  True, I also knew that it was largely because I had red hair (she was obsessed with redheads too) and "had a cold" so she "felt sorry for me."  Still, I never doubted that she picked me because she wanted me nor that she always loved me.  Every year on our birthdays she would make us whatever we wanted for dinner and the cake of our choice.  Because I am me, my cake was often something non-traditional like a pie or strawberry shortcake.  In fact, even after I left home she always had some strawberries put up in the freezer just for me which she'd defrost whenever I came home.  She tried hard to make us feel special, particularly since there was rarely any extra money floating around.  She also liked to torture us with our presents.  Since she didn't have much to give, she tried to make it last by wrapping something like a cheap little necklace in 15 different boxes, individually wrapped one inside the other so that you had to dig through them like Matryoshka dolls to find the prize.  Or she'd fill a box with tissue paper and you'd search the whole thing only to discover she'd taped the necklace to the side of the box or wrapped a $10 bill in one of the sheets of tissue paper you'd just tried to throw away.  One year for Christmas she bought me a pack of socks (which I doubtless needed, not that anyone wants socks for Christmas).  So to make it more interesting, she wrapped each sock individually.  I can remember going into the living room Christmas morning and thinking Santa had left the mother lode, only to discover that 10 of my gifts consisted of a single sock.  You can imagine my disappointment over "Santa's" sadism.  Mom also frequently put gag gifts in our stockings, so I suppose that at least some of my quirky humor comes from her (which is also presumably why I used to tell her that her name--Lorraine LaRue--sounded like a stripper name).

I'd like to say that my mother was a perfect mom, but she wasn't.  Who is, really?  (Other than me, of course.)  But Mom did a lot more right than she did wrong (which is more than I can say for a lot of people) and she was brave enough to give someone else's child a home and all the love she had to offer.  For good or for ill, much of who I am today is because of her...and I am grateful.

I miss you, Mom.

Remembering Mom

For most people April 14th is primarily about finishing the taxes they spent all of Spring trying to avoid.  For me, however, April 14th is slightly more significant than just attempting to fly under Uncle Sam's radar. That's because my mother passed away one year ago today.  Her death was not completely unexpected; she'd had Parkinson's with dementia for several years, the onset of which began with Alzheimer-like symptoms shortly before my father died.  Still, it's not every day one has to say that final goodbye to a parent.

Mom's high school graduation photo (Class of 1950).

To be honest, the week after Mom died was a bit of a blur involving three trips to the Indianapolis airport in 2 days and a 16-hour road trip through four states on a different day.  I flew up the day before the funeral then had to go back to the airport the next day both to pick up my daughter as well as to return her to school later that same day once the services concluded so she could finish completing assignments due before the end of the semester.  The day after the service I drove to Tennessee with my brother and niece for my mom's interment.  The hubs met me there.  Afterwards, I threw my stuff from my brother's vehicle into our van and we drove off in opposite directions.  All told, I think I personally drove around 10 hours or more that day.

What I remember most about the funeral is not that it was very small because Mom's few remaining relatives were on the West Coast, or that her mouth/face somehow didn't look quite right (in spite of how many people tried to tell me she "looks really good" in a misguided attempt to comfort me), or even how exhausted I was afterwards.  What I remember most is the flowers.  And the Statler Brothers.

Nasal is as nasal does.

When we were growing up, my mother loved to listen to the Statler Brothers.  Personally I found them far too nasal and "country" for my taste, but then I wasn't in control of the record player.  So we heard the Statler Brothers.  A lot.  I'd mostly forgotten about it till my brother mentioned that he wanted to play a couple of their songs during the service (one of which was the "Captain Kangaroo" song), the titles of which he did not remember.   We ended up pillaging Google in an effort to locate the relevant songs and then drove to Lafayette to search several stores for one of the two CDs in the Statler Brother canon on which were recorded both songs.  We were so proud of ourselves for successfully completing this quest that we failed to listen very carefully to the lyrics of said songs beyond identifying them as the correct selections.  While everyone was settling in and quieting down before the service, a loudspeaker came on and "Flowers on the Wall" began to play.  The tune was quiet and mellow included lyrics like "smoking cigarettes (well, she did) and watching Captain Kangaroo."  Next some last-minute substitute minister came up to do the "service," which consisted mostly of his speaking in religious generalities and reading my mother's obituary because of course he'd never met her and so had no clue who she was.  As a result, the service was short and largely impersonal.  Afterwards, while everyone was still sniffling, the loudspeaker started playing the second selection:  "Whatever Happened to Randolph Scott."  Everyone sat there quietly grieving until a random Statler brother, who had been singing about movie ratings up to that point, suddenly blurted out that "the screen is filled with SEX."  Didn't see that coming.  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  Immediately I was reminded of the Mary Tyler Moore show and the funeral of Chuckles the Clown, during which Mary was trying desperately (and largely unsuccessfully) not to laugh.  On the one hand, my mother likely would have been annoyed by not receiving what she might consider a sufficient degree of gravitas and despondency on our parts; on the other hand, she told me many times that I should wear bright colors to her funeral instead of black and should be happy because she was in Heaven.  I suppose stifling snorts of wildly inappropriate laughter counts as a form of "happiness."   Meanwhile, a friend from high school who I'd not seen in 20+ years came to the funeral and sat right behind me; she was giggling gleefully because the unexpected musical selections sounded like something her own family would do at a funeral.

Chuckles is a NAME, not a COMMAND.  Sheesh.

