My Dad's Birthday

Today would have been my Dad's 103rd birthday, were such a thing even possible. Of course it is possible for a human to live to the age of 103 years, but not my Dad. His smoking, his diet and his sedentary nature all denied him that. Just as his half-brother, Albert, had his life cut short, only much shorter.

Albert - yes! I have an Uncle Albert! - was born three years before my Dad, almost to the day - on the 16th rather than the 17th of April. He was christened Albert Martin Brown in the Lutheran church on the 21st of January 1916. He is shown as resident in the Owatonna State School in the 1920 census. I'm told he was adopted in 1922 - at the age of 7. 

A letter from his mother, Marit / Mary, to the Minnesota state officials in 1939 tells us he has died from drowning at the age of 24. The people who adopted him apparently knew how to contact his birth mother. Having lost one son - she feels due to carelessness on the part of the adopting parents - she is desperate to know where her youngest son - my Dad - has been placed. It is a heart breaking letter.

Of course my Dad lived to the age of 71. His adoptive parents were anything but neglectful. And of course my Dad never knew he had a half-brother. It always strikes me as a bit surreal to think of all the things he didn't know about himself - and all the things I didn't know until someone dropped this piece of information on me and I pursued the story. It often crosses my mind that there are likely other things I don't know, or only think I 'know'.

I am practically wishing this year away when I realise I can obtain Albert's adoption information from the Minnesota Historical Society, or perhaps from the courts, I'll have to figure it out. It will then be 100 years since his adoption and the records will no longer be sealed. I'll then know the names of his adoptive parents and can look for his death certificate. Perhaps there will have been an inquest or other records to shed more light on the circumstances. I will be able to search for him in the 1930 census and perhaps there might be a marriage record, who knows? Wouldn't it be wonderful if there was a photograph somewhere and I could see a resemblance to my Dad - or even to me? 

Bless him, he didn't make it to be in the 1940 census. How very much of life he missed out on, passing at 24. Makes me feel terribly ancient and extremely fortunate. Also to realise that even though I've always felt cheated that each of my parents died at the age of 71, they did get to experience most of what life was going to hand them by then, except perhaps something negative about growing old. So I'll not wish for what can't be anyhow. 

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Daddy's Birthday - and Why every girl should have her own tools

Today would have been my Dad's 102nd birthday, not that he ever would have expected to reach that age. He was born in 1918, in the midst of the "Spanish flu" pandemic that killed more young adults than the very young and the very old as most influenza does. I'm lucky his birth mother survived.

I've written elsewhere about his beginnings. Today I want to talk more about my memories of him.

1978...a lifetime ago.

He used to mostly give me money for my birthdays but one year he bought me this Stanley screwdriver. It's a special tool in that it has several changeable heads and they are held on with a magnet. The heads are also magnetised which is handy for keeping a grip on that screw. All the bits are kept in the hollow handle. Bill loves this screwdriver almost as much as I do and I expect my Dad felt much the same way. He always loved gadgets.

This screwdriver lives in the top right kitchen drawer. Now Bill isn't much of a one for putting things back where they came from. He spends a fair proportion of his life looking for mislaid items like his bus pass, his wallet, his keys... I don't judge too harshly as I was once this haphazard myself. I've found, however, that the older I get the less time I'm willing to squander hunting for things. The term 'Life's too short' has ever deeper meaning as time passes, you know?

So, because I'm so fond of this screwdriver, and because I'm not prepared to hunt for it, Bill understands absolutely that I will be very unpleasant to him if it doesn't get unfailingly returned to its proper place. 

A few months ago I bought myself a utility knife from the hardware store in Whitley Bay (F. E. Maughans). I've heard these things called a lot of other names: Stanley knife, box knife, carpet knife, it has all sorts of uses. However, I've yet to hear it called an eyebrow-pencil knife, which is why I purchased it. 

I'm currently using a Rimmel eyebrow pencil but I don't own a Rimmel sharpener; can't even recall ever seeing one. I do however own sharpeners by Cover Girl, Maybelline and The Body Shop, plus one mystery brand. They somehow manage not to work on this Rimmel pencil, though, not that they worked all that well on their own-brand pencils either. When you think about it, it just makes sense to have a sharpener that sacrifices as much product as possible to that the chump consumer returns that much sooner to make another purchase. 

I remembered my Grandpa sharpening a lot of ordinary writing pencils with his pocket knife, but I don't own one of those. So I bought this utility knife instead. I'm sure it will be useful for other things eventually, but I'll not be using it for anything other than make up pencils until I can be sure of finding new blades. So far, it's worked much better and it's safe from being mislaid since it lives in my make up drawer.

So I can recommend having your very own utility knife. And while you're at it, get a nice cheery feminine colour!

Daddy's Birthday

I just realised I don't think about my Dad so much as I once did, which makes me sad. It also seems rather odd since I work at finding his birth father every day for at least a couple of hours. I sometimes get sick of it and feel it is a waste of time but most of the time I'm pretty determined to crack it. I wonder what makes me so obsessed about this. I think it is because I'm trying to replace what someone 'stole' from me. A decade or so ago I had a whole family tree, for at least several generations. Then the woman who snapped an illicit photo at the Minnesota Historical Society came along and 'chopped' my Dad's side away. I'm fighting to get that whole tree back. I think once that's cracked I might go back to having a more normal life, but don't hold you're breath. I only ever manage a faint facsimile of that concept.

