Remembering My Father

I do not know very much about my adoptive father except his kind, grey-blue eyes and the way he would purse his lips, especially when he was upset. My father loved to talk about his experiences in World War One. He was a medic for the army, caring for the wounded in the battlefields in France. He was awarded a medal for bravery both from the French and the United States. He showed them to me often. He also had the first driver's license issued in Omaha, Nebraska in 1919. My father was vice president of Omaha Ice and Cold Storage in Omaha, Nebraska. This was a company he helped to form in 1921. They manufactured large blocks of ice for homes and businesses' refrigeration. At that time, electric freezers and refrigerators had not been invented. The company continued to make block ice until the 1960's. They were very proud of the clarity of the ice they manufactured. I remember as a little girl being allowed into the huge storage facility of the plant where the ice blocks were stored. The cold air was delightful on hot Nebraska days. My father loved to go fishing, especially at Spirit Lake, Iowa, and in Minnesota near Bimidji. We went every summer for two weeks until I was a teenager.

I know very little about my biological father. I was told by an uncle I met after being reunited with my birth family that he was adventurous in his youth, even trying a little gold prospecting. He was in the army as a cook and also did some farming in Arkansas.

My adoptive father seemed very easy going. I never heard him raise his voice or show anger. I would like to think I am like him. His best qualities were his calm, quiet demeanor and his strong work ethic. My father tended to avoid confrontation, preferring to escape either by leaving when my mother went into a drinking tirade or drinking beer after beer at the kitchen table, never saying a word. I can only imagine my mother's drinking and drug abuse must have saddened him. As I said, he dealt with this by either leaving with my twin, Gary, leaving me alone with her, or by drinking.

The happiest memory I have of my father is going out on a fishing boat with him when we vacationed in Iowa or Minnesota. I felt close to him when we did things together. The most painful memory I have of my father is when he was dieing in the hospital. A priest came to give him his last rites. This memory came rushing back to me just the other night while watching "Grey's Anatomy" during the scene when George's family gathers around his father's bed to let him go.My father died after a brief stay in a hospital when I was sixteen. He had died from gangrene poisoning. He had fallen and rolled down a small hillside at a high school football game. Gary was playing in that game. The fall had caused a twist in his intestine which doctors incorrectly diagnosed as a hernia. He was buried in Omaha.

I believe the most important things I learned from my father was to be calm and patient. I most enjoyed listening to him talk for hours. He loved to talk to me about his life experiences. He also liked to draw funny cartoons of a character from World War One called Hinky-Dinky. Later, after my mother died, he talked to me about family matters I needed to be aware of if he should die suddenly. He must have felt I was mature enough to remember these details and look after the welfare of my brother and myself.

I know a few details about how my adoptive mother and father met and eventually married. They met at a mutual friend's party. Within a year, they were married. My mother was nineteen. My father was thirty-nine. This was her first marriage and his second marriage. They had a civil ceremony at city hall in Omaha. I think they loved each other but after they were unable to have children, they grew apart and my mother started drinking heavily. I think my twin brother and I were adopted in an effort to make their marriage stronger. My birth father would only allow our adoption if we were kept together. From what my mother said to me often as I was growing up, they really wanted Gary but reluctantly took me in order to have him. I don't know why she so cruelly pointed that out to me, time after time.

Reflections About Family

Because I am an adopted child, I don't know a lot about my biological ancestors. I do know they were of Scotch-Irish descent and came to America in the mid 1800's. They first settled on the east coast and later moved to Arkansas near the Ozark Mountains. My adopted parents were from Omaha, Nebraska, but I know nothing about their ancestors. The oldest relative I knew of my adopted parents was my father's elder sister who was a nun in a teaching order in Omaha, Nebraska. Her name was Sister Placide. She was very kind to me and my twin brother. The image I remember most about her were her flowing black and white habit, her bright blue eyes, and her porcelain skin. My adopted mother was born in Iowa. My adopted father was born in Omaha, Nebraska. His name was William Joseph Gerhard. Her name was Violet Ruth Shirz. My adopted mother was a very unhappy person. She abused prescription drugs and alcohol. She was in and out of mental hospitals during my childhood. She died from complications of liver disease when I was fifteen. My adopted father was more like a grandfather. He was kind but aloof. He died when I was sixteen. Although I have a sketchy background about my biological parents, I do know I inherited a duck-walk and a general love for humanity. From what I learned in later years, my biological mother was religious and a very caring person. My father had a strong work ethic. These are things my oldest sister told me once we were reunited in the early 1970's.

