Finding Family

by Richard Hill

  I had never known a rancher and I looked forward to our conversation. When I did reach him, I learned that Dale had a keen interest in family history. He was eager to hear about his great-grandfather’s parents, who I had identified and traced back to North Carolina.

  Dale’s father, Wayne, had returned from his stint in the Army to get married, run the family ranch, and look after his aging parents. Dale grew up on the ranch and stayed there. Buying ten cows and a bull when he was eleven, he had owned cattle continuously since then.

  Exactly like me, Dale enjoyed math and science in high school and went to college on a scholarship to study physics.

  That was my major, I reflected with amazement.

  But Dale was an outdoor guy, not a classroom guy. So he quit college and became a professional firefighter for thirty-five years, while continuing as a rancher.

  Like his father was decades ago, Dale was active in his community and had been elected to serve on the local school board.

  I learned that Dale’s father, Wayne, had caught rheumatic fever twice as a child, which led to serious cardiac problems. He died at age thirty-eight after complications from heart surgery.

  Based on the photos I had sent him, Dale thought I fit in well with the family. In his opinion, I most resembled Vernie, but he was open to the possibility that his father could have been mine.

  “If I was in your situation,” Dale said, “I would want to know.”

  He then agreed to take the DNA test and promised to see me at the Richards reunion.

  Three down, two to go.

  Everyone I had spoken with so far was friendly and open to the possibilities suggested by my story. There was no doubt, however, that Gerry had favorably influenced the first three men before I ever got them on the phone.

  Would I get the same treatment from the last two guys, who merely opened their mail one day to find my letter and photos?

  36

  BLUES

  The next man I reached by phone was Doug Richards Jr. He had received the package and examined the photos.

  “Your story is real interesting,” he said right off. “I commend you for looking into it.”

  He was quick to admit that his father had a reputation for sleeping around in his younger days, though he settled down later in life.

  “He must have changed,” I observed. “I understand he was married for fifty years.”

  “My mother used to say that the first twenty-five years with my dad were the toughest, but the last twenty-five were a breeze.”

  I suggested that my letter must have come as a shock. He disagreed.

  “My sister, Elaine, and I had actually talked about this possibility. With our dad it wasn’t a question of would another child contact us someday…it was only a question of when. In that sense, your letter was expected.”

  By the tone of his voice, I could tell he was not upset. If anything, he seemed to find the situation mildly amusing.

  Doug went on to say that his wife thought he and I looked somewhat alike, but he did not see it.

  Although his dad was only five foot ten, there was a lot of height in the Richards family. Uncle Vernie was over six feet tall. Doug Jr. said he was six foot one.

  Having recently spoken with Dale, I noted that Doug did not sound like a Texan. It turns out that Doug’s family returned to Michigan for awhile in the fifties. He had also served in the Army. So his speech reflected a blend of Midwestern and other influences.

  We continued to talk about the Richards family history. He told me how Uncle Vernie had been loading railroad ties in Houston and ended up in Florida. He met a guy in a bar that suggested he come along on a ship going to Detroit. It was a Ford-owned ship and that was how Vernie ended up working for Ford in Detroit.

  When Vernie’s brothers, Clyde and Doug, heard about the opportunities in Detroit and the Henry Ford Trade school, they also moved to Michigan.

  “Before he got into the bar business, my dad was a tool and die maker for Ford,” Doug noted.

  That was an interesting coincidence, I thought. My adoptive father had been a tool and die maker for Oldsmobile.

  I told Doug Jr. that I had been doing some genealogy work to extend the Richards family tree farther back in time. Doug was quick to comment.

  “Uncle Vernie once paid a genealogist three hundred dollars to uncover the family’s history.” For a second, I thought he was serious. But he continued.

  “Then he paid him three thousand dollars to cover it up again!”

  I laughed, but Doug did not know me well enough to be sure I got it.

  “That’s a joke,” he said.

  We finished our conversation with Doug agreeing to take the DNA test and telling me that he planned to be in Michigan for the Richards reunion. That meant we could meet face to face in July.

  Four down, one to go.

  I tried to call Joe Jr., but kept getting his answering machine. Eventually, I left my name and phone number but nothing more. This was not something I wanted to discuss by machine.

  When a week went by without any word from Joe, I began to worry that my luck had run out. Gerry had said Joe was an orthodontist. Maybe he was just busy. Then my phone rang and it was Joe.

  He had just caught up on his mail, including my letter. In his opinion, my pictures did suggest I was a Richards, though he was not sure which of the brothers I resembled most.

  My conversations with Dale and Doug Jr. had made me more conscious than usual of regional accents. Joe did have a slight Texas accent, just not as pronounced as Dale’s. I thought of it as Texas-lite.

  He started to tell me that his father, Joe Sr., spent World War II in the Pacific and could not have been in Michigan. But then I heard Joe’s wife interrupting him.

  She had just pulled Joe Sr.’s military records from their files and was checking his service dates. He joined in November 1943 and was discharged in March 1946. Yet there was something in the file they had never noticed before.

