The hour trip to Elmira, New York is one my mom has literally taken thousands of times before. I can just imagine her as a child, chomping on gum, watching the many farms pass by, playing “punch bug” with my grandmother until my grandma’s arm was sore –or until she redirected my mom, “oh look, cows!” My grandmother might feel bothered by an interruption of her latest book, but to herself, she smiled at my mom’s playfulness. Someone was inevitably holding a bowl of potato salad on their lap, a pie, or maybe even a present. I can almost hear my mom squeal as grandpa pulls into the drive of our cousin’s house, jumping out to play in the sunlight, without a care in the world.
My mom is older now; this drive is not like the thousands that came before. It is pensive and silent. I don’t suppose the hour needed a fill with all the thoughts racing through her mind. The farms are still there, but they blur by without her noticing the cows. There is not a potato salad today, but maybe something with a bow for a person she calls Aunt but does not yet know. As she pulls up to a small white house on Roe Ave. she is unaware that this was the house where she once lived, where affecting decisions were made and lives went about their boring business long after the day she was removed from it.
A petite woman with alabaster skin, round blue eyes, and faded reddish hair anxiously awaits at the window of the house for my mother to step out of her car. “Aunt Doll”, a petite woman, very thin, opens the door and greets my mom warmly, but with reserve. She is shy but wants to make a good impression. She walks with a cane and tells my mom she was crippled by polio at age 18. She apparently picked it up at the local swimming pool. Her fiancé left her over it. She never married and owns this house now. All of these rambling facts from Aunt Doll tumble out in nervous chit chat in between awkward silences. My mom’s Uncle Loring is there as well. He pokes his head out to greet her. He is tall, wiry and even shyer than his sister. Loring lets Aunt Doll do all the talking with a few “yeps” in between Doll’s pauses. “We never knew what happened to you, Nancy. Your mom took you to be adopted because of an incident,” Doll explains.
My mom was puzzled by this news. Except for the “college kids couldn’t handle a youngster”, reported by her grandpa Albert, we never really heard much about the WHY my mom was given up. I think sometimes my grandmother, Mildred, knew something about the adoption but never told us. She did say that when mom came to live with them she was terrified of the bathtub, and refused to get her hair wet. “It was such a shame to have to cut off her curly, auburn hair, but she just wouldn’t let us wash it often enough. She screamed bloody murder if I tried.” Grandma said. My mom still hates to get her hair wet; we just call it “a Nancy thing”.
A lot of information was loquaciously given about family lineage coming from Holland on one side and New England on the other. A veritable who’s who of the red-headed Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins. Finally came stories of my grandmother JoAnne’s fun personality and adventurous spirit. “She met your father, Bill, at a military dance; he was a Marine recruiter in town. He was very charming… a mama’s boy.” “So what about this incident?” My mom asked. “Oh, yes well, the story goes that your biological father, Bill, tried to drown you in the bathtub.” My mom’s eyes widened. “My father, your grandfather (Loring Sr.), was home at the time and saved your life.” Doll said. “Your mom took you to be adopted after that, but she stayed with your father for quite a few years afterward. Your Aunt Kippy and I tried to find you and get you back, but had no luck,” she said.
I am not sure what my mother thought at that moment, or if she had time to think with all the pictures, new names and family history abuzz. Of course, she had questions and asked what she could; but Doll had forgotten many details of that whole time period, unfortunately. So, even though we had another piece of the puzzle, mom was not sure of what to do with the placement. I am guessing she probably now wished she hadn’t sent a letter just two weeks prior to her birth father, she never really said. Though I do know, in the present, she never regrets a single moment.
Byrds in my Belfry 