For me Father’s Day conjures memories, tears, laughter and sometimes regrets. Right now the mere mention of father brings tears to my eyes as my heart is full of unanticipated revelations. I now quite unexpectedly have three fathers.
I was raised by my step-father, Lloyd (Mac) McKee. He provided well for my mom and me, moved us to a modest home on a few acres in the Missouri Ozarks where I learned self-sufficiency. Hunting, fishing, gardening, cooking, canning, sewing, raising chickens, cows, pigs, rabbits with the occasional racoon, squirrel and snake thrown in. I was an only child and entertained myself taking care of my animals, building tree houses and spending untold hours in the woods reading books.
It was a solitary existence, but I don’t recall being lonely. I attended a one-room school house, made good life-long friends and grew up independent, curious, fearless and shy. Daddy was often a stern task-master, but he taught me some valuable lessons. Here’s one:
“In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock.”
Thomas Jefferson
Once, before we moved to the country, some girl bullies drove me into our small two room apartment using foul mean words and hateful taunting laughter. When I came through the door crying Dad listened, then sternly commanded me to get back out there and stand up for myself. Yes, there were three of them. This was before country-living had taught me I could take care of myself. Crying (because I always did when Daddy chastised me and because my feelings were hurt and because I was afraid) I marched back outside hoping they would be gone. Well, they weren’t. Honestly, I don’t even remember what was said. I only remember they grabbed me–we wrestled–I stopped crying–we wrestled–they left. Regardless of who was victor, I felt a shift inside my eight year old heart. I was capable. That would be the last time anyone bullied me.
Daddy and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things, but we loved one another. He died the sad death of an alcoholic; a testament to hard living. And, now that I am a silver-haired senior I find myself remembering him; his sayings–corny at the time, but now appreciated. His lessons–hard at the time, but grateful now to have had a thread of steel woven throughout my tender heart.
“Our most basic instinct is not for survival but for family.” Paul Pearsall
The name on my birth certificate is Frank C. Ewing. I spent years thinking about him, dreaming about him. Where did he live? Did I have brothers and sisters? What would it be like having a big family? Did he go to church? Going to church was a big deal for me because we never went; I yearned, craved and dreamed of going to church.
Over the years I wrote hundreds of letters trying to find the right Frank C. Ewing. No results. Years later my daughter, Cyndi, became our unofficial family genealogist…RESULTS! She had been hot on his trail for months. Eight years ago Cyndi came over one evening and proceeded to set me down, open her computer and scroll through a series of emails. She landed on one that was her email detailing the few things we knew about Frank and inquiring whether this person–one Rebecca Ewing–knew of him. Cyndi mentioned she had been looking for him her entire adult life. Yes, me too.
My eyes hit the computer screen words: WELL YOU FOUND HIM. I thought my heart would stop beating. Tears flowed, I couldn’t speak. I read that email and the next and the next and the next. Rebecca was my aunt and she told stories, sent pictures, answered questions. Frank had passed away many years earlier, but I had two sisters and a brother.
My mind whirled, my heart sang, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. My birth family at long last. One sister didn’t want to meet me–understandably so. She was born six weeks after me. Frank had been a returned-from-war “fly boy” stationed in my mothers home town. My mother knew he was married; he left to return to his real family shortly after their relationship. I always said that I was the good-bye baby; my six-weeks-younger sister was the hello baby. I never found out if Frank even knew I existed.
Frank was both charming and brutal. This will not be an expose’ of his shortcomings, but a tribute to the man I believe him to be in his heart. I overcame the shocking reality of what Frank had done through the atonement of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ; I forgave him.
I fell in love with my new family. I visited my brother and sister (I never get tired of saying MY BROTHER–MY SISTER!!), my new aunt and cousin in other states. My sister came to visit me. I connected with a couple of them on Face Book; I delighted in just knowing they were there. I love the story of finding Frank..it was like a chapter of my life was finally written.
“When all the dust is settled and all the crowds are gone, the things that matter are faith, family, and friends.” Barbara Bush
And then there is my third father, Tony Joe Manzanares. This story is only a week old; still fresh and full of awe. I looked up that word–awe. “Reverential respect mixed with fear and wonder”. Yes, that times ten. I have a surreal feeling of unbelievability. It’s one of those things that can’t possibly be true but it is.
