When It Became Real

I'd written earlier about the decades old search my sister and I had undertaken to discover our adopted mother's natural parents. When we were miraculously contacted by our previously- unknown-cousin, two facts became known during the first conversation: 1. Our grandmother had not died during childbirth as we'd been told and 2. Our grandmother had been Jewish, as we'd not been told.



By coincidence, my husband was scheduled to have a conference in a few months in the city in which my grandmother had grown up and where, we discovered, my great-grandfather had died. I tried, both online and by calling various cemeteries, to find out where my great-grandfather had actually been buried. I finally had success with a call to a large Jewish cemetery and wrote down his plot number.



My father's side of the family had been primarily German Protestant and I grew up with that as the only ethnicity to which I knew I belonged. When I spoke with our previously-unknown-cousin, she'd explained that they knew there'd been Jewish heritage in the family, but our grandmother had never practiced her faith and had certainly never exposed her children to it. In fact, her youngest child never knew anyone in the family had been Jewish until she was an adult. Which brought to mind the persistent question, "What is a Jew?" As a practicing Catholic, would I also claim to be Jewish? Is it valid as an ethnicity, as a race, even if it's not your religion? It seemed an impossible question to fully answer.



But, I did know that a very rich, vibrant heritage had been abandoned by two generations. As a genealogist, it genuinely bothered me to think of all the ancestors who had been forgotten, all their treasured rituals and traditions unknown and meaningless to their descendants. I knew I'd read somewhere about stones being put on the headstones of Jewish tombstones as a sign of respect. I was determined that, when I stood before my great-grandfather's headstone, I'd do the right thing as a descendant.



There seemed to be many explanations for the tradition, but the constant among them was that it was a sign of remembrance...that others would see the stones and know that person was not forgotten. So, my sister and my cousin (son of my mother's twin brother, who had joined the search) mailed me stones from their backyards. I took stones from my backyard and put them all in a bag that I packed in my backpack.



When we arrived at the cemetery, it took a while to find the right plot. I stood in silence in front of a large tombstone, carved with words written in Hebrew and a Star of David at the top. It was an extraordinary moment. Until this point, every result from my effort to know my maternal heritage had been on pieces of paper or on computer screens. And, after twenty-some years, it had all brought me to this spot. By this point, I'd learned enough to know that my great-grandfather had been far from perfect and had left scars on many who had known him. Yet, for that moment in time, I was his descendant...one he never knew he had, yet one who remembered him and who carefully placed the small stones on his empty headstone.

VCE: Very Curious Employees

When I was out East recently, I ran into Joe A., the exceptionally talented landscape designer I worked with for over ten years. We had just enough time to get superficially caught up, then it was time to go. It's always a problem when you try to see a lot of people within a few days. I wish we'd had more time to talk. I wish we could have reminisced about a few former employees we'd known. Many--most--had been wonderful individuals. It's just a few who stand out as being somewhat curious.

The first one who comes to mind was Alex. Older than others applying for a position, he came in for the interview with excellent credentials and an unsubtle way of letting us know that he came from an "old money" local family. Alex had a very winning, courteous way about him. Joe hired him and sent him out on a routine landscape installation. That's when the first indication of trouble came. The foreman, never one to complain, called from the site to question Alex's insistence that dozens of rosebushes be planted up to their buds, with their stems completely underground. I can't recall, or imagine, what rationale was given. But, a shadow had certainly been cast over Alex's horticultural credentials.

A couple of weeks later, I found a datebook on my desk that didn't belong to me. I opened it up to see whose it was when a stack of Polaroid photos fell out. They were weirder than I'd feared. In each one, Alex had clearly taken photos of himself, usually looking suprised or astonished. His eyes would be artificially wide, eyebrows up, his mouth slightly open. In some, his cheeks were sucked in and he gave the camera a Vogue-ish stare. A few were slightly blurry images of his facial profile with his hand artfully propped under his chin. The other hand had obviously, shakily taken the picture. What was even stranger, if that's possible, was that I then noticed all the appointments listed on his calendar were with himself, i.e. lunch with Alex, movie with Alex, discuss budget with Alex, do laundry with Alex. I'm pretty sure it was at this point that I spoke with Joe and showed him the evidence of my concern. We were at a loss for words.

Then there was the wonderfully quiet landscaper, John. So he could keep track of weather affecting work hours, Joe had requested that every landscaper write in a brief description of the day's weather next to his hours for the day. A man of few words, John simply wrote "sh***y" for his daily weather report. Even when it had been a sunny, mild day. I think I never heard him actually speak until he mentioned he'd have to leave work early since he was a Big Brother and had a function to attend. Glad he worked hard as a role model.

