“Curiouser and Curiouser”

From the age of 6, I can remember asking my mother ad nauseam where we came from.  I was asking not in the existential sense, of course, but our roots, our ancestors’ “stomping grounds”  (a term my maternal grandfather often used). Most days I was met with, “go outside and play”, and all days with a “much too busy for this nonsense”, tone of voice.

“I guess we might be Welsh or Irish, I don’t know.  I was adopted,” she plainly told me one day, after the umpteenth time of asking. After that statement, she made it clear that she did not want to find her biological family and was not interested in her lineage. I remember this moment like it was yesterday because it lit the interrogative fire in my belly. While I had to obey her decision at such a young age, I certainly became “curiouser and curiouser” as the word “adopted” left the rabbit hole wide open.

As I grew into my 20’s my mother acquiesced that if I wanted to find her bio family she would not stop my efforts. Overjoyed, I gathered bits and pieces of information from my mother’s adopted family about how they “ended up” with my mom (a sweet story for a later entry). My mother’s adopted paternal grandmother, MiMi, knew a great deal about my mother’s bio parents, as she was head of the adoption agency when my mother was placed. MiMi had seen them around town on several occasions after they had surrendered her. We even had their real names! Jackpot–or so I thought.

I moved near the Denver Public Library and started jaunting down there daily to search directories and surnames. I even had one of my cousins in NY (our family historian) raking through my efforts to collect addresses and phone numbers of potential matches. I remember holding the list of 21 names in one hand as I hand wrote each letter to my potential grandparents with the other. 21 letters sent in 1998, 2 responses. No dice.

On and off after 1998, I searched the web for any information, but could never find what I needed.  I was convinced my grandparents must be in the Witness Protection Program or some elusive cult.  I would tell myself just about anything to ease my mind from thinking “I hope it isn’t too late”.

The year I turned 30, my mother was diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s disease. There was a giant surge in the fire in my belly to get the ball rolling again.  This time I hired People Search to see if  $29.99  was going to change our lives forever.  Indeed, it did.