I also remember the flowers, or at least the significance of the flowers.  My mother was obsessed with flowers her entire life.  She absolutely loved them.  There were always potted plants in our house and she was especially proud of the giant, 6 ft tall lilac bushes that lined one side of our front yard when I was a kid.  Naturally, we had flowers on Mom's casket, and a few people (mostly people my brother knew) sent arrangements.  I only took one arrangement home afterwards since it had to survive the trip from Indy back to Georgia.  I still have it (and it's even still alive, though it could stand repotting).  When we got to the cemetery, there was a funeral spray by the graveside.  My brother thought this was overkill since Mom had already had flowers at the service and couldn't understand why I would have bothered.  But flowers were her thing.  They just were.  When Mom moved to Tennessee one of the first things I bought her was a book about the local flowers and trees and bushes.  As far as I was concerned, she wouldn't be happy unless she were surrounded by flowers at all times.  Besides, it seemed so sad and lonely not to have something at the graveside other than the wilting casket flowers that had come down with Mom in the hearse.   Before we left TN after the interment I pulled a few flowers out of the spray and put them in the little brass vase by Mom's and Dad's headstone, after which I put the rest of the spray in the van to take home.  Once there I salvaged what I could, putting them in a container of my own.  For the next week whenever I went into the kitchen the entire room would smell of flowers...of Mom.  In the mail on the day we got back was a flyer from Teleflora to remind me to order Mother's Day flowers.  What Teleflora didn't realize is that I had already gotten some Mother's day flowers.  They were just a little early.

Because you can never have too many flowers.  Yes, even then.

My mother was, in many ways, a contradiction in terms.   She would boil canned vegetables until they were so limp and lifeless that Viagra couldn't have helped them.   She frequently murdered broccoli and cauliflower and eggplant, the pungent smell of which would hover throughout the house for hours at a time like a gaseous cloud of acid rain.  It has taken me years to learn to appreciate (or even eat) most vegetables and the smell of a couple varieties being cooked will still make me gag.  Our meat was often dry or overcooked and I have lost count of the number of meals she served which consisted only of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and hotdogs.  A chef Mom was not.  Yet every week without fail she would make 4 loaves of the most delicious homemade bread you ever tasted.  I would regularly beg her to make one of those loaves into cinnamon bread, which she occasionally did and which would have me dancing in anticipation.  When I was little she'd let me help knead the dough and would give me a small handful of my own to work, which I would then get to put into a little pot pie tin and bake.  I always loved having my own little loaf of bread!  I couldn't wait to slather it in butter when it was still too hot to eat and would scarf it down anyway, oblivious to the melting butter dripping down my chin or to the burned spots on my tongue.  Rarely a week went by without some form of pie or cake or cookie sitting on the table.   I even got my recipe for snickerdoodles from my mother.  True, I've tweaked the recipe a little over the years, but she is the person who first introduced me to the joy of cookie goodness that is the 'dood.

Mmmmmm...snickerdoodles...

Mom was not an educated woman; in fact, she frequently told me how much she sucked at schoolwork.  This is not really an exaggeration; I've seen the report cards.  She grew up on a farm in Montana and went to a tiny school in the area. Sometimes Mom seemed to move slower (she once got fired from a job for being too slow) or to be just a little slower on the uptake than others.  I've sometimes wondered if maybe this was partly the result of having been born with her umbilical cord around her neck; I'm told that if her grandmother had not been there at the birth, she likely would have died of asphyxiation.  And yet, my mother is the one who instilled my love of reading.  She read countless books to me when I was little and used to argue about my bedtime, always capitulating to allow me an extra half hour to read in bed.   Mom never went anywhere without a book by her side.  True, many of them were Harlequin Romances (about which I ragged her endlessly), but she loved learning the history and geography that was peripherally present in them and dreamed of being a world traveler one day (she longed to visit Australia), never mind dreaming of getting lots of good sex, apparently.  I can remember watching my mother sit reading for hours at a time with a cup of coffee at one hand and a glass of ice cubes (which she chewed) at the other.  She would come back from every trip to the library with a new stack of books to read.  She may not have always been the brightest crayon in the box but she had a passion for at least trying to learn new things (any time she read something she didn't understand she'd run to look it up in the dictionary or would look up unfamiliar places in the atlas) and she always supported my academic pursuits, even though she rarely understood them.

True story.

My mother could also be very passive-aggressive.  She was very shy growing up and never handled conflicts well even as an adult.  So she tended to make her feelings known through sneaky, passive-aggressive ways.  When I was in high school I did a lot of theater and Mom absolutely despised driving.  Picking me up every afternoon from rehearsal when the buses were no longer running used to piss her off because it cramped her reading and soap opera time.  Often when I'd call her to pick me up (back in the days of the pay phone, long before anyone had ever heard the words "cellular phone"), she'd answer "Well, what if I don't want to??" and only halfway (or less) be kidding.  So I'd usually call her bluff by answering that I'd just walk home instead, which would invariably flip her out because she was forever convinced that someone was going to jump out of the cornfield and molest me.  She was incredibly paranoid that one or both of us would be raped at any given moment.  She even dreamed about it sometimes (she had very vivid dreams her entire life).  Years later, before she moved back to Indy, I used to take her out to lunch every week and to do her grocery shopping or run errands.  One day I told her that I was going to have to stop doing the weekly lunch and maybe do monthly instead because neither my health nor my wallet could afford it any longer.  I thought she had taken the news well till we got back in the car, at which point she informed me that she'd "noticed I was getting fat but had decided not to say anything because she 'knew' I'd figure it out eventually."  This was Mom-Code for "I'm pissed that you've decided to stop spoiling me and treating me like the princess I want to be," something she'd never dare say to my face (or anyone else's).