  The Marines had granted Joe a thirty-day emergency leave in August 1945. Then they extended it twice to ninety days.

  Joe Jr. was stunned. He had not known about that and he had no idea where Joe Sr. spent that leave time. Since much of the family was in Michigan by 1945, it could have been there.

  It must have been Michigan, I thought, remembering Gerry’s comment that Joe Sr. was included in a family photo taken that summer.

  “My parents did not get married until 1947, so all of this was well before my time,” he said.

  As for the DNA test, Joe said he would be happy to help in any way he could. Then he became the first man to express an opinion on the outcome.

  “For your sake, I hope my dad was not your father,” he said.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because he was mentally ill,” Joe explained. “He spent a lot of time in VA hospitals. People say he was normal before the war, but the father I knew had serious problems with temperament and ambition.”

  Joe went on to say that Uncle Vernie had even provided his father with a bar to run, but he couldn’t handle the responsibility.

  “Was that the Oasis, which became the Good Time Bar?” I asked.

  “I think it was,” Joe replied.

  “We would have starved if the rest of the family had not helped us out so much. And my brother and I would not have gone to college and dental school without financial help from Uncle Vernie and Uncle Doc.”

  Joe went on to say that his father had been in some of the bloodiest battles in the Pacific islands. Doctors today would probably classify his mental health issues as post-traumatic stress disorder. But back then, nobody knew what to call it, let alone how to treat it.

  Most likely, the emergency leave in 1945 had something to do with this condition.

  Joe also hoped that Wayne did not prove to be my father, because Wayne’s widow was still alive. They did not get married until Wayne got out of the Army, but they had been high school sweethearts and Joe thought they m
ight have been engaged at the time my birth mother got pregnant.

  I understood what he was saying. But I knew there was nothing I could do about the outcome of my DNA test. The die had been cast more than sixty years ago. All I could do now was learn the truth and try to smooth over any hurt feelings that might occur.

  I asked Joe if he would be at the Richards reunion. He said he never attended because it was always in summer.

  “That’s peak season for kids’ braces. I can’t take time off in the summer.”

  We then wrapped up the conversation, said good-bye, and ended the call.

  Five down, none to go!

  Now that all five men had agreed to do the DNA sibling test, I phoned Gerry to share the good news. Not only had they agreed to be tested…I enjoyed the time I’d spent speaking with each of them.

  I knew I would be pleased and proud to have any of them as a brother or cousin.

  Gerry added that I could not go wrong with any of the men’s fathers being my father. Wayne’s heart problems and Joe’s mental health issues were not genetic. They simply resulted from unfortunate events in their lives.

  I responded that Doug, aka Doc, my mother’s employer at Dann’s Tavern, was still the most likely candidate, since I knew she had gone out with him.

  Gerry told me that her Uncle Doc had been an excellent businessman. She remembered that he once had a big nightclub in Texas where well-known entertainers like Redd Foxx performed.

  “Uncle Doc was not just successful. He was incredibly family oriented,” she said. “When he was alive, he practically demanded that everyone attend family reunions.”

  “Since everyone knew how generous he could be with his money,” Gerry laughed, “they usually showed up.”

  Gerry then told me she had mailed some more pictures that showed her father and uncles later in life. The photos arrived the next day.

  She had previously described the men in her father’s family as “barrel-chested.” As I looked at the photos of these men, probably in their sixties, I noticed some barrels, but they were no longer around their chests.

  Considering the era in which these men lived, I guessed that most of them smoked cigarettes and lived on high-fat diets. I had never been a smoker. Furthermore, I had a wife who studied good nutrition and practiced it in the food she prepared.

  Looking at these pictures, I appreciated Pat’s efforts even more. Thanks mostly to her, I had defied genetics and delayed the expansion of my waistline.

  Gerry had thoughtfully identified the men in each photo. Seeing my first color photo of the man they called Doc, I remarked how much he reminded me of my adopted father in his later years.

  Now that was a coincidence! He had the same build, wore his graying hair in the same crew cut, and had the same steel blue eyes.

  Immediately, I sensed my body tensing up. Something was wrong. Then, I remembered what it was.

  37

  DECISIONS

  Way back in 1964, on the day I learned about my adoption, I had remembered a DNA lesson from high school biology. Brown eyes were dominant. Blue eyes were recessive. And two blue-eyed parents should not produce a brown-eyed child. For me, that memory had confirmed the truth of my adoption.

  Jackie had not lived long enough to reach the era when color photography became commonplace. But her sister and friends had all mentioned my birth mother’s beautiful blue eyes. Since I have light brown eyes, my birth father’s eyes could not also have been blue.

  The conclusion was obvious. Doug Richards, Jackie’s employer at Dann’s Tavern and my number one suspect, could not be my father.

  Having heard so many good things about “Uncle Doc,” my opinion of the man had been rising. Eliminating him now reminded me of the feeling I had when the paternity test proved Conrad was not my father.

  I checked all the other men in the photos and then called Gerry. She confirmed that Doug had been the only brother with blue eyes. The other four had brown eyes.