I know quite a bit about my Dad's Norwegian mother and she has sparked my interest in Norwegian culture. As it happens, we are learning Fair Isle knitting at one of my craft groups. I subscribe to a newsletter called Craftsmanship and this month one of the articles is about a Norwegian woman, Annemor Sundbo (except that o should have a forward slash on top of it), dubbed 'the sweater detective'. It tells that she approached a man who had a wool mill because she wanted to study the weaving techniques but instead he sold her the mill and along with it came tons (actual tons!) of old knitted items. She studies the patterns in those as well as in old paintings, noting the variation of patterns. She is trying to get the special sheep that were bred for Norwegian wool, said to be especially hard wearing, to be raised again in quantity. 

Three things struck me from this article. First, her passion for all things wool and where that has led her is the stuff of fantasies for many interested in wool / craft / textiles / history. She's written award winning books and I expect I may try to obtain one at some point. Secondly, the discussion about the variation in knitting patterns from village to village sounded much like the knitted ganseys from this part of the world: wives knitted heavy woolen sweaters for their fishermen using the distinctive pattern developed for her village. Should the man be washed overboard and the body recovered, this pattern would aid in having the body returned to the right village. Grim, isn't it? But it makes perfect sense. It also rather reinforces the idea that Sundbo puts forward that there is a 'spiritual bond' between the maker and the wearer. Norwegian patterns have historical, mythic meanings. Which brings me to the third point. The article mentions Selbu, referring to the popular eight pointed flower called the Selbu rose pattern. Selbu is the village from which my Dad's birth mother's family originated. The pattern is now considered typically Norwegian, but Sundbo says it predates the mid-1800s when it debuted in Selbu and actually dates back to medieval times in Europe and even before in the middle east. The octagonal star has been around for a very long time.

From ThorNews, which I am now following!

I've not got very far on my Fair Isle, it being a rather complex pattern in spite of only using two colours on any given row. I've decided to use the Selbu Rose somewhere in this small bag I'm making. Should I live long enough to finish it, I'll be sure to show it to you. It makes perfect sense to use this pattern in my Fair Isle project given that the place, Fair Isle is pretty much square in between Norway and Scotland. And once I have the Selbu rose mastered, I can move on to the Norwegian 'lice' pattern (or not).

In addition to thinking of my Dad (as opposed to his genetic material) I'm also remembering his brother / half-brother, Albert, born one day and three years earlier than my Dad. Albert drowned in the Mississippi River at the age of 24. I have to wait until 2022 to access his adoption records and learn more about his story.

Mary's Birthday

Today my Dad's birth mother, Mary, would have been ... 139!  It sounds crazy to write, but she was 39 when she had him, he was 38 when I was born and I will be 62 the end of this month.

She was born on this day in 1879 on the family farm at Cerro Gordo, in Lac qui Parle County, Minnesota. Cousin Don kindly shared this photo of the barn on that property. The barn was notable  not just for its enormous size but for its amenities. Apparently there was a ramp to the upper level so that horses and a hay wagon could go 'upstairs'. There was also a turntable to allow them to exit facing front rather than backing out. 

I mentioned last month on the blog for my Dad's birthday that I had a copy of his adoption file. The phrase that has haunted me since was from one of Mary's letters to the officialdom that removed her children from her care in 1919. Having learned that her elder son died, aged 24, by drowning she was frantic to know the whereabouts of my Dad. She says

 'my bright happy days are taken away'. 

That letter was written in 1939, when she was 60, twenty years after she lost her children and was committed to a mental institution for eight years because she had two children out of wedlock. 

How much of these decisions were concerning the welfare of the children and how much it concerned upholding the morals of the middle-class Lutheran society, that of her background, I may never know. I am, however, awaiting receipt of what I think will be the last of the documentation from officialdom, about the Bethany Home for unwed mothers into which I understand she and her children were initially taken. 

I can't for one moment regret the grandparents who adopted my Dad and helped raise me. On the other hand, this woman who had such a painful life intrigues me. I wonder how much I might have inherited from her, what I might have learned from her, had things been different. I can't know any of that of course, but what I can do is to honour her memory and to uncover as much about her as possible.

My Dad's Birthday

Goodness, my Dad would have been 100 years old today! I'm fairly certain he wouldn't have enjoyed it much. He always made it clear to me that he valued the quality of his life over longevity. I see the sense in this but I'm not sure I would say the same. Perhaps I'll hold his view if and when my health is such that it interferes with enjoying myself.