Sometimes, an employee's strengths and weaknesses were apparent from the start. The gravel in front of the 18th century garden center had thinned out in areas, as often happened during busy seasons. Joe showed a new employee a pile of gravel in the back and a large, industrial wheelbarrow, already filled with gravel.

"Just take this around front and rake it in where it's needed," Joe explained.

We were upstairs in the office a minute later when Joe glanced out the back window, then waved me over. The new employee had managed to lift up the whole wheelbarrow--including the gravel--and was staggering towards the front with it. Amazing. The concept of a wheel hadn't been absorbed by everyone yet.

Joe called out to him, "Put the wheelbarrow down! Just roll it out front!"

"No, that's okay, I got it."

And, Joe, if you're reading this, I know you could add quite a bit to the list.

The Dog Who Changed Me

As a passionate dog lover, it amazes me that I had been terrified of dogs for...decades. When I was very young, their sharp, loud barks were my fear triggers. I recall my older sister tying my red wagon to the back of her bike for a trip-around-the-block adventure. While careening wildly behind her, my anxiety rose when an unfamiliar German shepherd came bounding towards us. Always quick to think, my sister hopped off her bike, untied the wagon, and rode home as fast as she could. I sat, paralyzed with fear, as the dog circled and sniffed, but then went on his way. Relieved, I ran home, dragging my wagon behind me. Later, I found out that when my sister had arrived home and was questioned as to my whereabouts, she'd replied, "Oh, she's coming. She's right behind me."

Things didn't improve. A childhood friend, convinced she would end my fear of dogs once and for all, brought me over to our neighbors' yard. Their large, impressive boxer stood in front of their porch.

"First," my friend advised, "Just say the dog's name quietly." She looked at the dog. "Hi, Val. Hi, Val." She turned back to me. "Your turn."

"Hi, Val," I said with completely unconvincing friendliness.

"Now," my friend prepared me for Step Two, "Slowly hold out your hand for Val to sniff it, to get to know you."

She held out her hand and, in a split second, there was a sudden lunge, scream, and blood as Val neatly bit into my friend's stomach. I don't even remember getting help, but I know I did. My friend was actually hospitalized for days. And I successfully avoided dogs well into my adult life.

Then, I became a mother. And when our son was about six years old, his greatest desire was to have a dog. I invented all kinds of conditions when I noticed my husband also warming to the idea.

"It can't be larger than a cat when full-grown," I would begin, "And it has to be a puppy so we know it doesn't have a history of aggression."

After every empty-handed return from the shelter, I was relieved. Then, the shelter's director called me.

"We have the perfect puppy for you. He's adorable! Just five weeks old."

"What kind of breed?"

"We can't be positive, but we think he's a beagle-chihuahua mix. He's white with black dots...you have to see him!"

Dutifully, we drove straight to the shelter. And we saw, truly, the most adorable little puppy. Pretty much like the one illustrated in the old Pokey Little Puppy book. When I cautiously stared into his eyes, I could see nothing but an abundance of sweetness. He'd already won the approval of my husband and son.

"Okay," I agreed, "Okay."

The little puppy was named Wallace aka Braveheart. The tiny "beagle-chihuahua mix" somehow grew into a 105 lb. setter-dalmatian-pointer mutt. And, ironically, he became My Dog and constant companion for 5 years. Whatever room I was in, he was there. Anytime I walked somewhere, he was by my side. I've tried, but I still cannot bring myself to write about his unforeseen illnesses and untimely death. But, he was the sole reason for my switch from dog-fearer to dog-lover.

I remember being shocked at the silence of our house with Wallace's absence. And now our current wonderful shelter dog, Abbey [whom I have promised will get her own blog entry], has him to thank for her new home.

All Aboard

Having been away for a week, there're many wonderful experiences I could write about...meeting new and old friends, meaningful time with extended family, adventures in three major cities within one week...instead, I'm going to write about an Amtrak experiment.

My father and I had gotten into something of a debate over whether Business Class on Amtrak provided any genuine value or not. To my thinking, a footrest and more space sounded worth the nominal extra money for the 3+ hour ride from Washington, DC to NYC after three hectic days. Dad claimed the same cars were used for both so-called "Business Class" as for the regularly-priced "Quiet Car". I decided to put his theory to the test. So, it was comfortable Business Class for the longer ride to NYC and Quiet Car for the shorter, 1 1/2+ hour ride from NYC to Philadelphia.

No complaints at all about the journey north. Coming back, we entered the Quiet Car and looked around for seats. I did notice the seats were smaller and there were no footrests. I usually sit across from my husband and son when we're faced with two-seat rows and I sat in a seat midway in the train car. Just before my husband sat down, I noticed his intended seat was covered with a watery splotch.

"Wait! Wait!" He turned around. "Don't sit there, it's wet."

"Wet with what?"

"I don't know and don't want to know."