While Mom could be a major pain in the ass sometimes, she was also very loving in her own way.  Mom and Dad felt bad that they couldn't afford to help me pay for college so when Mom used to write to me every week she'd often stash a $5 or $10 bill in each envelope.  Sometimes those few dollars were the difference between whether I ate that day or not, though I doubt she knew that.  Mom also made sure that both my brother and I knew we were adopted even before we were old enough to know what "adoption" really meant.  I grew up knowing that I was chosen.  True, I also knew that it was largely because I had red hair (she was obsessed with redheads too) and "had a cold" so she "felt sorry for me."  Still, I never doubted that she picked me because she wanted me nor that she always loved me.  Every year on our birthdays she would make us whatever we wanted for dinner and the cake of our choice.  Because I am me, my cake was often something non-traditional like a pie or strawberry shortcake.  In fact, even after I left home she always had some strawberries put up in the freezer just for me which she'd defrost whenever I came home.  She tried hard to make us feel special, particularly since there was rarely any extra money floating around.  She also liked to torture us with our presents.  Since she didn't have much to give, she tried to make it last by wrapping something like a cheap little necklace in 15 different boxes, individually wrapped one inside the other so that you had to dig through them like Matryoshka dolls to find the prize.  Or she'd fill a box with tissue paper and you'd search the whole thing only to discover she'd taped the necklace to the side of the box or wrapped a $10 bill in one of the sheets of tissue paper you'd just tried to throw away.  One year for Christmas she bought me a pack of socks (which I doubtless needed, not that anyone wants socks for Christmas).  So to make it more interesting, she wrapped each sock individually.  I can remember going into the living room Christmas morning and thinking Santa had left the mother lode, only to discover that 10 of my gifts consisted of a single sock.  You can imagine my disappointment over "Santa's" sadism.  Mom also frequently put gag gifts in our stockings, so I suppose that at least some of my quirky humor comes from her (which is also presumably why I used to tell her that her name--Lorraine LaRue--sounded like a stripper name).

I'd like to say that my mother was a perfect mom, but she wasn't.  Who is, really?  (Other than me, of course.)  But Mom did a lot more right than she did wrong (which is more than I can say for a lot of people) and she was brave enough to give someone else's child a home and all the love she had to offer.  For good or for ill, much of who I am today is because of her...and I am grateful.

I miss you, Mom.

The Most Epic Christmas Gift Ever

Another Christmas has come and gone.  All over the world people are clearing up the detritus of another year's holiday, carefully putting away decorations, moaning over the extra pounds gained from holiday snacking, trying to find places on already teeming shelves for this year's haul, and opening the refrigerator only to roll their eyes in disgust at the prospect of leftovers for dinner yet again.  Like everyone else, I still have a refrigerator full of leftovers. I have gifts to put away.  Decorations will come down, probably next weekend after Epiphany, assuming they don't drive me nuts before then.  And I confess to having slapped on a couple extra pounds from holiday noshing, in spite of the fact that my thoughtful daughter went out of her way to find Weight Watcher-friendly snacks for my stocking this year.

As things get packed away, most people's focus inevitably returns to creating another list of New Year's Resolutions, which those same people will start to ignore three days after the holiday is over.  Life will go on, as will we, secure in the knowledge that we have survived one more would-be (Mayan) apocalypse and are therefore able to begin another year afresh.  Everyone will start thinking about work or school or chores or whatever and forget about the holiday just past.

Normally, I would too.  This year, however, I am still a little obsessed with one of my Christmas gifts, which I received two weeks before Christmas.  And that's okay, because this is a gift like no other, nor is it one I was expecting to receive in time for Christmas (if at all).  This year, I was given the most epic of Christmas gifts. I was given back my history--my heritage.  And that's a priceless gift.

Some of you may not realize it, but I was adopted when I was only five weeks old.  Sometimes my mother claimed she picked me because I had a cold and she felt sorry for me (probably because she thought she was being funny and/or noble) and sometimes she said it was because I had red hair (which is probably more accurate--she was obsessed with redheads).  At any rate, the call came that a little girl was available and so they drove to the children's home to collect me. They had to stop on the way home for supplies because the call had come so unexpectedly that they weren't entirely prepared; the only baby things in the house were my brother's, none of which would fit me since he was 10 months old when he was adopted.  So after some minor scrambling they got me and the supplies home, and thus my life began.

I always knew I was adopted; my mom went out of her way to make sure we knew long before we were old enough to understand what adoption really meant. Because this information was never hidden from us, it became commonplace and I grew up not thinking much about it one way or another.  It was just another random fact, as much a part of my everyday identity as my freckles or eye color or auburn hair or height.

As I got older, I did occasionally get curious about my birth parents, or more specifically about my genetic background.  I used to fantasize that one day I'd pose as a Gallup pollster (back when that was still plausible) and would "interview" my birth parents to answer all the questions I had, such as who liked to draw or who liked music or what country they were from or who had blue eyes. Afterwards, I'd pack up my clipboard, shake their hands, and quietly leave with nobody the wiser.  After all, I figured that, for whatever reason, they'd made a difficult decision in giving me up and there was just no reason to upend everyone's life by pursuing the matter when I could simply do an informational hit and run to satisfy my curiosity.  Or so I thought.  Obviously, such a plan wasn't very realistic for a number of reasons, not the least of which was whether my birth parents could even be found and were still alive, never mind willing to talk to a "stranger" about something so personal or that they might prefer forgotten.  But then that's how childish fantasies often work.  Most of the time, though, I was reasonably content with my lot.  I never felt abandoned by my birth parents; if anything, I felt (perhaps naïvely) that they'd given me up because they wanted me to have a better life than I might otherwise have had. So I never held a grudge.

