There are two ways to live your life --one is as though nothing is a miracle, the other is as though everything is a miracle.

-- Albert Einstein

Landings & Musings

Alta was a magical forest to my 10 year old eye.  The first snow, heavy and frozen with crystal like diamond spotlights, covered the ground, hung in the boughs of the pine trees, and created a silence that stilled my inner turmoil.  I was surrounded by nature, and the safety of my grandparent's home.  

Each night that first winter, Grandma would make dinner for us where we sit together as a family and talk about our day, or about how to hold the butter knife, and the proper way to place one's eating utensils on one's plate.  A fire would burn brightly in the fireplace, and friends stopped by to play card games or just visit.  I would sometimes sit in a corner and read, or finish my homework at the table once the dishes had been cleared away.  Waiting, listening, watching.  I wondered what changes would interrupt the peace that we had finally found.

The elementary school was so tiny that classes were often doubled up, and I started that year with the third and fourth graders.  I quickly excelled to the top of my class, but had trouble making friends with the other kids in my class.  During recess I would hang back against the rock wall watching kids play tether ball, swing, and create dodge ball teams.  My food obsessions had resulted in a weight problem.  I was out of shape and ashamed of my size, which I attributed to my inability to make friends.  Books became my best friends, and I would eagerly await the arrival of the book mobile.  Flowers in the Attic, The Hobbit, and historical romances became my favorites.  I also continued to gain attention for my art, and continued drawing and painting in my spare time.

Eventually my grandparents were ready for us to settle in to a home of our own.  Mom and Grandpa had a huge fight one night where he made clear that the current living arrangement was temporary.  Mom found us a house to rent next door to the general store, across the street from the fire house.  That spring, shortly after we moved into our new house a snowstorm dropped nearly 6 feet of snow, extending our spring break an additional week and cutting off our power for several days.  Once we had shoveled a path outside our door, the snow was piled way above my head, creating a sort of snow tunnel.  Luckily for us the general store also had a small restaurant adjacent to it, which had a gas stove.  Each evening we would pile on our snow boots, scarves and mittens to trek the 30 or so yards over to the restaurant for a hamburger.  The old times had brought out photos to show us the storm of '59 that depicted snow drifts nearly as high as the power lines.  We would sit around reminiscing with the locals about life in snow country, and quickly learned how to keep ourselves entertained.

One of my favorite activities during this time was to clear a space in my room, which was the entire top floor attic of our A-frame cabin, to create a sort of stage.  I would set up the various chairs and ottomans around the perimeter of my stage, and then I would perform.  My favorites during this time were Hall and Oates, Asia and Foreigner.  I knew the words to all of the songs and would belt them out for hours.  Performing was a good work out, and each night brought some new exciting twist from my imagination.  One night it was that Rick Springfield was in the audience and 'discovered' my talents.  

I was also really into the Anne of Green Gables series and read each book cover to cover.  I really identified with Anne, the protagonist, who was an orphan that had been adopted by a brother and sister in a small town on Prince Edward Island.  I found that I could easily relate to Anne's feelings of not fitting in, of struggling to say and do the right thing, and of being judged by her new community.  I often found it difficult to fit in, and Mom was constantly hissing at me to lower my voice.  At times, she even went so far as to tell me that I was ungrateful, which is just what Mrs. Rachel Lynde, Anne's neighbor would suggest.  

During this time, I would occasionally talk to Mom about my birth mother, as I had begun to think of her often.  I was essentially given the same information, but sometimes she would elaborate and some new piece of information would be revealed that would fill in some of the blanks.  For example, I knew that my birth mom was really young when she gave birth to me.  Mom always said that she wanted to keep me, but that she couldn't.  So my birth mother did the best thing for me, which was to give me up to another family who could raise me.  Mom explained how she picked me out from all of the other babies that were up for adoption, because I was special.  And because she knew that I was her daughter.  One day she revealed to me that my birth mother was from 'back East.'  This really blew my mind.  I didn't know anyone from back East, let alone where someone might live in the East.  We talked about how my birth mother was probably from New York, or maybe even Boston.  I started to make up stories about her.  I imagined that she was probably married by now, and might even have other children.  I thought she might even be of Italian descent, given my dark hair and brown eyes.  I wondered if she might be royalty, and if she ever thought about me.