By this point, many of the two-seat rows had single occupants, so my husband and son quickly took the row in front of the original choice. The train started and, after a minute, my husband suddenly stood up and looked down at his seat. He walked over to me.

"That seat's wet, too! It soaked through my pants!"

"Eww! What is it?"

"I don't know and don't want to know." He looked a little frantic. "Surely, it's rain."

I stared at his abandoned seat. "How would it be rain? It's the aisle seat, not the window seat, and there aren't any leaks."

He moved with our son to the next row forward, glanced down, then hissed at me, "This seat is wet, too!"

By now I was trying to figure out how this could be possible. How could there be three aisle seats, one after the other, soaking wet? The Quiet Car has a sign, reminding people to refrain from talking or using their cell phones...surely a reminder that there were toilet facilities available shouldn't be necessary?

Eventually, my husband and son ended up quite a bit away from me. At the next stop, a man boarded and slid in the seat in front of me. Before he sat down, he smiled and we exchanged pleasantries. In spite of the very clear Quiet Car warnings, he began talking to me about any number of things.

Then, he asked the awkward, "Which station do you get off at?"

Before I could say a word, my husband had instantly appeared, suddenly reviewing our travel itinerary. I guess the man in front of me got the hint and began observing the Quiet Car rules. My husband walked slowly back to his seat. Maybe a little too slowly. It was only then that I'd realized the seat of his pants were visibly soaked from his earlier train seat. But, no one said anything. It was the Quiet Car.

My sister, the sister

It seems curious that two women from a German Protestant background independently converted to Catholicism. Surely, it must seem strange to our father. I remember writing to an elderly aunt in Germany, asking if anyone in the family there was Catholic. "Yes," came her carefully written response, "There were Catholics in the family. But, that was before the Reformation." Point taken.

I keep thinking it was inevitable that my younger sister became a nun. Even before Catholicism had entered my own consciousness, I remember asking someone, "Doesn't it seem like Sarah would make a perfect nun?" Really, nothing could have seemed like a less feasible outcome, in spite of my feelings that her personality was suited for the vocation. It was so far out of anything in our family's experience. It was so counter-cultural in a very real way.

My husband and I had taken a long, arduous road to conversion. But, it felt like a very private journey, discussed solely between our priest, my husband, and myself. My sister, who is 18 years younger than me, was at college at the time when I remember she began to ask a few vague questions about Catholicism. I answered as best I could and no further discussions really followed.

Until she called to tell me that she'd decided to become Catholic. I think that was the moment that my earlier image of her came to mind. If she was going to become Catholic, how could she not become a nun? Things of this world never held much fascination for her, but the spiritual life had always called her. There was nothing for her to run away from, but there was everything for her to run to.

We're on the East Coast for a week, trying to see as many friends and family members as possible. And, on Saturday, we'll be visiting my sister at her convent in Maryland. My little sister, now so serene, strong, and centered. Just as I always imagined her at her best.

Kindred Spirits

I suppose I have my friend, Susan, to thank for much of what happened. We would frequently compare which media and geeky (as in pop culture enthusiasm) podcasts we listened to and check out each others' recommendations. One day on our way to lunch, she mentioned once again that I needed to listen to one of her favorite podcasts, GeeksOn (as in Geeks On: Moral Rights of Superheroes...Geeks On: Police States in Sci-Fi, etc.). I kept meaning to listen, but hadn't yet. As she was again trying to sell me on the podcast, I realized that the subjects would actually have high appeal for my then-11 year old son.

"So, I could let Thomas listen?"

Susan turned to me, veering slightly on the street as she drove, "Oh, no...you couldn't just let him listen without being there to edit it."

"Why?"

"Well, some language and some comments would be very funny to us, but are not really right for someone Thomas' age."

So, Thomas and I began listening to GeeksOn. We became fans. The hosts came from different areas in the entertainment industry and it was always interesting to hear their take on things. Thomas felt like he'd found people who researched their favorite movies, tv shows, and video games with the same passion he did. And, when he was faced with staggering disappointment in a video game rental, he was determined to email the hosts to let them know about his outrage.

"Um, I understand why you want to do this, but I really don't think those guys have the time to write to you just because you felt misled by advertising."

No matter. The email was sent and, soon after, Thomas received a thoughtful, helpful reply from one of the GeeksOn hosts, screenwriter and director, Peter Robinson. Not only did he empathize with Thomas, he wisely encouraged Thomas to continue to speak out against injustice all his life. Very impressive.

Shortly after, I was going for a walk, listening to a GeeksOn episode in which Peter Robinson's mother was being interviewed about "raising a geek". As I listened, I was almost unaware of my surroundings as I became more and more startled by the very specific ways in which Peter and Thomas were so similar as children. Same strengths, same quirks, same creative way of seeing the world. It was uncanny.

