Browsing Category Family

Missing: Have you Seen My Grandchild?

Journals serve several purposes. Among other things, I sometimes use mine to reflect on and heal memories. A case in point is the year when my two-year-old grandson went missing. That was the scariest day of my life. Like every parent whose child suddenly vanished, I lived my darkest fear. I envisioned missing child flyers with my baby’s face stapled on tree trunks, taped on store windows, and the Amber Alert system broadcasting citywide. The thought of my darling grandbaby frightened, alone, and defenseless in a world infested with child predators and other twisted evil-doers sickened me.

Although that unsettling event occurred over three decades ago, every time the memory of it resurfaces, as it often does, not only do I relive it, it sends a shiver down my spine as if it happened yesterday.

It was a late afternoon that spring day when my daughter, her two toddler sons, Ken and Donnie, aged one and two, and I walked to the mini-mall two blocks from my home. Like numerous other mini-malls in the city, the one in my neighborhood occupies about half a block and includes an aging market, dry cleaners, a nail salon, and four or five other frequently changing small businesses.

When we reached the mall, my daughter and I split up. She went to the market with the two little ones alongside her while I went to check out a recently opened Peoples Drug Store a few feet away. We agreed to meet outside the drugstore in five minutes. After browsing for a few minutes, I bought a few things and went back outside. My daughter was already waiting for me; Donnie was by her side.

Her eyes widened when she saw me, and I realized why after she asked me, “Ma, where’s Ken?”

“What? I thought he was with you,” I said.

“No,” She said. “I had Donnie; I thought you took Ken with you. He must have followed you.”

A knot began tightening in my stomach as fear gripped me like a vis.

She and I rushed back inside the stores we had just left. I searched aisle-by-aisle for Ken to no avail and then told myself that my daughter had surely located him in the market, so I headed there. When my daughter saw me approaching without Ken, panic spread across her face. Suddenly, we were experiencing every parent’s worse nightmare.

Usually, when we took the kids out, we always held their hands. But, that day, for whatever reason, after we crossed the street and reached the mini-mall, we let loose their hands, letting them walk alongside us, ignoring what every parent knows – or should know – full well that if you are not gripping your child’s hand, you’d better not blink.

We decided to split up and look for Ken, going in opposite directions along the sidewalk. My daughter walked north, gently pulling Donnie along. I went south. My heart was racing. The street was uncrowded, making it easier to spot and study any small child I saw walking alone or accompanied by an adult. I glanced in the doorways of the few buildings on the block, returned to the mini-mall parking lot, and peered between the parked cars. And even though I figured it was a long shot that Ken had crossed the busy avenue, I looked to the other side of the street. He had to be on this block, I told myself. Fear was gripping me, so I could barely walk.

Suddenly frantic, I was about to tell my daughter that we should call the police when squealing tires made me freeze in place. I was afraid to look in the direction of the sound, but when I did, I was relieved to see a car driven by an impatient driver racing through the intersection to beat the light.

Seconds later, when I looked forward again, I spotted my precious little small fry. I don’t know where he came from, but Ken suddenly stood near the blue USPS mailbox a few feet away as if he dropped from the sky. With his back to me, he turned his head left and right, looking for us or perhaps trying to decide how to get home. A couple of pedestrians side-stepped him as he strolled toward the intersection.

“Ken!” I called him. He didn’t look back but maintained a snail’s pace as he moved toward the curb. As I hurried toward him, I looked at the traffic light facing us and was glad it was red. But, of course, traffic lights don’t mean a thing to a child who has never been outside alone and doesn’t know how to cross the street.

“Ken!” I shouted louder. He turned around just as I reached out and grabbed his arm. Although I didn’t intend to frighten him, it was obvious that I did. The little fellow’s big brown wide eyes welled with tears, and although he appeared to relax when he realized it was me, he gave me a pouty look. I was so glad to see him that I felt like doing a happy dance, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked him up, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus!” as I stood him back on his feet.

Then, Ken muttered the heartbreaking words I will never forget, “Grandma, you lost me.”

“I’m so sorry, Ken. We didn’t mean to lose you.” I said.

I stooped and hugged him again as an elderly woman with a cane walked around us, and my daughter, who had been near the other end of the block when she heard me calling Ken, had joined us. She hugged her baby too.

As careful as we had always been with the children, I know my daughter promised herself, as I did, to be extra vigilant from then on. We never wanted to relive that horrifying experience again.

Ken is a grown man now and says he only remembers that day because he’s heard about it so many times. Whenever he visits me, and I start telling someone else about that frightful event, he playfully rolls his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.”

I’m glad we can all laugh about it now because Ken’s story could have had a different and tragic ending.

0 Comments

Blowing Leaves off Family Trees

“We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.”