Little did I know that my birth mother had been living only 150 miles away from where we were now, but that she had recently returned to the East coast with her new husband.  And I had no idea that she had thought of me almost every single day since relinquishing me just 10 years prior.

Exiting

The news that we would be returning to California wasn't shared with me until the day before we started packing.  Sister shared the news with me during the bus ride home from school one afternoon in early Fall, which I immediately denied.  "We can't be moving," I explained carefully to her, as she was clearly too young to even understand what moving meant.  I mean, first of all no one had told me.  Second, we hadn't even started packing.

But it was true.  Mom had purposely kept the news from me because of how I had reacted just 2 years prior when she had divulged the move out of California.  More and more I felt less a part of the family as Mom revealed less and less about her decisions, but I was just happy to be moving away.

I had spent the summer following the Mt St Helens eruption riding my bike around our neighborhood, spending time with my buddy Jennifer and her family, and staying out doors whenever I could.  The volcanic ash had transformed that year's crop; apples now weighed over a pound while potatoes could weigh in at nearly five pounds.  It was exhilarating to hunt for the biggest fruits and vegetables at the farmer's markets.

That fall, back at school, I had found my place.  Boys had started to notice me, and I had become aware of their attention.  But when my closest school friends inquired as to why we were moving, I was too ashamed to tell them the real truth.  Sitting on the playground, confronted by a group of curious girls, thoughts formed in my mind but I couldn't actually say the words:  because my step dad is an alcoholic.  I mean, would my friends even know what that meant?  I had thought that most likely none of them had ever experienced anything so terrifying as a midnight call from the jail, or a screaming match between parents just outside the bedroom door, or the stink of boozey breath in a cold room.

Grandpa flew up from California to help us rent a Uhaul truck which would transport our belongings back down south.  He and my grandmother had been able to retire early, when he was 55, due to his pension from having worked at Mare Island in Vallejo.  They had built their home in the Sierra foothills, near the Gold Country, in an area that often snowed in winter.  I think it reminded Grandpa of his childhood in Minnesota in many ways.  

Upon entering our house in Moses Lake, he folded his hands to his hips and shook his head.  Clearly, something was wrong.  I was highly attuned to adult's mood changes and quickly picked up on his disappointment.  "What's wrong?" I asked.  "I just figured you guys would be further along," he explained, surveying the empty boxes.  "Don't blame me," I had wanted to say.  I just found out we were moving 2 days ago.

The drive from Moses Lake, WA to Alta, CA took us about 2 days to complete. For most of the way I rode with Grandpa in the truck, while Mom and sister followed behind in the powder blue Pinto.  During the drive, Grandpa would periodically inquire as to what life was like living with Joe.  I could feel my face flush and my typical nonstop chatter come to a grinding halt.  Telling Grandpa about all of the horrible ways in which Joe made our lives misery would be like betraying Mom.  I couldn't betray her, she was the only link I had to security.  By this time, at 9 years old, I knew that my real mother wasn't going to come and rescue me from this life and that I had better make the best of it.  And that's exactly what I was determined to, at any cost, once we arrived at our new home.  For the time being, that new home also happened to be my grandparent's home.

Coping

I spent more and more time away from home, usually hanging out at my friend Jennifer's house after school.  Jennifer's family had recently purchased the mobile home community that we lived in, and her parents had bought a triple wide pre-fab home that was situated up on an isolated slope.  Jennifer was my age, and in to music and having fun.  We would stage lip synching concerts for her family during which we would dress up as Dolly Parton and sing one of her songs.  I hated going home, particularly since Joe's drinking continued to escalate.  I avoided going home at all costs, and even took to helping Jennifer with her chores.

This did not go over well at home.  Mom was irate when she learned that I was helping Jennifer to water the new seedling trees that bordered the community pool.  She made it clear that I had chores to do as well, and that I had a home of my own.  But being in that house felt like being trapped in a prison.  Typically when I came home from school, Mom was sitting in front of the TV watching her soaps, with a large bowl of potato chips in her lap.  Trapped at home with her like that, I started eating to cope with the stress of living with Joe, things like chips, ice cream, and sugary cereals.  I started to gain weight, which was distressing.  But often candy and junk food were all I had to look forward to.