  Faced with this confidence-shaking piece of information, my thoughts turned negative. What if I had the wrong Richards family? Worse yet, what if my Y-DNA match was just a meaningless fluke? Maybe I was not even a Richards. Could I start all over again? More to the point, would I even want to start all over again?

  I had only been talking to Gerry and her family for a few weeks. Yet in my heart and mind, I had already adopted them as my family. Plus, I was about to order several expensive DNA tests.

  The lab I had decided to use was fully accredited and charged less for a sibling test than the other finalist did.

  I called and the woman I spoke with gave me a pricing tip that helped. The cost of adding extra people was the same whether I ordered them all at once or added some later.

  That was a relief. I could start small.

  As I asked her about the blue-eye issue, it became obvious that she was in sales and had limited understanding of DNA. It took a little convincing, but she let me speak to a guy in the lab.

  Explaining my overall situation and test objective, I reviewed my understanding of eye colors and re-stated my question.

  “Is it impossible for a blue-eyed man to have been my father?”

  The technician responded that “impossible” was too strong a word. A better word was “unlikely.” The impact of genetics on physical appearance was incredibly complex. The simplistic two-gene model I learned in high school could not reliably predict traits like eye color and mutations were always possible.

  I couldn’t help but notice that his response was essentially what Mrs. Stewart told me after biology class in 1962!

  “I can’t tell you what to do,” he continued. “But if it were me, I would spend my money testing sons of the brown-eyed guys first.”

  Thanking him for his time, I transferred back to the sales person and placed my order. Test kits would be shipped to me and the first three potential brothers with whom I had spoken: Vern, Dave, and Dale, who represented their fathers Vernie, Clyde, and Wayne.

  I almost omitted Dave, since his father’s appearance and upright behavior suggested that Clyde was not my father. But my science training kicked in at the last minute. As a presumed cousin, Dave would be a good control subject for comparing the results I got from the others.

  Worst case, if none of these three guys was related to me, I would save some money by not testing Joe Jr. and Doug Jr.

  We all had to receive and submit our test kits. Then it would be a few more weeks before the results would be ready. In the meantime, the Michigan branch of the family began to check me out.

  Dave and his wife were going to be passing through Grand Rapids and they wanted to meet us. We had them stop by our home for lunch. Within minutes, it felt like the four of us had known each other for years. On their way out, they invited us to spend a weekend with them at their northern Michigan home in June.

  Not long after that, Gerry made the trip to our side of the state and spent a day with us. Her husband did not accompany her on this first trip, but he joined her on a later visit and we could tell by then that he was getting used to us.

  At some point, Dave, and then Gerry, each found an old genealogy report that someone had prepared covering all the lines of the Richards family. It had been around a long time and neither could remember who put it together. Each made copies and sent it to me.

  When I saw the report, I remembered the joke Doug Jr. had made. Maybe there was a grain of truth to that story. Maybe Vernie did hire a genealogist.

  Whoever did the research used standard genealogy forms and filled in the information by hand. It covered every branch of the family, including the wives of my possible grandfather and great-grandfather.

  Whether this family proved to be mine or not, I wanted to go to the July reunion bearing some kind of gift in return for their kindness. I decided to research the family, update what I could, and generate computerized genealogy reports for everyone.

  I purchased Family Tree Maker, a genealogy program, and entered all the
data from the old sheets. I then added the new information on the great-great-grandparents that I had discovered myself. Finally, I got a one-year subscription to Ancestry.com, a service that collects genealogy records and provides them online. That let me fill in some more blank spots.

  After working on the family tree of this family, I wanted to do the same for my birth mother’s family and my wife’s family. At sixty years of age, I had discovered a passion for genealogy.

  May arrived and the sibling test results were still not ready. Pat and I took a two-week vacation to Nevada and Arizona. The last thing on our agenda was a four-night stay at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Throughout the trip, I had been checking my Blackberry for an e-mail from the DNA lab. But once we got inside the national park, I had zero service. No phone. No e-mail.

  Each evening, after hiking and sightseeing all day, I dragged my tired body to the lobby of the lodge. I pushed dollar bills into the computer’s pay slot and logged in to my e-mail account. Still, there was no message from the lab.

  On the last day of our vacation, we left the park, drove south to the interstate, and headed west toward the airport in Las Vegas. As we got within range of the cell phone towers, my phone began to download five days of accumulated e-mails.

  At a refueling stop before the Arizona-Nevada border, I saw three automated messages from the lab, one for each comparison. Each message had a test report attached.

  Finally, I thought. The big moment I’ve been waiting for.

  At that point, I didn’t care which guy turned out to be my half brother. The only bad result—and one that I still feared—would be a weak match with everyone. That would tell me I was testing the wrong family.

  Barely able to breathe, I opened the first document and began to read it on the tiny screen of my Blackberry.

  38

  RESULTS

  I started with the report on Vern. If blue eyes eliminated Doug Sr., I felt my next best suspect was Vern’s father, Vernie. He was the tallest of the brothers and a few people in the family thought I resembled him the most.