More emails were exchanged. Phone conversations followed with suggestions about film schools and early steps towards filmmaking. And, last July, we made our first trip to the geek mecca of San Diego's Comic-Con. We knew Peter and some of the other GeeksOn hosts were going to attend and hoped we'd have the chance to meet up.

We did get to meet. I'm glad that in spite of my doubt that he'd ever get a response, Thomas followed his instinct to send that first email. And I will always love the picture we took when Thomas met Peter Robinson for the first time. Whenever I look at it, two words come to mind: kindred spirits.

Revenge Is Sweet, Even If Bitter

I have no idea why I was so exceptionally naive as a child. All I know is that my older sister gleefully took full advantage of the fact. She finessed her wildly imagined terrors for me most perfectly when it came to one subject: chocolate.


I guess this came to mind now because, at Easter, I would hand over my candies to my solicitous sister. She would explain that too many chocolates would make me quite sick. I'd be in pain. Out of the kindness of her heart, she would accept my candy to help me avoid disasterous temptation. I was always very grateful to her.


Halloween brought this scheme to a new level. I'd never known, before my sister informed me, that crazy people could fit miniature razor blades inside candy bars. The number of poisons that could be injected into chocolate was frightening. My sister would bravely take half of one of my candy bars from my orange, plastic jack o'lantern bucket and announce, "Okay, this one is safe. You can have the rest of it, but to be careful, I better take the rest of the candy." I was such a lucky child to have such a courageous sister!


Then, one day, somehow the whole scheme became apparent to me. It was like pulling the curtain back on the mighty Wizard of Oz. If all the candy was so dangerous and sickening, why did my sister happily eat it? How much delicious candy had I missed out on? Somehow, I knew I'd have my revenge.


My father has always been an excellent, from-scratch cook. One evening, he was going to prepare a special dessert that called for chocolate. I saw a huge block of dark chocolate on the cutting board and scraped my fingernail across it, putting the small curl of chocolate in my mouth. It was horrible! Horrible! I hadn't known some chocolate used in cooking could be completely unsweetened and wretchedly bitter. As I hurried to spit the offending chocolate into a paper towel, my vengeful plan emerged.


I picked up the entire block of bitter, unsweetened chocolate and simply stood in the middle of the living room, well within eyesight of my sister. Slowly, I raised the massive chocolate towards my mouth and my sister was beside me in a second. Without a word, she yanked the chocolate out of my hand and managed to quickly bite off a huge corner of it. And, she burst into tears. She ran to the bathroom, trying to scream, but unable to because of the melting bitterness filling her mouth. My mother hurried after her, asking what had happened. I'm sure my father wondered what had happened to the chocolate he'd just put out. And I simply stood there. Smiling.

Horse Sense

People who know my husband describe him as introspective, intelligent, and rational. I'd be the first to agree with the description. So, it's very puzzling to try to understand what went through his mind on our visit to the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington.

My sister's family was visiting the area and my niece is particularly enthusiastic about horses. The first-rate Kentucky Horse Park seemed like a perfect day trip. We spent the morning walking across the expansive horse farms, seeing famous thoroughbreds, and learning about the park's mission in caring for old racehorses. For horse lovers, it's nirvana. Granted, the food available at the on-site restaurant left much to be desired, but we were a captive audience. And, on this day, food was mainly to serve as fuel for the rest to the afternoon.

After lunch, our son wanted to use the restroom, which was on a sub-level a bit isolated from the rest of the building. My husband went with him. I suppose a combination of boredom and restlessness had built up in my husband as he washed his hands in front of the large restroom mirror.

"Hey, Thomas," he called to our son, still in a stall, "There's a horse in here."

"Right."

"No, there is...listen." My husband started making loud neighing and snorting sounds just as another man entered the restroom. Catching my apparently-alone-husband in mid-neigh, the man avoided eye contact and hurried into a stall. Mortified, my husband ran out of the restroom, leaving Thomas behind.

In the hallway, he realized Thomas wouldn't know where anyone had gone, so he had to wait for him outside the restroom entrance. His one dread was that the other man would come out and wonder why the neighing man was loitering.

Fortunately for my husband, Thomas came out first and he rushed with him to join us for a lecture in the thoroughbred stables. We heard many interesting stories from the guide that afternoon, but I suspect the man in the restroom left with the best story of the day.

St. Thomas More...It's Personal

St. Thomas More always held a certain amount of fascination for me. Having been raised as a Protestant, that may seem ironic. Yet, there was something not so much about his life, but in his martyr's death that intrigued me. He had been one of the brilliant minds of his time. His intellect and wit won him the deep regard of his peers. As Lord Chancellor of England, he held one of the highest positions imaginable. And he gave everything up rather than compromise his Catholic faith.