One night, Mom left the sister and I with Joe while she went to attend an Al-Anon meeting.  Joe had already been drinking (and the irony of this situation had not been lost on me), but clearly he felt that he still had some fun left in him, and proposed driving us to his favorite restaurant bar across town.  I was adamant that we would not be leaving the house.  During our argument, Joe shaved and patted fresh after shave along his jaw, and the tension increased to a stand off.  Sister asked if she could try the after shave on herself, and when Joe complied, the strong alcohol based elixir burned her skin and she began to wail.  That seemed to derail his intentions, and we would not be going out that night after all.

Another evening Joe's family was in town and he went out drinking with his brother while his niece holed up on a cot in my room.  Late that night, the phone rang and we could hear voices outside my bedroom door speaking in Portuguese.  I asked the young girl staying in my room to translate, and quickly learned that Joe had been picked up for driving while intoxicated again, and was in the county jail.  This fact barely registered with me, as he had spent many evenings in jail.  However, this time was apparently different due to his record, and it looked like he might be away for a while.  I was jubilant.

That spring, as my sister and I got ready for church, we heard a loud BOOM that stopped the cereal spoon mid air on it's trajectory to my mouth.  It was typical to hear sonic booms as we lived near Larson Air Force Base and would often hear the jets taking off.  But this was the loudest boom ever.  

Following Sunday school, we congregated outside the church on the front steps to get a breath of fresh air and noticed large, pillowy white clouds drifting in against a pale blue, perfectly clear sky.  These were the strangest clouds we had ever seen, so close it seemed that I could almost touch them.  So pillowy and opaque as to seem like cotton balls floating in the sky.

Several minutes later, we were ushered out of the afternoon sermon into a completely dark landscape.  During the space of time since we had last been out doors, the street lamps had turned on and the day became dark.  Small and delicate wisps floated down from the sky, so eerily similar to snow, but warm to the touch.  The church bus was quickly loaded and we were returned home to learn that a volcano had erupted nearly 150 miles to the East.

The ash continued to fall for three days, during which Joe had gone missing.  I was ecstatic.  No school!  No Joe!   We danced around listening to the radio play Jimmy Buffett's, "Where You Gonna Go When the Volcano Blows?"  Outside was an eery world of swirling grey, dim street lamps, and a thick powdery grey which covered the entire landscape.  Earlier that year, we had seen a movie called 'The Day After' about a post apocalypic world which seemed all the more real following recent events.  If we were to ever experience a nuclear attack, perhaps this is what it would look like?

After the third day, the ash stopped falling and the skies returned to the familiar blue.  Only now everything was covered in ash.  Soon, neighbors began sweeping the ash from the rooftops, shoveling it into bags and depositing these to the pre-determined ash dumping sites.  

Clearly the anxiety of not knowing what happened to Joe and the effort at cleaning up the ash had taken a toll on Mom.  She was ready to leave Washington behind, and start over yet again.

Disintanglement

Mom's anger became more ferocious during that first year in Moses Lake.  One day, upon entering my cluttered and toy strewn bedroom, she became enraged.  Stooping down to pick up Barbie's motor home, she hurled it across the room where it landed with a crash against the far wall.  "Pick this room up," she screamed at me.  

I began to spend more and more time alone.  My reading had improved greatly, and I was now in a special program for 'gifted' kids.  That year, I read Laura Ingalls Wilder's 'Little House on the Prairie' and began an infatuation with Nancy Drew that was to last several years.  I also spent more time at school, often after hours, surrounded by the teachers I loved and admired.  The school was located on a grassy plateau that had several clover fields and I knew just where I could find a four leaf clover.  I called it my lucky spot.  One day, after having lost track of time in Ms. Utzinger's class talking about books and art, Mom marched by the classroom windows, sternly dragging my sister along.  She barely acknowledged my teacher upon entering the room, instead choosing to focus her rage entirely on me.  "Let's go now."