Working with the volunteer lawyer over this past year, he was able to obtain a copy of my Dad's adoption records from the courts. It is a surreal experience reading the letters my Grandma B wrote asking to adopt a child, written in her familiar handwriting. I found it amusing that she initially asked for a little girl. Mom always led me to believe they were disappointed that I wasn't born a boy, as Grandpa and my Dad were the last of their surname, at least going back several generations. They asked for a healthy, bright looking child between one month and one year of age. They asked on 4 December 1918 and received on 24 Mar 1919, only a few days after my Dad, his brother and his birth mother, Mary, were brought to the Bethany Home.  Grandma's letters are lovely to read, with hope and happiness - tinged with a bit of anxiety, that's how she was - over the course of the adoption procedure.

The terms of the adoption are rather strange. They had 90 days to return the child (at their expense) if dissatisfied with the product (my word). The Minnesota State Public School (at which my Dad was never actually a ward) could take him back anytime until he was 18 years old.  They were agreeing to keep him until his 18th birthday, 

'maintaining, educating, and treating him properly and kindly as a member of the family, to provide him with suitable and sufficient clothing for week days and for attending public religious worship and with suitable food and other necessaries in health and sickness; to have him taught the occupation of (blank completed with) something useful and the branches usually taught in the common schools, causing him to attend the public school where he resides, fully complying with the compulsory school laws of Minnesota.'

At the expiration of the agreement (the 18th birthday presumably), they were to 

'furnish said child with two good suits of clothes, and will pay for the benefit of said child on the order of the Superintendent of said school, the sum of   $75 ($50 for a girl) and if said child shall not remain in his family the full term of said indenture, he will pay pro rata for the time he does remain, such pro rata to be paid promptly when this indenture is terminated.'

I'm not sure I follow all this, but it does sound as though my Dad was considered indentured rather than 'adopted'. That said, it was early days in the history of legal adoption and they may have been finding their way. I know from my visit to the Owatonna State School that children could be either 'fostered' - which was definitely a form of indentured servitude for many of them - or they could be adopted, which may in some cases not have been a permanent arrangement.   It was certainly a permanent arrangement with my Grandparents and the letters that follow are full of joy (from Grandma) and satisfaction (from the school). My dad is a 'fine boy' who is 'developing splendidly under their care'. 

Then comes October 1939 and a letter from my Dad's birth mother, Marit/Mary. He is now 21 years old. She is distraught as the people who adopted/fostered her elder son, Albert, have contacted her to tell her he has died at the age of 24 years, drowned in the Mississippi River. I cannot really imagine what possessed them to contact her. I've tried to find a good motive in their actions and the closest I can come is 'Just thought we'd let you know you needn't worry about Albert any more. He's dead.' Can you put a better face on it?

In her letter, Mary feels they failed him in their care and is frightened for the well being of her younger son. It seems clear that her children were taken off her, she didn't relinquish them. Considering that women in the US didn't have a vote until 1922, I'm not terribly surprised that she had little recourse once the State was interested in her situation. She and her children were apparently taken into the Bethany Home, her children were sent to the Public School (Albert) or their new home (my Dad) and she was committed to a State institution for the feeble minded on the basis that she'd had two children out of wedlock. Her letter is rambling and she references the kidnapping of the child of aviator Charles Lindbergh, which occurred in 1932. On the other hand, she spells better than Grandma B...

There is another letter from her, then another letter written on her behalf by a family friend at the Lutheran Seminary and a final document in the file recording Mary's visit to the State School on 3 Jan 1957.  I was chilled when I read the date, as I was 7 months old then, my Dad was 38. Mary was 78 years old, drawing old age benefit.  She is described as a 'most unhappy person and has a considerable dislike of all "welfare agencies". Small wonder, that. Mary couldn't understand since her child had reached majority why she could not be made known to him. Of course the adoption system didn't work that way.

They sent her away with the assurance that should he get in touch, they would help make the connection between her and her son. This never happened as my Dad was never told he was adopted. I'm in little doubt that my dad had a better life with my Grandparents than he would have had in the family of a single mom with a potential mental handicap. Her family doesn't seem to have supported her very much and so far as I can tell she made her way alone in the world as much as she could. I also believe she loved her children as much as any mother could and I think her story is among the saddest I've come across.

I'm waiting for records about her case from the Bethany Home. I'm also looking through DNA matches to find a paternal grandfather. My guess is that Albert never had children and perhaps he and my Dad were the only children of said grandfather, so it will be a long reach back with no name to hunt. But I have a couple of leads on which I'm working...

What I Know about Marit

Anyone who has followed the history of my Dad's adoption story knows that someone gave me a photo of a ledger from the state orphanage in Minnesota a few years ago. It gave his birth name (or it could have been a name given by the orphanage, but it turns out it probably wasn't) and my grandparents names as the adoptive family.

I did a DNA test, spent hours (months!) online searching and found his birth mother, Marit, or Mary as she was known. Once I knew who she was, there was a wealth of information on the internet on genealogical sites, including several family photos. A distant cousin, Stephen, found Mary's obituary for me. A 2nd cousin, Don, has shared some beautiful photos and some of his memories of Mary and her family. 

Mary is in the top left corner. This was taken before 1921.