Life continued.  I went to college, I got married, I had a child.  Some days I'd still wonder about where I'd come from, some days not.  I became interested in genealogy through B's grandmother, who had traced her family back several generations (which was impressive in the days before Ancestry.com).  She was convinced that the family had descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie (they didn't) but she could never find the direct link between her family and Charlie. Years later, after my daughter was born, I became much more interested in pursuing my origins if for no other reason than to glean medical information that suddenly seemed infinitely more relevant with an infant at home.  After several inquiries the only new thing I was able to discover was the time of day I'd been born; everything else I already knew from the adoption papers my mother had given me before she and Dad moved to New Mexico to retire.  At the time I was told I could pursue my origins if I were willing to petition the courts or pay for a private investigator, but that was about my only shot since all the records were tightly sealed.  Funding an investigation was not an option at the time, so I let it go.

Every now and again I'd still wonder about my ancestry, but mostly I went on with the daily business of raising my child, which kept me plenty busy.  Sure, I often amused myself by making up my ancestry on the whim of the day.  One day I'd be French since my maiden name was French, and another I might be English.  On St. Patrick's Day (my birthday) I was always Irish, along with every other person trying to make up an excuse for drinking green beer.  My supposed Irishosity seemed more plausible, I thought, given such an auspicious  birthday and my leprechaun coloring.  Certainly I immediately discarded  several possible ethnicities because of my pale skin; my friends' prevailing opinion was that I was either Irish (possibly Scottish) or German.  Maybe both.  Anyone's guess was as good as mine.

In April, though, things changed.  In April, my mother passed away at age 80.  I know that she wouldn't have begrudged me wanting to search for my birth parents, but I also know she would have been hurt; the one time I said anything about searching back in high school she became depressed.  She wanted me to be happy, but I think she was afraid of having to share me or of losing me.  No doubt it sounds opportunistic of me to start searching for my birth parents right after my mother died, but that's not exactly how things happened.  I wasn't even thinking of searching at the time.  My mother died and I grieved for her, though I was glad that she was finally free of her dementia and at peace with my dad. It wasn't an immediate thing, this search.  One day in August I was cleaning up piles of stuff on my desk when I ran across a clipping of  Mom's obituary.  I started to file it away with my adoption papers and my other genealogy stuff.   Of course as I did so I had to look through them all again.  After rereading my adoption papers for maybe the 100th time, I thought to myself "I should try again.  I'm getting older.  Medical information could prove useful."  So after playing with the magic Google I did some research,  found some links, and submitted some forms with the requisite fees to the Indiana Department of Health.

A couple weeks later I got a letter back from someone named Darcy.  Darcy informed me that I had used an incorrect form and was therefore returning my check.  She also noted in her letter that if I was interested in continuing my search, she could suggest a couple of options.  I admit I was intrigued.  I thought about it for a couple of days, then decided "what the hell" and called Darcy.  Darcy suggested that I register with the state's adoption database because if my birth parents were likewise registered then the database would find the match and I could then get a copy of my original birth certificate.  She also told me that another option would be to hire a Confidential Intermediary (CI) who could be appointed by the court to research my case and make initial contact with any living birth parents.  It seemed unfathomable to me that some 47 years after my birth I might finally be able to discover something about my origins; I found the prospect both frightening and exciting. I followed Darcy's advice and immediately registered with the Adoption Registry and Database.  In a follow-up letter thanking me for registering with the database, Darcy also sent the names of several available CIs in case I chose to pursue the matter further. So back to Google I went, letter and names in hand.  Next thing I knew I was looking at the Facebook page of a woman named Jill who worked as a CI for an law firm in Indy which focuses exclusively on adoptions and adoption law.  The whole thing seemed entirely too easy.

A few days later I nervously called Jill.  She told me how everything worked and how much it cost.  For $500 plus court costs I could potentially find out something about my birth parents--an amazing thought after all these years.  The cost seemed reasonable compared to that of hiring a private detective, with the added benefit that Jill could personally access the court records.  I gave Jill all the information I had regarding the adoption and she filed a petition with the court to be made my CI, warning me that it would take around a month to be processed.  I sent off my fees and proceeded to wait.  In October I got a call that Jill had been officially appointed and could begin searching on my behalf.  Jill told me that if my birth mother was deceased (as well she might be considering my age, never mind hers), then both my original birth certificate and hers would be released to me.  A part of me almost hoped that would be the case; not to be all macabre, but it seemed to me at the time that it might be easier under those circumstances because I could get the information I craved without having to potentially deal with awkward situations...I didn't want to rock anybody's boat.  Of course, that was before I met my birth mother.  Everything was just happening so quickly.  But I tried not to think about it.  I told Jill that my primary objective was to get information and that while I was not necessarily opposed to any relationship that came out of this, it was also not the main goal.  She told me she was happy that I was "managing my expectations."  Good Ginger.  Gooooooood Ginger.

Two months went by.  I kept busy.  I knew it would probably take awhile to discover anything, so I wasn't too concerned by time passing.  Then earlier this month it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Jill since her appointment as my CI, so I shot her a quick email to check in and ask if there'd been any progress.  I didn't want to be pushy but figured I should remind her I was still out here waiting patiently.  She called the next morning to say that she was "so close."  My heart skipped a beat.  Jill said she knew who my birth mother was, who her brothers were, and everything about her and was trying to make contact but had been unsuccessful so far.  Talk about dangling a carrot in front of someone's face.  She said she was glad I had called because it gave her the impetus to push a little harder by trying to send a certified letter, etc., etc.  Okay.  Whatever.  Excuse me while I go twitch in a corner for several hours.

