medicine

Maggie the Inquisitor

As I move forward with all this crazy research, I find myself wondering what has taken me 50 years to do anything with those things I already know. Mom and I considered much of it a secret. There is more than one reason for this. Probably the biggest for me was to muster the courage to ask her in the first place. She would never have volunteered the information. So I asked. I was a teenager when we started having early morning coffee together. We would speak in low tones almost as if my adoptive grandmother could hear all the way to the other side of town. Mom certainly felt as if she would offend her. There was also a tone in her voice of missing her real mother and father, yet she understood the circumstances.

I remember once that she chuckled and called it the worst of times and the worst of times. (Many thanks to Dickens…) From an outsider’s point of view, especially in the 20th and 21st Centuries, the fact that she was sold and the records regarding her birth were sealed in perpetuity, was abhorrent. No one in this era would understand how her real parents, who both had striking youths, could be legally wiped out of existence this way.

In fairness to the sad thought process during the Great Depression and The New Deal, the oddities were accepted, and life moved on. I, personally, think this was a chaotic, knee-jerk approach, but look at the era. Nothing seemed calm and logical.

Now I need to decide what to do with all of this. Is this a Mom story? My biological grandparents? My adoptive grandparents? Me? (Dear Lord!) It’s more than one story. My intention has always been to just write all of this. Everyone has a story to write about their lives. I’m just one of many. A few people might be interested. Who knows? I know I’m interested in theirs. I have always been an armchair anthropologist. I feel it gives me a better understanding of life in general.

Talk to me. Tell me your story.