Mary's parents and grandfather immigrated from a village in Norway called Selbu in the 1860s and their migration story is well documented in a book of immigrants' stories, published in 1921 and another in 1931. As it happens, the person who compiled all these stories was Mary's Uncle John, a Lutheran minister. According to the story, Mary's father and some of his cousins worked in logging camps - a dangerous occupation - until they had enough money to buy land. I gather that land ownership in Norway was increasingly scarce and families were starving trying to make a living farming on the increasingly small plots of land apportioned to them. 

Mary was one of seven children, the eldest of five who lived to adulthood, she had two sisters and two brothers. Oddly (to me anyhow), only one of the five ever married, a younger sister, Jennie. It was a descendent of Jennie who led me to my Mary, though I had to re-create her family tree to figure it out. She had entered the names of her mother- and father-in-law as her own parents and this was very confusing. 

Confirmation picture (Lac qui Parle Lutheran church); Carl is on far right of front row.

Mary was born - on this day - in 1879 in Lac qui Parle County. This means 'lake that talks' and I thought it a lovely place name. It is located on the western border of Minnesota, next to South Dakota. Her father had managed to purchase 160 acres in 1873, near the town of Cerro Gordo. She is on the farm with other family members in the 1880, 1885 and 1895 US and Minnesota Census records. Her medical records, obtained from the Minnesota Historical Society, indicate that when she was 9, in about 1888, she suffered from 'brain fever'. It seems likely that this was either viral or bacterial meningitis. She was lucky to have survived, but it apparently left her somewhat brain damaged. She attended school until she was 18 years old, but only attained a 7th grade education.

Jennie's confirmation picture. She is standing on the far right. Jennie's face is round with a square forehead, just like mine and my dad's - even Bill noticed this.

That said, in 1910 when she was 31, she is shown as the 'head of household' in the US Census, running a boarding house with her two brothers in Minneapolis. One can't help but wonder who supplied information to the Census taker. Did she see herself as the head, being older? Or was this a joke by one of her brothers? Or was she in fact the person who was running the boarding house? 

In 1911, Mary's sister Jennie got married to a Norwegian cousin. They moved west just over the border into Grant County, South Dakota. In fact, there is a great deal of intermarriage in this Norwegian branch of my family - Marit's parents were also first cousins. Intermarriage was common because small communities in Norway are often isolated by the fjords that separate them and then because immigrants often cling to the old ways when they can. Generations of intermarriage is called 'endogamy' and it makes distant cousins appear to be much closer than they actually are, the total shared DNA being larger than it would be if marriage occurred between members of different communities, 'exogamy'.

Mary's paternal grandfather. Cousin Don - who kindly shared this photo with me - remarked on how strong and worn his hands look. Definitely the hands of someone who has laboured long and hard.

In addition to ties to Revillo, in Grant County SD, at some point each of Marit's two brothers - and possibly other members of this family - obtained farmland in the North West of North Dakota, in Williams County. Mary's obituary says that she also homesteaded in North Dakota for a while. I wonder if this was perhaps the story that was put about by her family to explain her long absence from home...

On 18 Apr 1915, Mary gave birth to a baby boy, named Albert. Albert is named after his father, Albert Peterson. Uncle Albert's birth certificate says his father was born in 1876 in Sweden and was a carpenter. Mary's address appears on the birth certificate but it is different to the boarding house of 1910. She was 36 years old.

On 17 Apr 1918 - almost exactly 3 years to the date! - Mary gave birth to my father when she was 39 years old. No father's name appears on that birth certificate, not even my Dad's given name - which was, according to the orphanage, James. Mary has yet a different address. I don't have any DNA evidence that Albert Peterson was my Dad's father. In fact, I don't have any trail of any paternal grandfather line to follow, at least not yet.

Mary's Uncle John - the Lutheran minister responsible for compiling the fabulous books about the families who emigrated from Selbu. Thanks again to cousin Don for sharing this.

I can't help but wonder - well, loads of things - but to start with, how is it that both Mary's boys were born in mid-April? Counting backwards I wonder what happened (who visited) in July? Bearing children in her mid-to-late 30s doesn't fit the stereotype in my head, which is more about teenage pregnancy. Was Mary in a long term relationship, or did she fall prey to more than one man who took advantage of her vulnerability?

On the 22nd of Mar 1919, aged 11 months, my father was placed in the Owatonna Public School (the orphanage). His 4-year-old brother Albert joined him there on the 31st of March 1919. On the 22nd of February 1919, Mary was committed to the School for the Feeble Minded and Colony for Epileptics, in Faribault MN because - according to the record - she had borne two illegitimate children.  She wasn't quite 40 years old. Her hospital record is older than 75 years, so I was able to purchase it. The record lists all her family members, so I was certain I had the right person. It says she has a mental age of about 10, that she is 'excitable' but her habits are 'cleanly'. Her physical condition is poor. The state is supporting Mary because her father, Peter, is listed as 'indigent'. There is another name on those papers, a William W Hodson, who turns out to be connected to the child welfare agency of the day, ominously named the "Board of Control". Her unmarried sister Carrie and brother Carl are living with the parents in Marietta, MN, but brother Emil is farming in Williston, ND at the time of Marit's commitment. 

My favourite photo - also from Don - of Mary, Carrie & Jennie. 