The next morning I was in my room working out.  As I sat on the floor stretching, my phone buzzed with a message from Jill to call her because "I have good news."  With my hand shaking a little, I called her back and was told "I FOUND her. And she's HAPPY."  I sat there, stunned, not quite sure what to say or feel.  Jill, meanwhile, was positively giddy with excitement because she "loves it when they're happy and not slamming doors in my face."  Well, who could blame her, really?  Jill told me I'd need to send her an email, as would my birth mother, stating that it was okay to release personal information. I agreed to send one immediately and off Jill ran off to see about getting a court date so she could get records released.  I was flabbergasted.  Later that night Jill called again to inform me that there had been an "interesting development."  I couldn't even imagine.  This was all becoming quite a roller coaster ride.  Turns out she called the family of the person she thinks is my birth father (I gather he has a common name so it was not 100% sure) only to discover that he was dead and that his daughter was more than a little freaked at the possibility her dad may have fathered an unknown child.  Jill asked what she wanted me to do, as though I had the first clue.  Let's face it--it's not every day someone asks whether or not you want to strong arm a potential sibling.  We decided to back off on the birth father search for a bit and see what happened with my birth mother, thinking perhaps more information would eventually surface as she and I chatted, after which I could decide how and if to continue pursuing my birth father.  Besides, it seemed only fair to give the girl time to process the possibility of a half-sister; after all, I certainly didn't want to traumatize anyone because of my search.  That was never my intention.  Everything was becoming real (with a capital R) at breakneck speed.

On Wednesday morning, December 12, Jill called to inform me that she could "now release information."  She gave me the name, phone number and email address of my birth mother NJ and asked whether I was going to contact NJ or whether she should contact me.  I drew a blank.  How does one answer that?  I hardly knew where to start after nearly 48 years of limbo.  I told Jill that I would contact NJ either sometime that day or the next but that first I wanted to think of some questions so I wouldn't sit on a phone and stutter stupidly like a fool since there was no way to know how I'd react in such uncharted waters.  I ended up emailing NJ later that night, making it clear that I was looking primarily for information because I didn't want to mislead her and telling her that if anything more was to come of this it would have to happen slowly over time.  As a result, I wanted to start from the safe distance of email and go forward from there.  Once my missive was sent, I proceeded to sit on tenterhooks while waiting to see how long it would take to get a reply.

Meanwhile, I shared this stunning revelation with my "Posse" of friends in our online forum.  They were thrilled for me even as they advised caution initially.  While I was chatting with them I looked up and saw that an email from NJ had suddenly appeared in my inbox.  I gaped at it in awe.  Then I read it.  And read it again.  And again.  NJ very respectfully answered my email just as carefully and cautiously as I had approached her in my own.  The irony that her message came through at  12:30 am was not lost on me either...perhaps NJ was also a night owl, I thought.  I soaked in her words, marveling at them, then answered her back immediately.  It took longer to get a response the second time and I was surprised to find myself so twitchy and antsy with anticipation while awaiting her next email.  I nearly had to tie myself down to keep from calling her immediately.  So much for dignity and caution.

With the dialogue between us freshly opened, we emailed regularly back and forth the next several days.  Within a mere 48 hours, questions I'd held in my heart for nearly half a century were finally answered.  Then suddenly NJ's emails stopped.  I didn't think much of it at first, since sometimes it took a while for one or the other of us to answer (particularly as her laptop wasn't working and she was still getting used to a new smartphone), but when I didn't hear anything from her for a couple of days I began to worry that I'd unintentionally said or done something to upset her.  It seemed cruel that a door so suddenly opened should be slammed shut just as quickly.  After 3-4 days I finally sent her another note saying that if she needed some space to process things that was fine, but could she please let me know she was okay?  I got a message back the next day; turns out her phone and laptop had been stolen so she'd been largely incommunicado while trying to deal with insurance for the stolen items and for a fender bender she'd had the previous week.  I was relieved, far more than I might have expected.  I was starting to like NJ.

Over the last two and a half weeks NJ and I have slowly been getting to know each other.  It's been difficult to think of much else, really, especially before the girlie got home for break.  How could it not be?  I have rarely faced more monumentally life-changing events than this. I expect this has all been as much a miracle for NJ as for me;   it never really occurred to me before now that my birth mother might have just as much curiosity about me as I did about her.  (You know how selfish children can be.)  This has already been a fascinating journey, and the more I get to know NJ, the more I respect her--and not just for giving me life at a time when unwed mothers were largely vilified.  Now that I've had the opportunity to talk with her, I'm grateful she is still around to put my history into context with stories of real people and real family members.  We are both getting long-sequestered questions answered and curiosity slaked as we each discover the type of woman the other is.  We are uncovering hidden connections between us, such as that NJ is indeed as much a night owl as myself.  Along the way I've been plugging in new information to Ancestry.com as it comes; for the first time in my life, I have a genetic heritage.  I can look online and see the progression of generation after generation and know, even if I never met any of them, that I am still a part of them.  That half of my legacy is no longer unknown.  I have a past--well, more of a past.  I have a nationality, one which I no longer have to guess at or make up.  I am learning my medical history.  In short, I have knowledge, a knowledge I can now share with my daughter so she'll know the rest of her history too.   And it's brilliant.

Now, three days after Christmas, three days after a lovely day with my family during which we opened fun and festive presents (one of which was a new, non-possessed laptop--squee!) and spent quality time together, I am still unwrapping the biggest and most mind-boggling gift I've ever been given (short of my daughter's birth) and no doubt will be for some time.  And it is a gift, a gift of epic proportions--one which has already changed my life and will probably continue to do in ways I can't yet comprehend.  None of this changes the fact that I loved my mother or that I miss her or that I am equally the product of her nurture as I am of NJ's genetics.  I consider myself more than fortunate to have been raised by a woman generous enough to love another woman's child as her own; now the selfless woman who gave me life in the first place has been selfless enough to give me (and my child) back our history.