Decades ago, I'd been impressed when I'd read about St. Thomas More's life and, also, his classic work, Utopia. When my husband and I first went to London, one of the places we found ourselves on our arrival night was at the steps of Westminster Hall in the Houses of Parliament, where St. Thomas More had been convicted of treason and sentenced to execution. Later that evening, we unknowingly had wandered to the site of his former home in Chelsea, where an imposing statute of him stands. This seemed to happen on subsequent trips, too. It became a pattern of odd little St. Thomas More coincidences.

Years later, my husband and I found ourselves, unexpectedly and to the confusion of our families, on a different kind of journey...a conversion to Catholicism. And, along the way, St. Thomas More served as a kind of beacon on that long road.

Life is rarely as one expects it to be and I'd suffered several miscarriages. In addition to our regular prayers, we decided to do a very Catholic thing: a novena. A novena is simply a discipline (novena meaning nine) in which you say a specific prayer for either nine days, once a week for nine weeks, or once a week for nine months. And, for the many non-Catholics reading this, I'd like to differentiate that Catholics don't pray to saints, we ask for the prayers of those in heaven. Anyway, it seemed the obvious choice was to ask St. Thomas More for his prayers on behalf of our hopes for a family.

And I found myself pregnant again. The baby's due date was the exact date of St. Thomas More's birth. When the doctor scheduled an ultrasound, I half-dreaded the appointment. In the past, this was when we'd found out there was no longer any movement, the heartbeat had stopped. Then, I noticed the date for the ultrasound was St. Thomas More's feast day. It seemed we were being reminded each step of the way that we had a friend in high places.

When our son was born, we knew we had no choice but to name him Thomas. Really, how could we not? And, I hope that like his patron saint, he'll grow up to be just, kind, wise, and faithful...a man always true to himself.

Aunt Teddy

I'd heard many "Aunt Teddy" stories before actually meeting my husband's aunt. I guessed most of them had been exaggerated for comic effect. But, that was before I'd met her. Now I think the stories had been toned down.

Aunt Teddy is the physical personification of Mrs. Claus. In fact, people reading this who know her will wonder if the photo above is actually her, wearing a wig of longer hair. No, it is not her, but it could be. She's that sweet. She's that Mrs. Claus-like.

Along with being sweet, she's also easily flustered. She reacts unpredictably when caught off guard. Like the time her minister's wife asked her for a cookie recipe and Aunt Teddy began with, "Well, I know you need four f***s of flour---". As soon as the words were out, she turned scarlet in disbelief that "four cups of flour" could have come out so very wrong.

Another time, I was talking with her daughter, my dear, dear friend, in the front yard. Aunt Teddy was there as well. My friend and I were discussing how quickly our sons were growing and that they'd outgrown their clothes faster than we'd thought possible.

"I went through Thomas' dresser," I said, "And realized that he has no jeans."

"None at all?" asked Aunt Teddy, just tuning in.

"No, none...no jeans," I said emphatically. "Crazy, isn't it"

Aunt Teddy was getting her baffled look. "But, I really don't see how it's possible."

"Well, it is. He doesn't have any jeans right now."

She looked more confused. "None? Surely he has some. He has to have some from either you or Peter!" She paused. "I don't think it's scientifically possible otherwise."

That was my clue that Aunt Teddy had thought I was talking about "genes".

Not too long ago, Aunt Teddy moved to a condo in a retirement community where a number of her friends already lived. Once a week, a group of women would gather in the dining room to have a meeting. Their table was near a large gas fireplace that made the environment especially cozy. The maintenance man would kindly turn on the fire before their meeting and turn it off afterwards. One week, Aunt Teddy smiled as he turned the switch.

"Oh, thank you for lighting my fire!" At the outburst of giggling at this statement, Aunt Teddy suddenly rose to her feet to object, only to have her slip fall down around her ankles.

There is something very satisfying and comforting in knowing Aunt Teddy. I think most families somehow need an Aunt Teddy of their own. Every week, she has a new adventure of sorts. And, she's given me an arsenal of stories just waiting to be told.

The Boat That Rocked

A new Richard Curtis (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually) film premiered in London last week, The Boat That Rocked. The premise of the movie is fascinating.

In 1966, the BBC was playing classical music and jazz instead of rock and roll. Their policy was to play two hours of pop music a week. When you think of the overwhelming A-list of British rock bands at the time---The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Yardbirds, The Hollies, etc.--it hardly seems possible. And there were no commercial radio stations to fill in the gap. The situation created the phenomenon of pirate radio ships. With the ships moored in the North Sea, a minimum of three miles offshore to be outside the bounds of English law, they began playing pop and rock music 24 hours a day. And, they eventually had over 25,000,000 listeners.