The 1920 Census shows Mary as an inmate in the mental institution. Her father Peter is living on a farm in Augusta, rather than Cerro Gordo, still in Lac Qui Parle County, along with his wife, his single daughter and two sons.

My father was adopted by my grandparents less than a year later, in January 1920, in time for him to appear on the 1920 US census, just as he would have been had he been born to them. They may or may not have been told about Albert. It seems likely that they would have been. However, Albert was old enough to know he was adopted and I know they kept my Dad's adoption a secret from him. This wouldn't have worked with Albert, so Albert was left behind.

Mary's father, Peter, died in 1921, aged 75. Albert was adopted by an unknown family in 1922. His records won't be available until 2022. He will have been about 7 years old by then. I'm sure that he always knew he had been adopted. I wonder if he remembered his birth mother or his little brother. 

Mary's Statistical Record tells me she was 5'7" tall (1.7m) and weighed 130 pounds (59 kg), so she was relatively tall and slender. The records also indicate that Mary's IQ was tested a number of times. In 1921, she is said to have had an IQ of 73 and a mental age of nearly 11; in 1923 the numbers were 60 and 9 years; in 1927 her IQ had dropped to 56. It's clear that she lacked any intellectual stimulation in the 'School'. Only one 'vacation' is recorded for Mary, a month from 28 Jul - 28 Aug 1927, visiting her family. Presumably this was a trial period to see if she could leave the institution and rejoin her family. If this record is complete, she had no other vacations during her 8 years of incarceration.

In 1927, at the age of 48, and presumably because she could no longer bear children, Mary was released from the mental institution into the care of her youngest brother, Carl (even though her mother was still living - it was a patriarchal society, after all). If her IQ had dropped, at least her physical condition had improved during her stay, from 'fair' to 'good', so it is possible that she was unable to adequately care for herself and two small children on her own.

The 1930 Census shows Mary living with her mother, sister and two brothers in Augusta, MN. 

The 1940 Census shows Mary living alone in Minneapolis in a rented room, that she has an 8th grade education and she works as a maid. In 1940, Mary's mother, sister and two brothers still live together in Augusta. This suggests to me that she was a pretty independent woman. I wonder if she resented having lost her children and if she felt her immediate family had a role in this. Perhaps her uncle, the Lutheran Reverend had had a hand in the decision. Or it is possible that the laws of Minnesota were such that a woman couldn't be allowed to bear children out of wedlock and keep them.

My 2nd cousin, Don, first said of Mary 'she wasn't the sharpest tack in the box', which didn't much surprise me. He seemed to remember her as difficult to get along with, opinionated, perhaps a bit arbitrary. Then again, she was 65 years old when he was born and 20 years older when she came to live in his mother's house.  Later he told me she had made the local newspaper as she had enrolled in a mechanics course as an old lady. She had it in mind to help her brothers on the farm. She seems to have been capable with her hands, as Don says he has a wooden chest that she made and did a fair job of it.

One of the ways that he thought her stubborn was that she would never use the bus system in Minneapolis but would instead walk everywhere quite quickly. I can't help but wonder if this didn't add to her longevity!

According to Mary's obituary she retired from work at the age of 86 and moved in with her niece, Mabel.  Don says she went blind in her 80s, he remembers her getting out of her chair and feeling her way along the walls. I gather this presented challenges to her niece for keeping her safe. Mary was also hard of hearing and spoke in a loud voice. I'm full of admiration for Mabel for taking care of her difficult aunt. 

Mary's mother (also Mary) died in 1941, aged 86. Mary's married sister, Jennie, died in 1957, aged 70; her other sister in 1958, aged 76. The two unmarried brothers, Emil and Carl, died in 1963 (aged 79) and 1966 (aged 76). 

Mary lived to almost 97 years of age, dying in 1976. She outlived her parents and younger siblings by 10-20 years, outlived the couple who adopted her youngest son. My dad died in 1988, not knowing he was adopted and not remembering his birth mother.

Neither Hennepin County nor Steele County (the location of the former orphanage) has my Dad's adoption records. They would appear to have been lost.  I'm still pursuing other possibilities and hope eventually to identify his father - not least because I do wonder what, in a far more perfect world than that of the early 20th century, my Dad's and my surname should actually have been.

My Dad's Birthday

Today would have been my Dad's 99th birthday. My fascination with detecting his past has been one of several reasons I've not been here of late. I've written before about only learning my Dad was adopted when I was in my mid-50's and when nearly everyone who had first hand knowledge was long gone. I'm pretty certain he never knew he was adopted, though he may have suspected. I think now that my grandparents moved from Minnesota to Wisconsin to keep him away from cousins who might tell him. 

The earliest photo of my Dad...at Owatonna?

One of the most astounding things I've discovered is that my Dad had an older brother - I had an Uncle Albert. He is likely a half-brother, but who ever heard of a half-uncle?  