– Robert Frost, The Secret Sits

Ancestry.com is breaking up families, according to a segment today on The View. The cohosts discussed a case where a son requested a DNA kit from Ancestry.com and learned from the results that his dad is not his father. Instead, it turns out his father’s brother and his mom had an affair (the mom admitted it), and the man the boy thought was his uncle is his father. Upon hearing that, I felt like doing what one of the cohosts did: shout out to the uncle in my Maury Povich voice, “You are the baby’s daddy!” (LOL. I couldn’t resist.)

Revelations from Ancestry.com and enthusiastic genealogists everywhere expose secrets and blow more leaves off family trees than an F3 tornado.

All families have secrets. There are no exceptions; the rich, the famous, the poor, and the unknown have skeletons in the closet, and even pulverized bones sometimes yield secrets.

Years ago, when I took it upon myself to become the family genealogist, I began digging into my immediate and extended family history. I searched archival and other public records and solicited narratives from family members, who trusted me and divulged information on the condition that I bury it (and not in the pages of a book). Some of my sources are now deceased. Some writers would say that once the source dies, all bets are off. I’m not one of those.This sleuth unearthed revelations about a rape, a near-fatal abortion (not the rape victim), an ill-conceived and nearly disastrous intercontinental romance, out-of-wedlock births, and shotgun weddings. Decades ago, when morality and ethics were reverenced, some of those events were scandalous; today, many would not raise an eyebrow.

Unfortunately – or fortunately – depending on how you view it, all of our lives are an open book today, in many ways, thanks to Google. Who hasn’t done or experienced something we regret and hoped to conceal? It doesn’t matter whether the act occurred when we were young and dumb or old and foolish. In every family, remnants contributing to “the history of us” are everywhere. Even wrongdoings and foolish deeds that are not necessarily secretive await discovery. History can be covered up but not erased. It is stored in someone’s memory, logged in a journal, or tucked like a metaphorical note in a bottle waiting to be plucked from the ocean of time.

A family genealogist will inevitably come across some zits that are not secrets but are well-known truths, seldom discussed because they are embarrassing or unpleasant.

Just as there are two sides to every family, paternal and maternal, there are secrets aplenty. History. Herstory. Our stories.

Over the years, I’ve learned that before sharing “a secret,” one should think twice about the profound words of Benjamin Franklin, “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”

0 Comments

Trying to Connect the Pieces

A few days ago, I got an IM on Facebook from my cousin, Velda. But, unfortunately, there was no note, just a photo of a certificate that appears to have been yellowed by age. At first glance, I thought, “Why is she sending this to me?”

I examined the document more closely, letting my eyes slide down the page until they reached the name beneath the words:  This is to certify that . . . .

My antennae went up. Wait a minute! I thought. Rewind. Reread the page. The name on the line above the signatures of four officials affiliated with the program offered by the DC Public Schools’ Department of Industrial and Adult Education was mine.

The certificate, dated January 20, 1966, was presented for completion of a 12-hour course in Individual and Family Survival. I stared at it for the longest time. I couldn’t recall ever seeing that document before, but my maiden name in my handwriting leaped at me from the signature line. But how? When? I drew a stupefied blank.

Granted that it was nearly a hundred years ago (You all stop calculating. Of course, I’m exaggerating, give or take a few decades. LOL), my mind is still relatively keen, and I like to think I would remember taking that course. After all, I still remember that Mr. Simmons, the Business Ed teacher, was, in my opinion, the most handsome and sexiest teacher in our high school, but that’s a post for another time.

Since the resurrected certificate was dated six months before I graduated from high school, I can only surmise that it may have been a class compulsory for meeting graduation requirements. But wow! Who would have thought? And what was the relevance of a course in Individual and Family Survival? Considering the decade, a civil defense Duck and Cover course might have been more appropriate. However, since the certificate shows that the study was presented by the Office of Civil Defense Adult Education, perhaps it was developed to show us how to prepare ourselves and our future families for emergencies or nuclear disasters. I doubt if I would have voluntarily taken what appears to be a mundane course unless I was under the duress of not graduating for lack of required credits.

I instant-messaged Velda and asked how she got the certificate. She said she discovered it while cleaning out one of her mom’s closets. Of course, then I wanted to know how her mom, my Aunt Imogene, got possession of it. Velda said it was inside an old photo album that had belonged to one of our deceased uncles, Uncle Henry. Velda’s mom is married to one of Uncle Henry and my dad’s brothers.

Of course, the next question was how Uncle Henry got it. Although he had lived in the same city as my family and me for years before he moved to North Carolina, I doubt if my mom and dad would have given it to him. As I discovered when my sister and I were clearing out my parents’ home following our mother’s death in 2014, mother kept nearly every report card, honor roll certificate, and other achievement documents that my siblings and I acquired while in school.

Since my parents are deceased and Uncle Henry died over 20 years ago, I will probably never learn how my certificate traveled from my parent’s home and wound up over 250 miles away inside the photo album where Velda discovered it. But I sure would like to know. And it may seem coincidental to those who believe in coincidences (I don’t) that Velda, the Parker family genealogist, would be the one to discover a piece of my personal history. Well, Shazam, Cuz!