I am twice blessed.

*********************************************************
Now--bonus--a poem I've had on my wall for years, one which seems infinitely more relevant and poignant in light of this month's blessings:

THE LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD 

Once there were two women 

Who never knew each other. 

One you do not remember, 

The other you call Mother. 

Two different lives, 

Shaped to make yours one. 

One became your guiding star, 

The other became your sun. 

The first one gave you life, 

The second taught you to live it. 

The first gave you a need for love, 

The second was there to give it. 

One gave you a nationality,

The other gave you a name.

One gave you a talent,

The other gave you an aim.

One gave you emotions, 

The other calmed your fears. 

One saw your first sweet smile 

The other dried your tears. 

One sought for you a home 

That she could not provide. 

The other prayed for a child, 

Her hopes were not denied. 

And now you ask me

Through your tears, 

The age-old question, 

Unanswered through the years:

"Heredity or environment,

Which am I the product of?"

Neither, my darling, neither--

Just two different kinds of love.

~Anonymous

The Most Epic Christmas Gift Ever

Another Christmas has come and gone.  All over the world people are clearing up the detritus of another year's holiday, carefully putting away decorations, moaning over the extra pounds gained from holiday snacking, trying to find places on already teeming shelves for this year's haul, and opening the refrigerator only to roll their eyes in disgust at the prospect of leftovers for dinner yet again.  Like everyone else, I still have a refrigerator full of leftovers. I have gifts to put away.  Decorations will come down, probably next weekend after Epiphany, assuming they don't drive me nuts before then.  And I confess to having slapped on a couple extra pounds from holiday noshing, in spite of the fact that my thoughtful daughter went out of her way to find Weight Watcher-friendly snacks for my stocking this year.

As things get packed away, most people's focus inevitably returns to creating another list of New Year's Resolutions, which those same people will start to ignore three days after the holiday is over.  Life will go on, as will we, secure in the knowledge that we have survived one more would-be (Mayan) apocalypse and are therefore able to begin another year afresh.  Everyone will start thinking about work or school or chores or whatever and forget about the holiday just past.

Normally, I would too.  This year, however, I am still a little obsessed with one of my Christmas gifts, which I received two weeks before Christmas.  And that's okay, because this is a gift like no other, nor is it one I was expecting to receive in time for Christmas (if at all).  This year, I was given the most epic of Christmas gifts. I was given back my history--my heritage.  And that's a priceless gift.

Some of you may not realize it, but I was adopted when I was only five weeks old.  Sometimes my mother claimed she picked me because I had a cold and she felt sorry for me (probably because she thought she was being funny and/or noble) and sometimes she said it was because I had red hair (which is probably more accurate--she was obsessed with redheads).  At any rate, the call came that a little girl was available and so they drove to the children's home to collect me. They had to stop on the way home for supplies because the call had come so unexpectedly that they weren't entirely prepared; the only baby things in the house were my brother's, none of which would fit me since he was 10 months old when he was adopted.  So after some minor scrambling they got me and the supplies home, and thus my life began.

I always knew I was adopted; my mom went out of her way to make sure we knew long before we were old enough to understand what adoption really meant. Because this information was never hidden from us, it became commonplace and I grew up not thinking much about it one way or another.  It was just another random fact, as much a part of my everyday identity as my freckles or eye color or auburn hair or height.

As I got older, I did occasionally get curious about my birth parents, or more specifically about my genetic background.  I used to fantasize that one day I'd pose as a Gallup pollster (back when that was still plausible) and would "interview" my birth parents to answer all the questions I had, such as who liked to draw or who liked music or what country they were from or who had blue eyes. Afterwards, I'd pack up my clipboard, shake their hands, and quietly leave with nobody the wiser.  After all, I figured that, for whatever reason, they'd made a difficult decision in giving me up and there was just no reason to upend everyone's life by pursuing the matter when I could simply do an informational hit and run to satisfy my curiosity.  Or so I thought.  Obviously, such a plan wasn't very realistic for a number of reasons, not the least of which was whether my birth parents could even be found and were still alive, never mind willing to talk to a "stranger" about something so personal or that they might prefer forgotten.  But then that's how childish fantasies often work.  Most of the time, though, I was reasonably content with my lot.  I never felt abandoned by my birth parents; if anything, I felt (perhaps naïvely) that they'd given me up because they wanted me to have a better life than I might otherwise have had. So I never held a grudge.

Life continued.  I went to college, I got married, I had a child.  Some days I'd still wonder about where I'd come from, some days not.  I became interested in genealogy through B's grandmother, who had traced her family back several generations (which was impressive in the days before Ancestry.com).  She was convinced that the family had descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie (they didn't) but she could never find the direct link between her family and Charlie. Years later, after my daughter was born, I became much more interested in pursuing my origins if for no other reason than to glean medical information that suddenly seemed infinitely more relevant with an infant at home.  After several inquiries the only new thing I was able to discover was the time of day I'd been born; everything else I already knew from the adoption papers my mother had given me before she and Dad moved to New Mexico to retire.  At the time I was told I could pursue my origins if I were willing to petition the courts or pay for a private investigator, but that was about my only shot since all the records were tightly sealed.  Funding an investigation was not an option at the time, so I let it go.

Every now and again I'd still wonder about my ancestry, but mostly I went on with the daily business of raising my child, which kept me plenty busy.  Sure, I often amused myself by making up my ancestry on the whim of the day.  One day I'd be French since my maiden name was French, and another I might be English.  On St. Patrick's Day (my birthday) I was always Irish, along with every other person trying to make up an excuse for drinking green beer.  My supposed Irishosity seemed more plausible, I thought, given such an auspicious  birthday and my leprechaun coloring.  Certainly I immediately discarded  several possible ethnicities because of my pale skin; my friends' prevailing opinion was that I was either Irish (possibly Scottish) or German.  Maybe both.  Anyone's guess was as good as mine.