The fact that my Dad and I were both only children always seemed to me to be one of the major things that bonded us. Only-ness seemed to be a defining experience for us. No one else I knew understood the joy of solitude - or of companionable silence - in quite the way my Dad did. Something I ran across recently challenged readers to 'describe themselves in one sentence' and while I didn't know how that might go, I knew it would include 'only child' somewhere, maybe like 'Only child, addicted to reading, colour and textiles...' I'm sure there is more, but those are the first thoughts that come to mind.

Strangely, Albert's birthday is tomorrow (but 3 years earlier than my Dad). The part of Albert's story that I know is nearly as sad as their mother's. My Dad was placed in the Owatonna state school (orphanage) when he was 11 months old; Albert was 4. My Dad was adopted 10 months later; Albert waited 3 years to be adopted. So it is likely he always remembered that he was adopted. Whether he understood why these things happened to him I'll likely never know. Albert's adoption records won't be available until 2022. Hopefully I'll be able to get them then, if they still exist. Minnesota seems rather careless with some of their old records as some of my Dad's seem to have disappeared from Hennepin County.

Albert's birth certificate (now over 100 years old and so available on the Minnesota Historical Society website) says his father was named Albert Peterson, born 1876 in Sweden. My Dad's birth certificate - obtained with the help of the Minnesota Coalition for Adoption Reform - has no father listed, not even his given name (which according to the Owatonna records was James). It only gives his birth date and his mother's address. This is a large brick building near downtown Minneapolis (courtesy of Google) and I'm guessing she rented a room there. 

A maternal cousin in Sydney suggested I join an e-group called DNAAdoption, which I did. They are a group of 'experts' who volunteer to help people interpret their DNA results to follow the trail of their birth parents. I didn't ask for help, but I learned a great deal from them, enough to identify my Dad's mom (it takes hours and hours of work, mind). From that e-group I learned about the American Adoption Congress. They referred me to the Minnesota Coalition for Adoption Reform. Amazingly, a lawyer (who is an adoptive parent) contacted me and has worked on my situation for about about 7 months now, obtaining a court order for the release of records pertaining to my Dad's birth and adoption -- all for FREE! - can you believe it? He's a really nice man - I've spoken with him on the phone. He and his wife are visiting Edinburgh in May and I'm thinking it would be lovely to nip up there and meet him, if only for coffee or dinner or something. 

Getting records is all exceedingly slow and my patience has had a good workout. I'm currently waiting for frozen records to thaw (literally). If I get this right, there was a flood in the Steele County (location of Owatonna) archives and freeze-drying paper apparently is a salvage method. Given the anti-climax that was my Dad's birth certificate, I'm not holding my breath (well, as much not as I can). I'm thinking if anything it might tell me more about Grandma and Grandpa, the adoptive parents, and that would be nice, too. [Update: no records there, frozen or thawed, pertaining to my Dad's adoption].

Sometime around Thanksgiving, I finally worked up the nerve to contact some of my Dad's rather distant paternal cousins. I got a great response and they did their best with their local knowledge to help me find out more. One even came up with my paternal Grandmother's obituary (her name was Mary). (More about her next month, on - you guessed it - her birthday). From that obituary I knew where Mary lived in the last decade of her life. 

They also gave me some phone numbers to try for a 2nd cousin (we have the same great-grandparents). It took me even longer - a couple of months - to work up the nerve to ring him. Then I realised we are none of us getting any younger and I'd best get on with it. Turns out he is also a very nice man. [I begin to wonder why I'm always a little surprised by this.] Don's mother was Mary's niece and Mary lived with them from the mid-1960s until her death in 1976. Don will have been in his 20's and 30's and he remembers Mary. We've been writing back and forth as he recalls various details about her as a person. 

It's been an amazing journey - and I'm still on it. But hopefully I'll find time to squeeze in a post here and there!

Remembering My Dad

Several people have remarked to me (IRL) that I've not written much here lately. I always say I've not quit, I just have other stuff to do. I didn't get much feedback from readers here and while I do post mainly for my own amusement, it got a little lonely at times. Facebook is far easier than blogging for social contact. However, I don't want to stop my habit of remembering my loved ones here and Facebook doesn't seem appropriate for the sort of brain dump I do here; not to mention it's impossible to find things there once they drift off your screen. Anyhow... 

On this occasion of my Dad's birthday I've pulled out some photos that seem quite unlike him to me. It's not just that they were taken before I was born, it's the hat. By the time I came along he didn't wear them any more. I think we've lost something with the demise of regular hat-wearing.  

I never saw him wear vests either. I think they're called waistcoats over here; a vest refers to the undershirt my grandpa wore, sort of like a tank top. My dad never wore that sort of vest when I knew him, but he always liked loud neckties, as you can see here.




I like these photos because he looks happy and relaxed. I'm guessing they were taken up north in Minnesota (because of the big lake) so this will have been in the late 1940s. 

I think this last picture is my favourite. It shows one of his characteristic expressions. 

Happy Birthday, Daddy. Long gone but never forgotten.

Poor Ad

Today is my Dad's birthday - he would have been 97. I can't really imagine him at that age, he was so poorly at 70. In trying to think of what to write about today I remembered that in the past year my genealogical research has led me to his first wife. Her name was Adeline. I've also had email conversations with her first cousin once removed (her cousin's daughter) in Minneapolis. The cousin's name is Barbara.

