My third mother died this past weekend. She was my 'mother redeemer'.
Let me explain.
Way back in 1945, mother number one was a nurse in the military. She worked in the China-Burma-India theater of world war two, out in primitive quarters, sweltering hot and full of the sound of airplanes.
Helen was part of a medical unit that was attached to a bomber squadron that flew 'over the hump' into enemy territory. She was there to treat injured bomber crew members who made it back after their long and dangerous missions.
It was there that she met my father, a bomber pilot*, and she became pregnant with me during that encounter.
She traveled back to New York city to give birth to me at a temporary military hospital in Queens.
It is known that my father wanted to keep me, to raise me. My mother gave me over for adoption instead.
I bear her no ill will for that decision; in 1946, single men did not get custody of their "love children". I spent seven months in a foster home while they were working it out, and was ultimately adopted by Gretchen and Doug, from western New York state.
Gretchen was my second mother, my adopted mother.
My adopted father - Doug - had gone to a fancy prep school, and then on to Yale. His mother, the only grandmother I ever knew, was wealthy and came from a family of oil explorers in Pennsylvania and New York.
Gretchen came from more 'common' stock... a banker father and stay-at-home mom. She was anything but common, though. She traveled to Russia in her twenties, alone. Saw the world of that time.
She and Doug married, and then they found out they couldn't have children. They decided to adopt.
The New York adoption agency they contacted happened to have a lively blond boy, seven months old, whom they thought might be a good match.
Me.
Gretchen and Doug traveled to New York, saw me, said "yes", and the adoption process began.
Social workers traveled across the state on full day train journeys for home visits. Lots of questions were asked and answered.
Finally the adoption was approved, and Doug and Gretchen drove across the state to bring me home.
On the way home, they stopped at a restaurant for dinner, and put me in a high-chair at the head of the table.
I promptly pooped, with red face, lots of effort and noise -- a massive poop. That poop went down in family lore.
I've always been intuitive, and I like to think that I had a clue what was coming, and protested in the only way I knew how -- with a giant poop. Because the next seventeen years would be a great challenge.
Next: Crazy Blessings