In April, though, things changed.  In April, my mother passed away at age 80.  I know that she wouldn't have begrudged me wanting to search for my birth parents, but I also know she would have been hurt; the one time I said anything about searching back in high school she became depressed.  She wanted me to be happy, but I think she was afraid of having to share me or of losing me.  No doubt it sounds opportunistic of me to start searching for my birth parents right after my mother died, but that's not exactly how things happened.  I wasn't even thinking of searching at the time.  My mother died and I grieved for her, though I was glad that she was finally free of her dementia and at peace with my dad. It wasn't an immediate thing, this search.  One day in August I was cleaning up piles of stuff on my desk when I ran across a clipping of  Mom's obituary.  I started to file it away with my adoption papers and my other genealogy stuff.   Of course as I did so I had to look through them all again.  After rereading my adoption papers for maybe the 100th time, I thought to myself "I should try again.  I'm getting older.  Medical information could prove useful."  So after playing with the magic Google I did some research,  found some links, and submitted some forms with the requisite fees to the Indiana Department of Health.

A couple weeks later I got a letter back from someone named Darcy.  Darcy informed me that I had used an incorrect form and was therefore returning my check.  She also noted in her letter that if I was interested in continuing my search, she could suggest a couple of options.  I admit I was intrigued.  I thought about it for a couple of days, then decided "what the hell" and called Darcy.  Darcy suggested that I register with the state's adoption database because if my birth parents were likewise registered then the database would find the match and I could then get a copy of my original birth certificate.  She also told me that another option would be to hire a Confidential Intermediary (CI) who could be appointed by the court to research my case and make initial contact with any living birth parents.  It seemed unfathomable to me that some 47 years after my birth I might finally be able to discover something about my origins; I found the prospect both frightening and exciting. I followed Darcy's advice and immediately registered with the Adoption Registry and Database.  In a follow-up letter thanking me for registering with the database, Darcy also sent the names of several available CIs in case I chose to pursue the matter further. So back to Google I went, letter and names in hand.  Next thing I knew I was looking at the Facebook page of a woman named Jill who worked as a CI for an law firm in Indy which focuses exclusively on adoptions and adoption law.  The whole thing seemed entirely too easy.

A few days later I nervously called Jill.  She told me how everything worked and how much it cost.  For $500 plus court costs I could potentially find out something about my birth parents--an amazing thought after all these years.  The cost seemed reasonable compared to that of hiring a private detective, with the added benefit that Jill could personally access the court records.  I gave Jill all the information I had regarding the adoption and she filed a petition with the court to be made my CI, warning me that it would take around a month to be processed.  I sent off my fees and proceeded to wait.  In October I got a call that Jill had been officially appointed and could begin searching on my behalf.  Jill told me that if my birth mother was deceased (as well she might be considering my age, never mind hers), then both my original birth certificate and hers would be released to me.  A part of me almost hoped that would be the case; not to be all macabre, but it seemed to me at the time that it might be easier under those circumstances because I could get the information I craved without having to potentially deal with awkward situations...I didn't want to rock anybody's boat.  Of course, that was before I met my birth mother.  Everything was just happening so quickly.  But I tried not to think about it.  I told Jill that my primary objective was to get information and that while I was not necessarily opposed to any relationship that came out of this, it was also not the main goal.  She told me she was happy that I was "managing my expectations."  Good Ginger.  Gooooooood Ginger.

Two months went by.  I kept busy.  I knew it would probably take awhile to discover anything, so I wasn't too concerned by time passing.  Then earlier this month it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Jill since her appointment as my CI, so I shot her a quick email to check in and ask if there'd been any progress.  I didn't want to be pushy but figured I should remind her I was still out here waiting patiently.  She called the next morning to say that she was "so close."  My heart skipped a beat.  Jill said she knew who my birth mother was, who her brothers were, and everything about her and was trying to make contact but had been unsuccessful so far.  Talk about dangling a carrot in front of someone's face.  She said she was glad I had called because it gave her the impetus to push a little harder by trying to send a certified letter, etc., etc.  Okay.  Whatever.  Excuse me while I go twitch in a corner for several hours.

The next morning I was in my room working out.  As I sat on the floor stretching, my phone buzzed with a message from Jill to call her because "I have good news."  With my hand shaking a little, I called her back and was told "I FOUND her. And she's HAPPY."  I sat there, stunned, not quite sure what to say or feel.  Jill, meanwhile, was positively giddy with excitement because she "loves it when they're happy and not slamming doors in my face."  Well, who could blame her, really?  Jill told me I'd need to send her an email, as would my birth mother, stating that it was okay to release personal information. I agreed to send one immediately and off Jill ran off to see about getting a court date so she could get records released.  I was flabbergasted.  Later that night Jill called again to inform me that there had been an "interesting development."  I couldn't even imagine.  This was all becoming quite a roller coaster ride.  Turns out she called the family of the person she thinks is my birth father (I gather he has a common name so it was not 100% sure) only to discover that he was dead and that his daughter was more than a little freaked at the possibility her dad may have fathered an unknown child.  Jill asked what she wanted me to do, as though I had the first clue.  Let's face it--it's not every day someone asks whether or not you want to strong arm a potential sibling.  We decided to back off on the birth father search for a bit and see what happened with my birth mother, thinking perhaps more information would eventually surface as she and I chatted, after which I could decide how and if to continue pursuing my birth father.  Besides, it seemed only fair to give the girl time to process the possibility of a half-sister; after all, I certainly didn't want to traumatize anyone because of my search.  That was never my intention.  Everything was becoming real (with a capital R) at breakneck speed.