It was impossible to be alive in the 1960's and not be aware of music. Even though I was too young to have really been part of the era, having a music-loving older sister kept me surrounded by top-of-the-charts records. If my sister was home and in her room, I knew the turntable would be going.

I did, however, have sympathy for grandparents. Well, my paternal grandmother in particular. My grandparents lived in Madison, Wisconsin...always a progressive university city. One summer in the late 1960's, our family visited for a week. It was soon obvious to everyone that the college boys renting the house next door were attempting to be a band. They practiced relentlessly. And only one song: Light My Fire by the Doors. My grandmother was a strict Christian Scientist whose religion banned drinking alcohol, smoking, swearing, and generally bad behavior of any kind. She was also one of the few people I've ever known who simply could not say a bad word about another person. As soon as the opening chords to Light My Fire would start again for the sixth time that hour, my grandmother would smile tightly.

"They certainly have a lot of perseverance."

They really did. More perseverance than talent. The only break our long-suffering grandmother had from a badly played Doors' song was when my older sister would repeatedly play her just-bought 45 record over and over again. Incense and Peppermints by The Strawberry Alarm Clock. It had to have been a tortuous week for our grandmother.

Even though it boasts an impressive songlist, The Boat That Rocked has received mixed reviews. With 59 songs packed into a 129 minute movie, it's no surprise the script has been called lightweight and the plotlines disconnected. There's also the issue of glamorizing the worst excesses of the '60s that claimed far too many casualties. Still, the one thing the film got right, according to several critics, was the music. Actually, music is the one thing the 1960's got very right. The movie isn't scheduled to open here until August. I'll probably see it...and I may also set time aside to listen to a very specific 59 song playlist on my ipod. Great music just never gets old.

Dark Eyes Part I: My Enigmatic Grandmother

This is going to be a challenge. I don't know where to begin or where to end. I don't know how much to reveal or how much to withhold. I do know that this is the single plotline in my life that I most want to write about in detail...maybe a book, maybe a screenplay. I have to figure it all out first. I only have about two-thirds of the puzzle pieces in place.

It was never a secret that my mother and her twin brother had been adopted. Not that it was talked about frequently. We'd been told their mother had died during childbirth. There'd been the story of the poor widower who, in his grief and poverty, explained to my mother's adoptive parents that he didn't have the means to care for his already large family and would they please adopt the twins. I always imagined him speaking with an Irish accent and, maybe, wearing a cloth cap. Perhaps twisting the hat in his hands.

After our mother died in the 1980's, my sister and I decided to find out whatever we could about our maternal heritage. And through opened court documents, visits to the National Archives, and tireless correspondence, we got almost nowhere. Over twenty years had passed. Then, through a series of fast-moving and stunning coincidences, I found myself face-to-face with my half-cousin and my mother's younger half-sister. My grandmother clearly had not died during childbirth.

I knew my mother had been born in Chicago in 1925. We had her birth mother's name, but could never find any record of her. It never occurred to us that she'd had at least three marriages and used multiple variations of her name. She'd been a terrible mother to her four known children, often disappearing for months at a time. Contrary to our decades-old image of an impoverished grandmother, she'd lived well in Key West, Miami Beach, pre-Castro Havana, and Jamaica. For reasons still unknown, when she would enter nightclubs, bandleaders would immediately stop what the band was playing and change the number to Dark Eyes, a song based on an old Russian folk ballad about a heartless gypsy. It was my grandmother's theme. Literally. Imagine.

The search continues. Now with the generous help of new-found family members who are also curious, there are trails to follow that I would have never imagined on my own. There's a story here that's surprising and compelling and a little bit chilling. It's still a matter of detective work and time before, if ever, the portrait of Dark Eyes is complete.

Leaving New York

I can't remember how many times I've been to New York City. It started decades ago when, as a child, our family would take the sleeper train from Buffalo, New York. I'd always have the top bunk. Outside the short, rectangular window, all I'd see were the black sky and bright stars. As you'd imagine, the monotonous rhythm of the train would force me to sleep. It was always a flurry of activity when I woke up, hurrying to wash and dress and get off the train at Grand Central Station. It was as if I found myself inside a new world, filled with busy people hurrying past and buildings bigger than I'd seen anywhere. I'd always hold on tightly to my father's hand, feeling giddy at the noise and sights around me.

When I lived in Philadelphia, New York was always my favorite weekend destination. But once, in the pre-Giuliani era, things had gotten rough there. My husband and I noticed it first around Columbus Circle. It was filthy and, atypically, not many people were around. It's always eerie when a normally busy place seems deserted. We stopped in one of our favorite nearby stores. We were the only customers there. That is, until a clearly unbalanced man raced inside.

"Don't argue with me!" He shouted, "Just don't argue with me!"

