 By Hannah Andrews I have two fathers. I also have zero fathers. I’ve only known one of my fathers, at least, consciously. Maybe some cute guitar-playing dude sang songs to me while I bounced about inside my natural mother’s belly bump, but if so, I cannot access that memory. So, let’s start this story with the father who was chronologically, technically Father#2, the first one I consciously knew. The one I once (or maybe several times) gave a #1 Dad coffee mug to. I called him Daddy my whole life, as did my brothers, at least if no one else was around. He was the oldest of seven siblings and was raised on a tobacco and cattle farm in Southern Indiana. He taught me to fish on his Daddy’s pond, taught me to skip rocks on the Blue River. That whistley Andy Griffith Show opening could’ve been me with my Daddy, except for the North Carolina part. And also the part where I got car sick most every time we drove down there, what with those winding roads and rolling hills I called mountains.
I grew up in central Illinois, with its flat land, perfectly gridded fields, and curveless roads. Daddy was the first in his family to attend college, which is where he met, and married my eventual adoptive mother. He eventually earned an MBA and taught accounting and a plethora of high-school subjects that were still a thing back then, like typing and shorthand. In the in-between of university life and married life, he served a stint in the Air Force. I have a trunk filled with musty, onion-skinned airmailed love letters, the back-and-forth correspondence during his time away. After both of their deaths and an additional five years for respect, I read a few of those letters, prepared to avert my eyes should I encounter any naughtiness. After all, these were my prim and proper parents, who, so far as I can tell, really were pretty prim and proper. The letters were more day-to-day than salacious. They included family updates, the latest movies, and some talk about their eventual future. And children. They talked of eye color and the sort of sciencey DNA stuff people learned back in the 50s before you could spit in a tube. My mother always told me they were aware well before their wedding that she could likely not produce children. I haven’t found that letter. I don’t know what words conveyed that loss. I only know the family that was formed afterward. It’s all distant memories now. Faded pictures and letters. We moved to central Illinois, to a farm, just before my fifth birthday. It was a working farm: hogs, chickens, soybeans, corn. The youngest of three and the only girl, my only real chore was to gather the eggs, but the chickens terrified me, so he’d usually do it for me. When I was old enough, maybe 10 or 11 (and finally hit 50 pounds) Mama let me show pigs with him in 4-H. My brothers were grown by then, so it was just the three of us. We spent the next 8 or so summers at livestock shows. We loaded up the pickup and headed to the County Fair, Heart of Illinois Fair, and the mac-Daddy Illinois State Fair. He did most of the work then. Mama sat in the stands. I was the one in the ring with the pigs. I’m the one that got the ribbons. And trophies. I still have clippings from the local newspapers. Me, next to a prized pig. Summer after summer. My memories of him are more blue jeans than business attire: coveralls, workboots, and a green bar of Lava brand soap by the big “clean up before you come into my kitchen” work sink. He did put on his Sunday best for church and always wore a button-down shirt and dress pants to my events, which were many. That is what I remember the most. That was my norm. My father was always there. School plays, teacher conferences, track meets, piano recitals, band events, 4-H. Everything. Always. I felt so bad for the kids whose dads were too busy to show up and wondered what type of job they must have. My dad was busy too. He got up with the chickens (the rooster actually- I can still hear that grouchy old bird in my head) and farmed until sunset. And yet, he was at every single event. Always there. Sometimes, especially in my teens, I WISHED he’d skip a few of my events. I know now, how fortunate I was. Our relationship had its ups and downs, but when I flip through pictures now, I see him smiling, and me as a little girl always somewhere nearby, often literally tugging at his shirtsleeves, looking at him like he’d hung the moon. When I was 8 or 9, I saw the most amazing shirt. It was a white, short-sleeved button-down with red stripes and polka dots. I begged my mom to let me buy it for Father’s Day. This was the little local small-town clothing store, and they must’ve thought me adorable asking for a layaway plan and saving my allowance, though I think my mother likely chipped in. Daddy was proud as a peacock, and said, “Doggone it, that’s about the best shirt I’ve ever seen.” His little girl had hand-chosen that slightly hideous shirt, especially for him. It was his instant and eternal favorite. He wore that shirt until it was threadbare, practically see-through, and even after it was too worn out to wear out, he never threw it away. Nor did my mother. Nor have I. It’s in the box with the letters. He died in 2003. Leukemia. My brothers and I were at his side, as was our mom, his wife of 48 years. The man that was always there has been gone for over twenty years now. I miss him every day. Our relationship was far from perfect, but he was never not there for me. Always, always, there. On the flip side, there’s this other guy. The one that made me. Honestly, I never really wondered much about him until I found out that he was my birth mom’s boyfriend—not just a random moment. He is listed as a visitor on one of the maternity home records. A judge allowed me to have his name. It could very well be a fake name, and at best, it’s a pretty common one. Michael Conrad. If you’re wondering if I sent letters to a bunch of Michael Conrads who might have been in Chicago in the summer of 1968, of course I did. I’ve not yet received any replies. Go figure. There’s a DNA trail that leads to matches that could be his half-siblings and parents, but no matches to anyone that might be HIM. And no DNA matches with anyone with the surname of Conrad. Search angels have spent hours digging, building theory trees, and bounding down my rabbit holes. They think he was likely an adoptee as well. And so far, if he made more children, none of them have taken a commercial DNA test. Maybe Michael isn’t his name. Or maybe it is and maybe he got drafted to Vietnam. Maybe he ran away to Canada to dodge it. Maybe he became a famous scientist, or actor, or rock star. Maybe he always wondered whatever happened to that little baby his girlfriend signed away. Maybe he never married, never had more babies, Maybe he never attended track meets or recitals. Maybe no one ever bought him a hideously beautiful shirt for Father’s Day. One father was always there. One father was never there, but damn if I wouldn’t still jump at the chance to buy him a button-down. Thanks for reading. PS… If you couldn’t tell, this month’s theme is “Paternal Relationships.” I’d love to hear from you, and we’d love to feature your voice on our blog. That includes everyone in the adoption constellation, so don’t be shy. First parents, adoptive and foster parents, adopted and former foster youth. Email me for more info or submit your essays and poems at [email protected] AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know:
1 Comment
Kim
6/9/2024 07:19:36 pm
Sounds like a great and rare dad. It's nice to remember that there are good and loving men like that in the world. Leave a Reply. |
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