Shortly after relocating to Washington, my grandparents came for a visit.  They said they were touring the country in their new motor home.  But I had the feeling that they came to check in on us.  I introduced Grandpa to the Muppet Show, which quickly became a favorite.  My grandparents continued to be my favorite people on earth, and I wished that they could stay with us forever.  My grandfather's parents had immigrated to the US from Norway, and had landed in a small community in Minnesota where they started a family that included 10 children.  Shortly before the war, they relocated to San Jose and moved into a house that was right next door to my grandmother's house.  My grandmother's family had been part of the Oregon Trail migration, and spent several generations farming in a small Oregon valley.  My grandmother's father was also an alcoholic, and when he and my great grandmother, Nana, separated, the family moved to California.  Grandma and Grandpa married during the war, shortly before Grandpa shipped off to the European campaign.  

They were both fascinating in their own ways.  Grandma had been born a twin, and a premature one at that.  Unfortunately her twin died at birth.  She was so tiny that her parents cradled her in a shoe box to keep her cozy.  Later, she would excel at performing various poses in which she would bend her head back and rest it against her ankles, or pull one leg over her shoulder.  Her contortion act could be seen on the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk during the late 1930's.  And Grandpa could do anything.  Everyone liked him, and his family called him 'Bud' even though that wasn't his real name.  And he was everybody's bud.  He was always the first person anyone would call when they needed a helping hand, whether it was digging a stuck car out of a snow bank or volunteering at the fire department.

During that visit, we learned that my dad was sick and in the hospital, and that the prognosis was not good.  Just a few short days later, we learned that he had died of a brain tumor.  We traveled back to California with Grandma and Grandpa so that Mom could attend the funeral.  As we were children, it was considered inappropriate for sister and I to attend.  But since I never got the chance to say goodbye to my dad, I wondered if he was really dead.  What if he were alive?  What if he came to rescue me from the endless screaming and lonely, wakeful nights?  I would often lie awake wishing that he would come to find me, just as I had once lain awake wishing that my real mother would come to find me.  But there was no one to come and find me, no one to rescue me from the hell that life had become.

Soon we moved to a house of our own.  Mom and Joe had bought a double wide and we were now the proud owners of a prefab house in a mobile home park community.  They spent hours on the yard, building a front porch out of stonework, a wide lawn bordered by floxglove and petunias.  Joe's presence was increasingly more infrequent.  Often, he had jobs which took him to nearby communities.  Sometimes he would even stay the night so that he could get up early and finish quickly.  When he did come home, he was often drunk.  One evening he found he couldn't get his key in the lock of the front door, and he was sure that Mom had changed the locks, so he began howling and pounding on the aluminum door.  Another time, while attempting to park his work truck in the driveway, he slammed his front bumper into Mom's new baby blue Ford Pinto station wagon.  He put the truck in reverse, slowly backing out of the driveway and made another attempt to swing the front end of his vehicle into the empty space beside the Pinto.  But he just ended up hitting it again in the exact same spot.  He left the truck in the middle of the street, got out, and went to bed.  That morning, I recall my friend asking, "Why is your dad's truck parked int he middle of the street?" 

"He's not my dad," I responded.

Even though I had friends at school and in our mobile home community, I was never allowed to invite them over to stay the night.  Joe's behavior was too unpredictable.  One evening he brought a puppy home that he found stranded on the street.  Another time it was a guy he met at the bar.  He and Mom would argue for what seemed like hours right outside my bedroom door, which was adjacent to the 'family room.'  I heard words that I'd never heard before, like 'fuck'...as in, "Get that fucking dog out of my house!"  As if my insomnia weren't bad enough from preventing me from getting adequate sleep, Joe's antic's kept me awake for hours on end, night after night.  If he and Mom weren't fighting, the phone would be ringing from the jail in the middle of the night.  When I would fall asleep, I would often have the same recurring dream where I was riding in a jeep down the highway with Mom and sister, who were both sitting in the front seats.  In the way back of the jeep, were 2 German Shephards, growling and barking right behind me.  I could see their mouths foaming and feel their hot dog breath against my skin.  I felt terrified.

Bad Idea

Moving to Washington State was a bad idea, an intensely painful time, not the least of which was that I'd never see my dad again.