He charged towards the counter and we quickly edged our way out. Horribly, this seemed to be the pattern all day. Exhausted and dispirited, we ate dinner quietly at an Indian restaurant and were relieved that at least the food was good. The restaurant had felt like a haven from the rest of the city. When we stepped outside, there were few people on the sidewalk. We began walking back to our hotel when we heard footsteps behind us. They seemed to start moving faster, as if they were gaining on us. Fortunately, we were already at our hotel and hurried into the lobby.

"This whole weekend has just been weird and scary," my husband said as we waited for the elevator.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and we stood there, face to face with Stephen King and his wife. What's the likelihood? It had felt like our whole day had been spent inside one of his books. It was perfect. We both tried not to laugh as we got into the elevator and listened to them talk about a book signing earlier that day.

We checked out of the hotel the next morning and started on the drive back to Philadelphia. This was the era of the "squeegee guys". Throughout New York, there were questionable men who would jump out at your car whenever you were stopped and start squeegeeing your windshield, then ask for payment for the unrequested service. It really was a problem for a while. In keeping with the general tone of the weekend, we got treated to an especially memorable squeegee guy. Traffic into the Lincoln Tunnel was inching along when it wasn't at a standstill. We saw a squeegee guy make eye contact and race towards our car. My husband tried to wave him away, but he threw himself into his squeegeeing work with gusto. My husband rolled down his window about 1/2 inch.

"No, come on, stop. Really."

Squeegee Man looked upset, "But, I need a dollar! I need a dollar so I can get my butt washed."

What? Was this an independent business or a franchise that provided the service? He kept repeating himself, but fortunately, traffic finally started moving.

That particular weekend had not gone as planned, but at least we knew that next time, it would be better. And it always was.

Changing Vocations

Before performing, the pianist Arthur Rubinstein would wear a pair of his deceased mother's black gloves. It comforted him. I only know this because that's what he told my mother once, backstage, when she, too, was a concert pianist. It's one of the very few stories from her performing years that I ever heard. She had quit her profession--suddenly and dramatically--long before I'd been born. She never really gave me a full explanation for her decision. As an adult, I can surmise that it had been a combination of burnout along with a revolt against the career path she'd been set on with minimal choice.

She never really found her bearings in any other career. I can identify with that. I remember I was quite young when I was with my mother and someone asked me if I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. My mother smiled down at me, waiting to hear my reply.

"I'd like to be a go-go dancer with tall white boots."

Nervous laughter from my mother. "Oh, Karla, you don't mean that!"

"No, I do. The ones who dance in cages."

An image from a tv show must have made a big impression on me.

A couple years later, my grandfather gave me a book on home remedies by a Vermont country doctor. Always impatient and looking for the fastest way to my goals, I now had a new profession. In my room at night, I drew a dozen business cards with my phone number and name--in colored pencil--followed by "M.D.". I passed my cards out in my class to those I thought would be the least problematic patients. And, oddly, I started getting calls from some of my classmates. After overhearing the third conversation in which I advised, "Take a tablespoon of warm honey with a glass of warm milk...", my father asked what was going on. I proudly showed him the master copy of my business card and that ended my short-lived medical profession. I was very annoyed.

I think the only career choice I ever made that stayed with me through the years was to be a writer. It waivered between being a bohemian, attic-dwelling poet to being a solid journalist, with many variations in between, but the goal of being a writer became a constant.

There's one memory that will never leave me. As an adult, I lived on the east coast while my mother lived in the midwest. Always close, we'd talk a few times a week. One November evening, she suddenly told me she'd had the piano tuned that day. She wanted to start playing again.

I really didn't know what to say, aside from a mild, "Oh, that's great!"

My brain was trying to wrap around the news. Decades ago, she'd sat before a keyboard in front of a full audience and then, inexplicably, stood up and walked off the stage. She'd never looked back. She'd occasionally played the piano for her parents, who had recently died. Was she going to begin playing for her own pleasure? I wondered if she imagined ever playing in front of an audience again.

"Well, it's late, so I'm going to go for now. I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom." I'd ask her more about it later.

When I was at work the next day, I got a call that my mother had died in a car accident earlier that morning. In the hard, sharp pain of grief, one nagging detail was that she'd never had a chance to play the just-tuned piano. She'd never had the chance to act on the step forward she'd decided to take.

The next week, I received a box from UPS. My mother had mailed it an hour before the accident. Inside was an ivory muslin Christmas tree skirt she'd sewn. Attached was a hand-written note: "I hope you remember me every time you use this."

I do, Mom. I do. All the time. In more ways than you could know.

My Biggest Email Fail. Ever.

It's so hard to imagine life now without email. Yet, prior to email, it was much more difficult to humiliate yourself in any big way through correspondence alone.