Although childhood was difficult with my adopted parents, it is with great joy that I learned about my biological parents and six brothers and sisters. My biological mother died a year after my twin brother and I were born. My father tried to raise eight children including the infant twins (my twin brother, Gary, and I) but family members convinced him to put the four youngest up for adoption (Gary and I to one family and Marlene and Terry to another family). I am told this broke my father's heart.

My adopted mother talked a lot about her life. Her father was tall with dark hair and a man of few words. She recalled her mother as beautiful and loving. One story she told me was how her mother weaned her from breast feeding when she was three by putting a bitter tasting mixture on her nipples to make breast feeding unpleasant. I imagine that was very traumatic for my mother. She also talked about her days as an actress in the 1920's. She was very proud of that part of her life.

I have very few positive memories about my adoptive mother. One vivid memory is of a terrible storm with lightening and thunder. I was probably around four years old. I remember being very fearful. My mother put me on her lap and held me close. For some reason I cannot see her face, but I do remember she had on a dress with black polka dots and big, black, shiny buttons. I also remember her giving my twin and I a bath together and toweling us off with big, fluffy towels. We were very little, maybe two or three years old. My adoptive mother was often cruel, telling me I wasn't worth"...the powder to blow me into hell..." She preferred to live in an alcohol/drug induced haze most of the time. All of this is the antithesis of who I am as a person.

The most painful memory I have of my adoptive mother would be her death. It was a summer night. She was asleep on the couch. I was sitting on the floor near her, watching a late night TV show. Suddenly, I realized I did not hear her breathing. I touched her and knew she was dead because her body was very cold. I was fifteen years old.

Honestly, the things I learned from my mother would be what not to do. I try very hard to be positive, kind, supportive, and loving. I think that is why I became a teacher.

Old Pictures tell a Story

My adopted parents. This picture was taken in 1936. My twin brother, Gary, and I were adopted in 1945 when we were twenty-one months old. This picture was taken of my husband, Arno, in 1956 in Germany just before he and his mother boarded a ship that eventually took them to New York Harbor.


This is the only photo I have of my biological father. It was taken in the fifties but I do not know where or when it was taken.
This is the only photo I have of my natural mother. I know it was taken in the 1930's but I do not know where or when it was taken.

Old Pictures tell a Story

As I begin to answer the thought provoking questions which make up the story of my life in the journal that Monica gave me, I look at the pictures in my various photo albums. Pictures which capture moments in life forever frozen in time. They are such precious momentos of time that I feel I must also capture them for friends and family to see. It is interesting how answering these questions stirs the depth of memories long ago set aside in my mind and brings back vivid details which I thought had been abandoned, even forgotten. And though my life has definitely had its highs and lows, each step in my life's history has taught me valuable lessons and made me a stronger, better person for it all. I hope as I share these things that you who read these words will not think my life seems sad. I do not feel that way. A child does not know if the things which happen are good or bad...these things are just the way they happened. Judgement comes later as one looks back. Perhaps that is why I do not think it is productive to look back on one's past and blame one's outcome on what was done in the past. We have all known dark times as well as joys. All these things make us who we are and help us to be resilient and resourceful. It is what makes each of us evolve into the adult we become. That is why it is so important to takes life's lessons as they come and make good use of them rather than to moan in despair or blame others for our own short comings.

Story of a Lifetime

My daughter gave me an incredible gift for Christmas. It is a hardbound journal designed to record the personal memoirs of myself and my husband to pass down to our daughter and her children. Each page has questions to answer which will build that memoir cohesively. It is called The Story of a Lifetime by TriAngel Publishers. It covers such topics as family background, teen years, career, love and marriage, parenthood, middle and golden years, ethnic heritage, lessons learned, values, favorites, a family tree, and even favorite photographs and mementos. What a wonderful way to leave the oral history of a family for those who follow after. Each day I spend a little time writing in it. I also plan to post some of the entries along with some pictures in this online journal for the rest of family and friends to read.

Christmas at the Chadwells

There you have it...an array of photos taken during our visit to Texas for Christmas.

Christmas Pictures

Christmas at the Chadwells, 2006. Columbia Lakes, Texas. Here are Connor, Monica, and baby Elijah decorating their first Christmas tree in their new house.