I found Ad with my maiden name listed on her mother's obituary. That gave me her maiden name and from there I found Barbara on Ancestry. Together we have pieced that Adeline remarried, had two children, divorced and found (possibly) two other husbands, the last with her til his death in 2000. She died in 2007, outliving my Dad by almost 20 years. Unlike my Dad she has grandchildren. Good for her.

Definitely my Grandma on the right; maybe Adeline on the left?

Although Barbara says Ad was her mother's favourite cousin, she doesn't seem to have any photographs of her. I shared this picture that I think may be her. I got this when we attended a family reunion of Grandma's family a few years back. I love the photo of my Grandma - she was such a clothes horse! - but I was really intrigued by the woman standing next to her. I think it may be Adeline, Grandma's favourite daughter-in-law. Mom told me everyone called her 'Poor Ad' because my Dad had divorced her. I've always been very curious about her. It was good to learn that she had remarried and had children. She ended up in Seattle, Washington which I believe is a beautiful place to live.

My mom in the 1940s.

I don't know if Barbara will ever manage to contact Adeline's children or grandchildren or we'll ever confirm the identity of the photo, but here are the reasons I think this may be Adeline: the clothes put the photo in the 1940s, when my Dad was married to his first wife. They are on a pier at a lake, which means either Minnesota or Wisconsin. The other reason is that the woman is dark haired, has high cheekbones and wears wire framed glasses....just like my Mom. I think that was my Dad's 'type'. 

Did you ever notice that men seem to be drawn to a certain 'type'?

Mom's Birthday

I'm sure I've mentioned at some point that I have over a hundred letters that my Mom wrote to my Dad during the first year of their marriage in 1944-45. My Dad was sent to Italy about a week after they married and she wrote him - and he her - several times a week if not nearly every day. I don't have my Dad's letters, but they would have been nearly impossible to decipher anyhow.

I have this wishful thought of publishing these letters, if only to be sure Mom is remembered after I'm gone. I know they are full of mush, but they have other surprising details about her life and the times as well. A fantasy idea, I'm sure, but I do plan to scan them to share with my Uncle Pat and type them up just in case...

                                                               Tuesday P.M.
                                                               Nov. 21 - 

Hello My Darling --

     Golly but it seems like years since I've heard from you - I wonder how much longer it will be - I miss you so much Lyle and miss your letters too -

     I've written you a letter almost every day - but haven't mailed them - the only kind I've been able to write wouldn't be the kind to send - I'm sure they wouldn't do a thing for your morale - I've been pretty far down in the dumps Lover - but I feel better now - I went home Sat nite and just got back this a.m. - Gee but I enjoyed it. It was like a tonic - you know - Mother didn't really believe we were married - She still isn't sure - She really tickled me - I told her I'd send the certificate for proof - She took your address - She has a new way to send candy overseas - so is going to make you some -

     While I was home I was going thru some things in my cedar chest and came across all those notes you wrote me and I left in various places - drawers pockets etc - while we were at the Cadillac - Remember? I enjoyed them all over again coming across them unexpectedly that way.  Golly Mr B - I sure do love you -

     Mother sort of outdid herself on my Xmas present - I had to go with her to buy it - a fur coat - a satin robe-bed room shoes to match - 2 boxes of stationery a box of matches with my name on them - How about that - nothing but the coat is a Xmas present - The other stuff she just bought at odd times - Oh yes and she wanted to know which we wanted her and Larry to buy us for Xmas - silver or china or crystal - I'm just leaving it up to her - 

     Rec'd a letter from your Mom today - She writes the sweetest letters - I enjoy them very much - 

     I was sure Lou and Mr Dunn would be quite unhappy with me - for staying in Okie City Mon too - but they didn't seem to be. Mother sent them a qt. of wine back - I think that helped a bit -

     Larry is Staff Commander of 7th Fleet - I wrote you that he was on the Admiral's Staff - didn't I? Mother is quite proud of him -



And so on and so forth... 

The strange thing is that although they were both professional photographers, I have no wedding photo for them. I can follow that, given that it was a JP marriage in Ft. Smith, probably in a hurry before he got shipped abroad. However, there are also no photos of them together. The Christmas card below is the closest I can find. There is one photo of me and my Dad when I was an infant, but none of me and Mom. I find that all very odd.  Perhaps what they say about the cobbler's children having holey shoes and the plumber's faucet leaking is true, eh?

Oh well, this is me wishing my Mom a happy would have been 96th birthday.

Daddy's Birthday

Today is my Dad's birthday, he would have been 96. I've been very busy this week with my genealogy, having discovered a new cousin, on my Mom's side, in Australia. She has given us a photo of my Great-great-grandfather and we're all very excited about this.

In doing more research on some of that branch I discovered that Google can be quite useful with the more recent events, like discovering a whole group of grave sites (Find a Grave.com) with dates of birth and death on the tombstones. 