I can vividly recall the moment when my mother explained that we'd be leaving California.  I was brushing my dark curly hair in the bathroom, and I suddenly found I could no longer move the comb through my tangled tresses.  I shuddered and felt violently ill, which was quickly followed by rage.  I didn't want to leave California!  What if my real mother tried to find me?  I would be lost to her forever.  I often fantasized that my real mother would one day find me, and that I would finally get to live with her and her other children (for some reason, she always had other children in these fantasies.)  Sometimes my imagination would make her out to the Queen, which would mean that I was actually a princess.  Other times, she was just a normal mom -- one that was kind and sweet and didn't scream at me when I got scared when our barely running car broke down by the side of the freeway.

I also felt an extreme terror in the idea of living with my mom's boyfriend.  I could see that he drank too much, but as he was often drinking at the pub I really didn't spend too much time with him.  In fact, I spent more and more time alone.  There were many sleepless nights when I first encountered a lifelong affliction with insomnia.  One night, I tossed and turned in my little bed, my thoughts flying from the impending move, to thinking about my dad, to wondering about the family down the street that had recently been given my dog.  I got up and pulled my sleeping bag out of the closet; I had recalled sleeping so well on a recent camping trip.  But even after I spread the sleeping bag down across my bedroom floor and crawled in, I couldn't fall asleep.  This would be the first of many sunrises I was all too ill-prepared to greet.

I had known that my parent's marriage had been disintegrating.  My father worked at the Napa State Hospital as technician.  I had even accompanied him on a call one night, when of the patients had escaped and the other techs had not known to which building to return him -- so they called my dad.  We drove over to the hospital to find the patient upset and rocking quickly back and forth, mumbling quietly to himself.  Clearly he was upset.  Somehow my dad knew to check the inside band of his underwear for his identifying information.  I felt so proud, but also so curious about the people who lived inside the expansive property.  I also got to tag along with my dad and his buddies.  We walked through the woods, and forded a small creek.  We sat around a coffee table and listened to loud rock and roll on a friend's new stereo.  We cruised the street in his semi-restored '57 Chevy pickup, checking out the 'foxy' women walking down the sidewalks.  My dad was cool.  He was so cool that he even wore a teeny tiny silver spoon around his neck.  

But the more time my dad spent away from home and with his friends, the more he and my mom would argue.  My mom worked as a hair dresser at salon called Kathleen's, which is still in operation today.  Her specialty was the beehive, and every morning she would tease her own naturally blond and highlighted hair into a tall Marge Simpson-like 'do.  But even after giving birth to a daughter of her own, she became increasingly more unhappy and had difficulty losing her pregnancy weight.  She started gaining more and more weight, and by the time she and my dad separated she had gained nearly 100 pounds.  Quite frankly, it was surprising at how quickly she was able to find a replacement male companion, given the fierce anger she harbored at my dad and the recent weight gain.  Joe was 5' 7" with dark hair and dark eyes.  He fit the part in that he actually looked like he could be my dad.  But the whites of his eyes were often inflamed in red from all of the drinking, and I was often scared to be around him.  I had barely been introduced to him when she decided to throw her fate with his and move us across two states.

That winter, in the middle of my first year of school, we all piled into a Uhaul and drove the 800 miles straight up Highway 5 to our new home.  Pulling into Washington I grew excited as we crossed the Columbia River roiling far below our wheels.  The heavy mist shrouded the evergreens, and I drew pleasure from the natural surroundings.  However, these pleasures were not to be enjoyed for long as I quickly realized upon settling in a dry, arid part of the state.  It was not uncommon to watch tumble weeds blow across the flat plateau of the highway.  The irony of the Evergreen State nickname was not lost on me, as there was hardly a tree in site.  

My mom worked quickly to find a home for us, as the temporary housing that she and Joe had secured on a previous trip would soon expire.  The small home she eventually located was actually a duplex, but we never even had the chance to get to know our neighbors.  We did have a huge expanse of a lawn, on which I would practice countless somersaults and cart wheels.  And we also had a lilac tree which would bloom in spring.  I can recall standing next to it's flowers which were busy with bees gathering pollen and inhaling deeply, having never before smelled anything quite so lovely.