On Wednesday morning, December 12, Jill called to inform me that she could "now release information."  She gave me the name, phone number and email address of my birth mother NJ and asked whether I was going to contact NJ or whether she should contact me.  I drew a blank.  How does one answer that?  I hardly knew where to start after nearly 48 years of limbo.  I told Jill that I would contact NJ either sometime that day or the next but that first I wanted to think of some questions so I wouldn't sit on a phone and stutter stupidly like a fool since there was no way to know how I'd react in such uncharted waters.  I ended up emailing NJ later that night, making it clear that I was looking primarily for information because I didn't want to mislead her and telling her that if anything more was to come of this it would have to happen slowly over time.  As a result, I wanted to start from the safe distance of email and go forward from there.  Once my missive was sent, I proceeded to sit on tenterhooks while waiting to see how long it would take to get a reply.

Meanwhile, I shared this stunning revelation with my "Posse" of friends in our online forum.  They were thrilled for me even as they advised caution initially.  While I was chatting with them I looked up and saw that an email from NJ had suddenly appeared in my inbox.  I gaped at it in awe.  Then I read it.  And read it again.  And again.  NJ very respectfully answered my email just as carefully and cautiously as I had approached her in my own.  The irony that her message came through at  12:30 am was not lost on me either...perhaps NJ was also a night owl, I thought.  I soaked in her words, marveling at them, then answered her back immediately.  It took longer to get a response the second time and I was surprised to find myself so twitchy and antsy with anticipation while awaiting her next email.  I nearly had to tie myself down to keep from calling her immediately.  So much for dignity and caution.

With the dialogue between us freshly opened, we emailed regularly back and forth the next several days.  Within a mere 48 hours, questions I'd held in my heart for nearly half a century were finally answered.  Then suddenly NJ's emails stopped.  I didn't think much of it at first, since sometimes it took a while for one or the other of us to answer (particularly as her laptop wasn't working and she was still getting used to a new smartphone), but when I didn't hear anything from her for a couple of days I began to worry that I'd unintentionally said or done something to upset her.  It seemed cruel that a door so suddenly opened should be slammed shut just as quickly.  After 3-4 days I finally sent her another note saying that if she needed some space to process things that was fine, but could she please let me know she was okay?  I got a message back the next day; turns out her phone and laptop had been stolen so she'd been largely incommunicado while trying to deal with insurance for the stolen items and for a fender bender she'd had the previous week.  I was relieved, far more than I might have expected.  I was starting to like NJ.

Over the last two and a half weeks NJ and I have slowly been getting to know each other.  It's been difficult to think of much else, really, especially before the girlie got home for break.  How could it not be?  I have rarely faced more monumentally life-changing events than this. I expect this has all been as much a miracle for NJ as for me;   it never really occurred to me before now that my birth mother might have just as much curiosity about me as I did about her.  (You know how selfish children can be.)  This has already been a fascinating journey, and the more I get to know NJ, the more I respect her--and not just for giving me life at a time when unwed mothers were largely vilified.  Now that I've had the opportunity to talk with her, I'm grateful she is still around to put my history into context with stories of real people and real family members.  We are both getting long-sequestered questions answered and curiosity slaked as we each discover the type of woman the other is.  We are uncovering hidden connections between us, such as that NJ is indeed as much a night owl as myself.  Along the way I've been plugging in new information to Ancestry.com as it comes; for the first time in my life, I have a genetic heritage.  I can look online and see the progression of generation after generation and know, even if I never met any of them, that I am still a part of them.  That half of my legacy is no longer unknown.  I have a past--well, more of a past.  I have a nationality, one which I no longer have to guess at or make up.  I am learning my medical history.  In short, I have knowledge, a knowledge I can now share with my daughter so she'll know the rest of her history too.   And it's brilliant.

Now, three days after Christmas, three days after a lovely day with my family during which we opened fun and festive presents (one of which was a new, non-possessed laptop--squee!) and spent quality time together, I am still unwrapping the biggest and most mind-boggling gift I've ever been given (short of my daughter's birth) and no doubt will be for some time.  And it is a gift, a gift of epic proportions--one which has already changed my life and will probably continue to do in ways I can't yet comprehend.  None of this changes the fact that I loved my mother or that I miss her or that I am equally the product of her nurture as I am of NJ's genetics.  I consider myself more than fortunate to have been raised by a woman generous enough to love another woman's child as her own; now the selfless woman who gave me life in the first place has been selfless enough to give me (and my child) back our history.

I am twice blessed.

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Now--bonus--a poem I've had on my wall for years, one which seems infinitely more relevant and poignant in light of this month's blessings:

THE LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD 

Once there were two women 

Who never knew each other. 

One you do not remember, 

The other you call Mother. 

Two different lives, 

Shaped to make yours one. 

One became your guiding star, 

The other became your sun. 

The first one gave you life, 

The second taught you to live it. 

The first gave you a need for love, 

The second was there to give it. 

One gave you a nationality,

The other gave you a name.

One gave you a talent,

The other gave you an aim.

One gave you emotions, 

The other calmed your fears. 

One saw your first sweet smile 

The other dried your tears. 

One sought for you a home 

That she could not provide. 

The other prayed for a child, 

Her hopes were not denied. 

And now you ask me

Through your tears, 

The age-old question, 

Unanswered through the years:

"Heredity or environment,

Which am I the product of?"

Neither, my darling, neither--

Just two different kinds of love.

~Anonymous