On a whim I entered my Dad's name into Google. It came up with mostly stuff from my Ancestry family tree, but the last entry was on Ancestry in Italian. I pulled it up and found this photograph attached to a family tree. I've no idea why it should be there, but given that he served in WWII in Italy in 1944 and given that I only discovered a few years ago that my Dad was adopted, I'm wondering what other surprises might pop up. I like being an only child and I think would prefer to stay that way, but we don't have control over these things and so we shall see how things unfold. Given that the family tree is full of English names, not Italian, I'm thinking that Ancestry must just provide all sorts of information in different languages. I hope.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

Yet another year has rolled around and it's the day for me to remember my Dad.  Not that I forget him for long in between birthdays.

As you can see from Grandma's notation, he was sixteen years old in this photo.  Didn't they do dramatic portraits back then (1934)?  He looks a bit fed up, perhaps.  I know I got tired of having my picture taken by my photographer parents and grandparents...

My Dad's Birthday

My Dad was pretty reliable about Christmas presents:  while he and Mom were together he gave her money and let her do it!  After they split he discovered I really liked Month-at-a-Glance planners and so for years - pretty much the rest of his life, this is what I got.  I was fine with that.  They sometimes had cash inside as well.  My favourite one came wrapped in a folded over paper bag, held with a rubber band and with a plastic red rose (I recognised it from Grandma's 'decor') stuck in the band.  That was so like him and we both laughed for ages.

Birthdays were more hit and miss.  He actually forgot it one year and I was miffed.  I remember telling him it wasn't as though he had so many to remember (me being an only child).  I don't think he missed it again. 

However, he was good about the occasional surprise, just because.  Not often enough to make it routine, but just now and then when he ran across something.  He was really good at giving hugs and saying "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

I was clearing out my (Grandma & Grandpa's) desk one day and ran across this card, buried at the back, one of his 'for no reason' gifts.  It was probably intended to give a spouse, but I got the message OK anyhow.  I know that at some point it was cool to refer to a boyfriend or spouse as 'my old man', but this is the way my Dad referred to himself all my life.

I read a lot of books while we were in Australia and came to the conclusion that happy endings weren't currently in fashion.  With the death of a main character in one, however, there was an observation made that death made one understand the true meaning of 'never' in a way not previously appreciated.  On the other hand, alongside of 'never' came 'always'. 



I believe this to be true.

Daddy's Birthday

I'm fortunate enough to still have my Dad's high school year book, from 1933.  From it, I know that in 1933 he and my Grandparents lived in Milwaukee.  

Even back then, students collected autographs.  Some of the signatures (mostly from girls, I notice) include:

Loads of Luck to a good English student Hey what.  Marie D.

Your and old tease but your not so bad.  Hope you have a nice summer.  Ruth M. (who apparently wasn't so good at English).

You've been an inspiration in Bio but without it. (does that means something to you?) I'll be seeing you.  Rosemary B.

Good luck to a nice kid.  Doris F.

Too bad you didn't go tobogganing anymore.  Good luck.  Muriel.  

Loads of luck Lyle.  You need it.  Oillie

To Lyle, A sweet little dark haired boy.  Sophia G.

Good luck to you my sweet hearted Lyle.  Mary M.

Loads of luck to you Lyle.  You were naughty, but nice.  Florence.

Lyle, I enjoyed being in your English class.  Claribell H.

Lyle, Remember the night of the toboggan party?  Best of luck.  Mrs. Faith

Lyle (alius bugs).  Don't get into any more trouble at school - naughty boy for smoking - Baxter seems to like buggy people like you, eh what?  Nerts to you.  Dink.

Dear Lyle, I am wishing you a lot of luck.  Joyce.

Good luck with the girlfriend.  Fred K.

Hello - I don't know you either, but you've got a lot of what it takes to get along!  Joannie M.

Don't forget that good old English class!  Eldora

Something in German from Lorraine that starts out with 'I love you'; maybe this is the girlfriend...

Loads of luck in your exams.  Anne.

I wish I could write something real nice in here, but it wouldn't be proper.  Alice S (rusty hair)

Just a good old pal.  Harriet H.

Remember the swell times, mostly the beach party.  Joanne N.  PS Oillie told me to write that.  Blame him.

Lyle.  Best of luck.  Hope next time the beach party will be more of a success for you.  Marge.

Dear Lyle - you wise-cracker.  How about doing going roller skating sometime?  Mary B.

One more sem. in the same room with you will certainly change me.  Patty

Latin, geometry, Biology.  I'll be glad when they are dead, you rascal you.  Anita B.

Loads of luck to a great big junior (he was graduating his Sophomore year).  Janet R.

It's a good thing I saw what you put in my annual before I took yours, your annual is better off because of it.  Marian C.

My Dad scrawled his name on the front cover (followed by Esq. and Sr. I believe).    Someone else wrote in the top corner of the cover: 

Ego solus sto.  Sed Ubi?  (in the corner)

Translated, it means something like "Alone I stand.  But in what place?" (...in the corner...)    

Aren't sophomores clever?  Perhaps there is a case for ditching one's old yearbooks...I've no idea where mine are, thank goodness!

Happy Birthday, Daddy!  Love you bunches & bunches! Shelley.