Cyndi had her DNA done a few years ago and lo and behold it was full of connections to people with Hispanic names. What? We assumed it was through her father’s line who came from Florida. But, try as she may, she couldn’t make the genealogical connection. Sometimes these things have to simmer a little so we put it on the back burner, so to speak.
Then I had my DNA done. Uh oh…the same names showed up on my DNA matches. What in the world was going on? Our family trees were complete..for many generations. There were no connections to Mexico, Spain or any South or Latin American country. They must be connected through some obscure umpteenth cousins spouse!! Again, we put it on the back burner.
One day I clicked open my DNA matches and scrolled down. There was my daughter and my granddaughter. Then that list of DNA matches began…and went on…and on and on. I realized that the first name on that list matched me VERY closely, in fact, was second only to my daughter in centiMorgans…those things that somehow measure DNA. Huh? Second only to Cyndi!!???
DNA said she was either my half SISTER or my aunt. Sister? Well, that got my attention. In order for that to be true, Frank Ewing would have had a relationship with someone in her family. Or, if she was my aunt, my GRANDFATHER would have been the participant. Wow, really? This just befuddled us. We devised every possible scenario, all the while in a daze that this could even remotely be possible.
“In every conceivable manner, the family is a link to our past, bridge to our future.” Alex Haley
Then, curious, I clicked on the names in the DNA match list one by one—they were all related to each other!! And it is a BIG family!! They were all related to my SISTER/AUNT. I still harbored many doubts and in my heart I felt it couldn’t possibly be true…DNA match or not. Then I discovered the SISTER/AUNT was from my mothers home town!!! This was no coincidence. This was serious now. This really was my family.
I sent out several notes to a select few names on the list that said they were aunts and various levels of cousins but only got a reply from one. She didn’t know anything about the possible relationships to me.
Then I received a note from a man saying he thought we were related. This Cousin and I chatted back and forth…he giving me a who’s who in the family. Cousin, Cyndi and I investigated, pondered and stewed for five days finally discarding the scenarios of Frank Ewing or my grandfather having anything to do with the situation. It had to have been my mother. My mother had a relationship with someone in that family and I was the result.
I was shocked, dismayed and disoriented. I felt like the proverbial rug had been pulled out from under me. Cyndi and I concluded this at 2 a.m. so sleep was out of the question for the rest of the night. I’m not Frank Ewing’s daughter. I felt betrayed, deserted and deceived. My mother lied to me. Or, at the very least withheld pertinent information. Or maybe she didn’t know who my father was. I could not hold back the tears. My mother is passed away but one of these days I can’t wait to have a heart to heart talk with her!
Cyndi and I then proceeded to one by one go through possible father candidates in this new family. Finally in the wee hours of the morning we decided on one–Antonio Jose “Tony Joe” Manzanares. Finally everything fit neatly together like a perfect puzzle: Dates, times, places and DNA. I had a new family. I had a new father.
“A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” George Bernard Shaw
The new mysterious Cousin who had been helping us had left the conversation around midnight, so he had not been privy to our conclusion. Come daylight, I texted him our news. I was afraid of what his response would be, after all I was saying his uncle was my father. This was serious stuff that would significantly change the family tree.
After work that day, I anxiously checked my phone: Cousin had come to the same conclusion: his Uncle Tony was my father! This made that original person I was looking for–the one with the SISTER/AUNT DNA match, my aunt and his grandmother.
I was getting over the initial shock of it and settled in to finding out all I could about my new family. My birth father Tony had passed away. De’ja vu’. And, the thing that sent joyous shivers throughout my body–he had two living sons. I had two brothers! Even as I type that a small smile starts to form. A hope is born in my heart.
It’s been two and a half weeks now since this odyssey began. I still don’t know a lot about my new family, but this I do know: It’s big. It’s happy. It’s loving. So far, it’s welcoming. And, they all wore plaid shirts in a Christmas picture. As I looked at it I got a warm, gentle confirmation. We are family.
So, happy fathers day to my three dads. Wherever you are in that vast afterlife, I love you.