My husband works in management for an NPR affiliate station and, every year, attends a public radio conference. Because of the flexibility of homeschooling, our son and I usually travel with him and take in the historic and cultural attractions of the host city while my husband attends his conference. One morning, during the planning stages, my husband forwarded an email from the national coordinator of the conference, outlining the conference agenda, hotel information, etc. Since I'm irrationally discerning about hotels, he wanted my opinion.

I was tired when I read his email. Our family dog, who had a multitude of health problems, had been up all night. The dog was very pampered and all 105 lbs. of him slept on our bed each evening. But, the previous night, he'd been restless, feverish, and acting oddly. At one point, my husband actually got up and slept on the couch so he could get some rest. He'd made a wise choice. I sleepily replied to his email, detailing how the rest of the night had gone. What I hadn't realized was that I'd clicked "Reply All", so the public radio conference coordinator---who had no idea we had a dog with a man's name--received this email, addressed to my husband

"It was a good thing you slept on the sofa last night. Wallace was really hot all night. I couldn't believe how hot he was. He just wouldn't calm down. I even asked him if he had to use the bathroom, but he didn't seem to want to. He finally got out of bed and I didn't know where he went. I looked down the hallway to see him pulling himself along the carpet by his elbows, dragging his legs behind him. He was acting so weird! He finally got back in bed with me, but neither of us got any sleep."

Oh, and I also criticized the hotel choice.

Neither my husband nor I realized the coordinator had received the email until my husband saw the email return to him from her with this comment: "I don't believe I was the intended recipient of this email." For obvious reasons, she did not want further details of our apparently strange and sordid lifestyle.

I'm still tempted to send her a belated email of just five words: "Wallace was a dog. Honest."

The Force Runs Strong In My Family

I may actually be the only one to blame. I have a habit of blurting things out before fully considering their consequences. Like when I happened to see online that Star Wars Celebration III tickets had just been released for a convention about 4 hours from our home.

"Look!" I unthinkingly called to my Nabooian son,"There's going to be a Star Wars convention nearby."

I cannot describe how quickly my husband's head turned, with his "What are you doing? What are you doing?" expression of disbelief. Truly, both my boys are Star Wars fans, it's just that my husband 1. hates crowds and 2. doesn't like to consider himself a "Star Wars fan".

Still, we went to the Star Wars Celebration III convention. My son, who had received a Darth Vader voice-changer for his birthday, had only one costume in mind. And, be assured, he would be the only costumed family member. He had his black pants, black turtleneck, black boots, black voice-changer helmet, and needed me to do just one thing: sew a black cape. I'm useless when it comes to sewing machines, but had managed to hand-sew the collar of the cape, so I thought we were good to go. It was pointed out there was no bottom hem to the fast-fraying cloth.

"Okay, don't worry about it! I know we'll be sitting in long lines. I've got a spool of black thread in my backpack and I'll hem it during our waits."

Honestly, I was surprised at how intelligent and interesting so many of our fellow attendees were. There was an editor of a Mexican newspaper covering the event, German engineers, French-Canadian film students. The homeschool mother in me told my son to start listing all the countries of people we met and he could map it when we got home. Hemming the Vader cape kept getting delayed.

On the night before the last day of the convention, I promised I'd sew the hem in the hotel room. I laid the cape out, opened my backpack and took out the spool, empty aside from a few inches that had trailed outside of its zippered compartment. I had a very bad feeling about this.

My son whispered Vader-ishly, "Where's the thread?"

"Apparently, it unspooled all over the convention center." I had to make it right. "Hang on. I'll bet the hotel giftshop sells thread."

I hurried down and raced to the giftshop before it closed. In front of me was a short, silver-haired man. He glanced over his shoulder at me, then turned and smiled charmingly. Had my boys not made me watch every single "making of..." feature of every Star Wars dvd, I wouldn't have known this was the Star Wars swordmaster, Nick Gillard.

But, to be certain, "I'm sorry, are you Nick Gillard?"

"Yes, yes, I am."

I had to think quickly and pulled out a pen and wrinkled piece of paper. "Would you mind very much signing something for my son? "

"Not at all."

He scribbled something hurriedly before it was his turn in line.

I unfolded the paper and read what Nick Gillard had written. My smile disappeared. "Fear is the path to the dark side..."

OK, at the time, I wasn't versed enough in Star Wars trivia to know this was a Yoda quote. I basically thought Nick Gillard had just written an obnoxiously dark and pessimistic message to my young son. I actually was going to confront him, but he had already gone. I mean, what was wrong with this guy?

When I got back to the hotel room, I told my boys about the Nick Gillard meeting and reluctantly, uncertainly, gave the paper to my son. His face lit up.

"It's a Yoda quote!"

I can't say how relieved I was that I hadn't had the chance to blurt anything out to Nick Gillard. He surely would have found my lack of faith disturbing. The Force had been with me.