The Never-Ending Story

I have always loved history, so it should not come as a surprise to anyone that I eventually became interested in a different type of history than that taught in school. It is the history of my family.

Someone once said that only a genealogist regards a step back as progress. It seems as though I was always interested in knowing more about my family. I always wanted to know the “who and the why” of family dynamics. Mostly, I wanted to know about my birth father, who had left my mother and me when I was only 2 years old.

Despite a great-aunt who could not understand why I wanted to know about “all these dead people,” I found out later that genealogy isn’t only about learning about deceased family members. It can also help you locate some that are very much alive.

In the early 1980s, I was part of a small genealogical group that met at The Brookfield Library. It was composed of newcomers to the hobby, such as myself, and others who had been researching their families for many years. I knew quite a bit about my mother’s family line, but I needed help in taking that first step back to finding my birth father and those who came before him.

I didn’t realize it then that I was beginning a never-ending story.

I did not have a clue about how to go about finding my birth father. The last we knew of him was that he was married again and living in Chicago. But how was I to find him all those years later?

Someone in our group suggested that I write to Social Security about my quest, enclosing a letter to my father, asking that it be forwarded if there was a current address for him. I knew I would not be given the address, but I was hopeful someone would help me by sending on my letter and that he would then respond.

It was a slim chance, but worth trying. I had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive. I also knew that people who work for Social Security have more to do than answer requests from people looking for family members.

I wrote the letters and sent them on their way. I did not have to wait long for an answer, however, and the news was not good.  My birth father had died in 1973 in Michigan, according to a copy of the death certificate sent to me.

I was saddened. I had spent years thinking about what I would do or say if I was ever to meet him. In earlier years, I was angry. How could my father just walk away from me and never look back. It was as if  I was erased from his life. However, as I grew older I lost the anger and exchanged it for curiosity. What was he like? My mother often said I took after him with my dark hair and eyes, so different from all the blue-eyed blondes in her family. She said I was smart, just like him.

But that didn’t answer my initial question. What was he like? As I looked at the death certificate, I noticed the name of the funeral home that took care of the final arrangements. I wrote them, hoping  they could give me additional information. What a thrill when they sent me a copy of the obituary notice for my father that appeared in their local newspaper.

But the best was yet to come. As I read the obituary, I realized that my father had left a widow and four children, two girls, and two boys. I remember clearly how I felt as I read those names. These were my half-sisters and brothers. I had always known about a little girl born to my father and his second wife in 1945, but I had never been able to locate her. I still haven’t.

I wasn’t sure what I should do with this new information, knowing they probably didn’t  know anything about me. My father had not told his second wife about my mother and me, until somehow she found a letter one of my mother’s aunts had written to my father years before and wrote to her, telling her about their marriage and their daughter.

I knew I could not just drop into their lives. As I re-read the obituary notice, I realized the gathering after the funeral took place at the home of the widow’s brother. I again wrote the funeral home, asking if he still resided in the area and, if so, could they send me his address. Just a few days later, I received a reply.

I now had the address of my father’s brother-in-law. If he replied to my letter, I would know how my father’s family would react to hearing from me. Of course, I wasn’t sure how I would react to a negative reply.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about it. As luck would have it, he was in the hospital, and his wife, upon reading my letter, took it to his sister. At 11 o’clock at night my telephone rang. It was my father’s widow.

I had been correct in thinking she would not know anything about me. My father had turned his back on his life in Connecticut just as he had turned away from me. When I asked how she felt her children would react to a half-sibling appearing into their lives, she said they could make their own decisions. Only one, the oldest, born the year I graduated from high school, decided to contact me. The others were more the ages of my children. I have never heard from them.

My sister not only made the connection but came to Connecticut to meet me in person. Since then I have learned so much from her about our father. She had him for 16 years and had memories of him she could pass on to me. I learned about my father as I never could have without her.

My never-ending story continues. I have learned that I am the oldest of what we think are seven children, though my sister pointed out several years ago there are several years when we don’t know where our father was. There could be more of us out there or maybe not.

 

Though I will probably never know my other half-siblings, I have been blessed with a sister. Though separated by many miles, we talk on the phone, send e-mails, and support each other as best we can. We didn’t grow up knowing each other. It is not a typical sister relationship, but as I grew up an only child, I’m so thankful for it.

I continue to pursue my never-ending story. It’s a difficult hobby to stop. A new name automatically leads to two others and so on, a never-ending line of people that stretches back through history.