Whatever beauty I found in Washington was quickly obscured by the horrors to come, horrors which would have a profound and lasting affect on me even to this day.

What Is Going On?

So the delay between posts can be summed up like this:  I've located my birth father.  Such a simple thing, really, but taking my lifetime to complete.  I am still stunned at all that has transpired so recently, and am anxious to share this news.

But before I explain how I came to locate my birth father, I realize I still need to provide some details about my story -- as in, all the details about my story.  So here goes:

I grew up in Napa, CA to parents who had attempted to conceive but were told they could not.  My mom tells of having suffered some female trouble in her early teens which resulted in a build up of scar tissue in her fallopian tube which prevented her eggs from getting fertilized.  She knew that she always wanted to be a mother, and so she quickly pursued adoption.

I was six weeks old when she, my father and grandmother were presented with me at the Department of Social Services in San Francisco.

I was often sick during those first few years, which resulted in a tonsillectomy at the Oakland Children's hospital.  I remember a nurse leaning over me shortly after my surgery, advising me to notify my parents as to what a good girl I had been.  It was the early '70's, and she was wearing one of those old school nurses' caps affixed securely to her head.  I felt pleased knowing I had done so well.

When I turned 4, my mother informed me that she was pregnant.  Apparently this is not such an uncommon circumstance.  Perhaps already having a child releases the parents from the tensions and anxieties of attempting to get pregnant.  Whatever the reason, my parents gave birth to a child and suddenly I was no longer the center of attention.

My grandparents lived in town, along with my aunt and uncles.  Grandma worked at a toy store, and showered me with gifts whenever I saw her.  I had an electric motorcycle that I rode around our street, Barbie's townhouse, motorhome, sports car, you name it.  And my grandparents house was full of fun and fascinating things as well:  a real old-timey slot machine from the turn of the century, a pool table, cute dogs, and a swimming pool. I loved spending time with them, and they were clearly enamored of me, their first grandchild.

I loved everything about Napa:  the climate, the vineyards, the tree tunnel outside of St. Helena which we would pass through whenever we traveled to Clear Lake to visit my dad's parents.  I loved Patrick's, the candy store in downtown Napa, JFK park where we would go fly our kites, and Train Town just down the road in Sonoma.  It was paradise.

Until my parents informed me that they were divorcing.  Soon, my world was turned upside down.  We moved out of Napa and into a house that my grandparents owned in Vallejo.  My dad had a new girlfriend, grew his hair long and started wearing lots more leather.  We rarely saw him.  My mom, on the other hand, bought a Nova that was constantly breaking down and started seeing her friends' exes.  Suddenly, I was having to fend for myself.  I remember getting up for school one morning, lacing up my boots, and packing my lunch.  I walked the requisite distance to the school, only to find it completely deserted!  It was a holiday.  I felt so sad, and so alone.

My mom's youngest brother had moved in to our garage, which he quickly proceeded to outfit with a new water bed and sick stereo system.  Soon enough, we had a new baby sitter who drove a cherry red Camaro.   One day, the babysitter the uncle and my little sister and I drove to Kmart and just sat in the parking lot listening to the new Bee Gee's album.  I remember sharing my approval from the back seat by appreciating the way Barry Gibbs would inhale deeply before singing his refrain.  I just loved the sound of his breathing, in and out, and how clearly it was captured in song.

Then my mom started dating, and quickly our lives took a turn for the worse.  Mom was often gone on dates, and we were often left alone with the baby sitter, who had begun dating my uncle who lived in the garage.  Often, there was nothing to eat in our house and I would stare down the empty refrigerator willing something, anything to materialize.  Once I pulled out a crusty container of Mom's special tuna casserole:  mac and cheese with a can of tuna and a can of green peas thrown in for good measure.  Only this batch was clearly past it's shelf life.  

Soon Mom's new boyfriend was staying with us more and more often.  He had recently immigrated from Portugal, and was a barely functioning alcoholic.  His drinking quickly became more and more sinister, and he was often picked up by the highway patrol, spending nights in jail.  As his business depended upon his ability to drive himself to his various job sites, he and my mother devised a plan to move to a place where a California license would not be required.

That's how we landed in Moses Lake, Washington.