There is an old aphorism that holds much truth: “Life is a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing.” I would include “with some disjointed pieces that don’t seem to fit.”

Thanks, Cuz, for adding another disjointed piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my life.

0 Comments

Brothers, Lovers, and Other Family Matters

In my private journal, I am free to rant and rave and take a giant step to hang dirty laundry out to dry on the vent line, while in my public journal, I usually keep posts impersonal. However, this one is taking a baby step over the line.

My younger brother, who I refer to as Little Bro, is a grown man, retired from the workforce a few years ago. He recently learned that the hearing problem he has had in one ear for some time has compounded. I wouldn’t mention this personal matter online except that Little Bro already revealed it yesterday on social media. So I take that to mean—and Judy Judy will likely agree with me—that since he initially made his condition public knowledge, I am not violating his privacy.

After reading on Facebook that my brother now has significant hearing loss in his other ear, I posted a link on my page to one of several articles I’ve read, suggesting that – smoking and drinking – the combination of alcohol and tobacco can be a volatile cocktail. When Little Bro rebuked, I reminded him that our dad, a smoker, and drinker, had died of a stroke.

Flashback to June 2006. My Little Bro is planning a cookout on Saturday, June 24. I spoke with him on the phone the day before, and we briefly discussed getting a birthday cake for dad whose birthday would be the day after, and surprising him with the cake at the cookout. It’s just as well that we scratched that plan because dad, who always looked forward to attending family cookouts, wasn’t feeling well that Saturday morning and decided that he would not participate this time. Nevertheless, our family enjoyed the cookout, minus dad. Unfortunately, the next afternoon dad suffered a debilitating stroke. It left him temporarily paralyzed and ultimately led to his death two months later, on August 30. Dad was an alcoholic. According to what mother often told me, he had been smoking cigarettes and drinking since she met him in his early teens.

Dad’s birthday is coming up in two weeks. Had he lived, he’d be turning 95 years old. I miss him a lot.

Little Bro and I had a brief and cordial exchange online about the smoking and alcohol subject, and he said, “I’m going to keep smoking and drinking. I don’t believe that study.” Discouraged but not surprised, I replied to him, “Do you. Love you.” End of discussion.

I know that if my mother were alive, she too would have concerns about my brother’s health-harmful habits; simultaneously, she would continue admonishing me about living in sin. I recall that those were two of her favorite subjects relative to family matters. However, like most adults, my brother and I have stubbornly maintained the mindset that – I’m a grown a** adult, and I’m going to do what I want. No matter how we choose to live, everybody has the same final destination. Don’t we?

The exchange between Little Bro and me reminds me of one of my favorite Billie Holliday songs.

There ain’t nothin’ I can do or nothin’ I can say
That folks don’t criticise me but I’m going to do
Just as I want to anyway
And don’t care just what people say . . .

Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

2 Comments

Enduring a Not So Happy New Year’s Day

I had planned to write an upbeat post for the New Year, but situations that occurred during the past few weeks changed that. And although last year was generally a wonderful ride, the road got bumpy toward the end, and that’s an understatement.

Since a few weeks before Christmas, I’ve talked with many of my close friends and relatives and learned that a lot of folks are dealing with illness, death, and grief in their families during this holiday season, and joy is elusive. I am no exception. I have a dear friend who was perfectly healthy a month ago, but she suddenly became ill and is now in hospice. Aside from that, I lost someone dear to my heart. Right now, I find that my ability to lift anyone’s spirits (including my own) with encouraging words demands every ounce of my mental energy. As my cousin, Vanessa, said to me this morning. “It’s been a rough ride.”

It is times like this when I must keep repeating to myself a mantra that I’ve so often said to others, “Count your blessings.” I’ve been blessed to live to see the beginning of another year, and if you are reading this, then so have you. However, my gratitude doesn’t ease the burden on my heart.

Few people know this, but for decades, my Aunt Ida called me every year at midnight, or not longer then a minute after that, to wish me a Happy New Year. If I wasn’t at home, she would leave a message on my voice mail. In more recent years, she stopped calling precisely at midnight, but without fail, either she or I would initiate the call a few hours later on New Year’s Day, and exchange well wishes for the coming year. It was our intimate tradition.

This year the tradition was broken because my beloved aunt died three days ago. Few people, except maybe our immediate families, hers and mine, will know how close Aunt Ida and I were. She was my friend, my confidant, my “other mother.” Always encouraging me to follow my dream; always praying for me. I miss her immensely; as I write this I am fighting back tears. Our traditional “Happy New Year” exchange is over. Therefore, instead of publishing the New Year’s post that I intended to put on my blog today, I am dedicating this one to my aunt, Ida Staton White, and including one of my favorite photos of her taken during her younger years. I know it may be futile and it may even seem silly to some of my readers, but I am going to say it anyway, one last time.  “Happy New Year, Aunt Ida!” This one is for you.

0 Comments