Prior to leaving my biological family, I never remembered traveling by car all that much. Since resources were scarce and most of my older siblings did not drive until they left home; we pretty much walked everywhere. Trips by car, to me always seemed to take an eternity; even though it may have just been a quick trip to a nearby town.
Most evenings, I had a very similar routine in which I would put on my pajamas after bath time and then fall asleep on the couch in front of the comforting and familiar glow of the console TV that sat in our living room. My mom would work the closing shift at the Kresge’s Department Store and often times I would wake up briefly when she would come home late from work. Truth be told, it was my favorite time of the day. No siblings to share mom with, so the two of us would sit enjoying peanut butter sandwiches and watch The Dean Martin Show together. I never really understood the emotional feeling I got whenever I heard the song, Everybody Loves Somebody, until I realized as an adult that this was the theme song for the show. How fitting, and I truly did; even if it was just for a short time.
One night, in the middle of my routine, my older brother Mike came and sat next to me on the couch.
“Mom’s not coming home tonight. Get dressed and put on your coat”
I sleepily did as I was told and when I emerged out of our shared bedroom, I saw a strange man standing in our kitchen. No real introduction or explanation as the three of us left the house and climbed into a running pickup truck. It was much nicer than the one I was used to riding in. As the strange man drove, the visual memory that sticks with me to this very day was the snow. Between the glow of lights and the large, rapidly falling flakes, it made it seem like we were floating in space. Staring at the many snowflakes in wonder was the only thing that kept me awake for what seemed like a forever journey.
When we pulled into the driveway of a large brick house that I had never seen before, I was so overwhelmed, that I did not speak. I was exhausted and the hypnotic effect of watching the snow against the windshield left me feeling a bit dazed.
The porchlight was on, so I knew that whoever lived there was expecting company. The strange man that drove us all there, extended his right index finger to push a glowing doorbell. An elderly couple came to the door to greet us. It was the first time that I met what turned out to be my adoptive grandparents.
The thing that stuck with me about the house was how big, yet clean and tidy it was. The usual questions about my name and age were asked as I was introduced.
“Is this where I am going to sleep tonight?”, I asked
I was puzzled at the amused chuckles at the one simple question that I asked. In my five-year old mind, that was the first order and only order of business. Turned out that we went back to the strange man’s house and I slept in a room all by myself for the first time. The room was mostly dark except for the faint light filtering in from a distant streetlight. No couch. No Dean Martin. No peanut butter sandwich. And most importantly; no mom coming home to hug me. Yes, I cried myself to sleep that night.
Reflection
At the age of five, I knew things. Perhaps I was not aware of the social intricacies going on around me at that time, but I did have the basics down. It was very difficult to go from an environment in which I felt unconditional love to one that had no tolerance of me or my established routine. I only did what I knew and to that point, it was perfectly acceptable.
There is a shock factor when a child’s established routine is broken without explanation. For example, I thought nothing about asking for a late-night peanut butter sandwich when I got to my new home, but oh the outrage. My birth mom never minded and usually made one for herself as well. It was a bonding point for us. She couldn’t afford to give me much but what she did give me more than the material was love and understanding. For me, I was perfectly happy with peanut butter, white bread, and her company.
Isn’t it funny how simple things that we encounter every day can spark so many memories? In ways, this is how we pass our legacy on to our children. My birth mom’s legacy may have gone dormant for a short time but is one that I have passed down to my daughter. Bottom line, love always wins.