Category: DIARY OF AN ADOPTEE (Page 14 of 18)

As an adopted child, my thoughts and research.

Diary of an Adoptee: Coast-to-Coast-Meet-And-Greet #604

July 23, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I’m getting ready to head-out on a 3,000 mile journey from Portland, Oregon to Washington D.C., as the crow, or in this case, the jet flies. It’s a variation of the Lewis & Clark trail, with a slight detour through Chicago, and without the risk of Indian attacks. I’ll spend Wednesday and Thursday in Chicago and then leave for D.C. Friday morning, returning to Oregon on Sunday. There will be plenty of time for writing updates, since the past week has been a bit short on posts. I’ve spent a lot of time the last few days on Ancestry.com and Facebook, trying to sort out some missing pieces of the Banister family puzzle. I’ve also added a few branches to my adopted Johnston family history, as both trees dramatically intertwine over the next five or so days. There is also an unexpected “twist” to this cross-country journey, since I’ve now added a third “meet-and-greet” along the way.

The initial impetus of this trip was to meet my wife’s daughter’s potential fiance for the first time. They have been dating for well over a year now, and are coming to Portland in September for a wedding on his side of the family. My wife felt that we should meet him in a little more relaxed atmosphere, and get to know him in advance of dealing with the entire entourage of relatives. This is the second “boyfriend” meeting I will have experienced this year. Both of my wife’s girls have been consumed with advanced education and careers, so they’ve had little time or interest in dating. For the first time, they both have serious relationships, to the point where we’ve been called-in for critical evaluation as mother and step-father (like my opinion really matters). I assure you that knowing these young women as I do, there will be no concerns about either of these young men. I’m just glad they have simultaneously found partners that they enjoy spending time around.

Once my wife and I decided to travel to The Capital, I decided to make a pit-stop along the way. My son turns 44 tomorrow and has some vacation time. At the same time, I have been unable to work-in a trip to Florida to meet his new daughter and my third grandchild. I probably should have made it a priority to visit them, but I also had to share the moment with other family members, including his mother, so I have missed the first two months of her life. They are taking the baby to see my daughter-in-law’s family in the Windy City, including a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. As a result, I will get to meet them all at the ballpark on Thursday, thanks in-part to the season tickets that my nephew owns. My 9-year old grand-daughter Maddux was named for Hall of Fame pitcher, Gregg Maddux; the newest addition has the suspicious middle name of Grace that might have been influenced by Cub great Mark Grace; and my 11-year old grand-son is immortalized on a ballpark commemorative brick along with myself and my son – “Three Generations.” This is all because my son and his wife are such avid fans.

The third meet-and-greet that I now have planned is all because of a DNA test with 23andMe. It showed me to be a close match with a relative named Janine. I have communicated with her fairly regularly over the past couple months, as I continue the search for my birth-parents. She has been very helpful, and thoughtfully suggested that I get with her 85-year old mother, who happens to live in the Chicago suburbs. Her father and my suspected birth-mother’s father were brothers, so I’m excited about the opportunity to visit with her. She will probably have some family photos to share, as well as some stories to recount. I wish that Janine could join us, but I will share the details with her after my much anticipated conversation with her mother on Wednesday evening.

This will be my first face-to-face meeting with an actual blood relative, and will be the start of my Coast-to-Coast-Meet-And Greet. It may very well be as close as I ever get to my birth-mother, who continues to deny our relationship. I’m almost positive that it’s her, but I also understand her need to protect any uncomfortable feelings about my sudden re-appearance in her life. Abortion was not legal in Indiana until 1973, like most of the country. In 1950 when I was conceived, the only choice for an unwanted pregnancy was humiliation, and I’m confident she faced her share of shame. If my information is accurate, she would have been uprooted from her hometown, never finished high school, and boarded by strangers in Indianapolis through delivery, without the support of the father. He would have been in the service at that time, and probably ignorant of her circumstances. At this point, I am unable to stop the momentum of my quest for answers, and I can only hope that she somehow understands my curiosity that is undoubtedly at her expense.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Here We Go Again #603

July 22, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I never got around to writing yesterday, a luxury that I have in retirement that might not be possible if I was on deadline for a publication. Nonetheless, I’m way ahead of the one-a-day goal that I established. My wife and I went for the normal weekend walk/run with the dogs after sleeping in until 7:30 a.m. After all these years, it still feels good to wake-up at 6:00 a.m. and know that you don’t have to get-up yet. I sat down at the computer when we got back to the house and thought I had discovered a branch on the family tree that I had been searching to find. “I See Dead People!” Six hours later, it turned out to be another “dead-end,” after consuming most of my day. The Cubs game was on the TV as I tediously plotted along, and the men in blue won the first of a double-header against the rival Cardinals. I also took a minute to reluctantly reserve a couple of 7:00 p.m. seats for the movie, Mama Mia – Here We Go Again. It was really the only decent option for our “Movie Night,” despite serious concerns about sequels.

“Here We Go Again” has significant meaning for me. (See Post #454). Circumstances have made the Mama Mia Broadway and theatrical productions some of the most watched in my life. It seems to be playing on stages or in movie houses everywhere we go, not to mention bits-and-pieces that I see on TV. I was somehow able to avoid it as it played on our last cruise, but even some of my former business conferences somehow incorporated it into the spouse entertainment packages. I’ve seen it in New York, Las Vegas, Indianapolis, Chicago, and points- in-between. My wife loves singing and dancing as much as I love baseball, so I often find myself monitoring scores as she sits enamored watching the performers.

Last night was no exception. Normally, even though I always have my phone on vibrate, I also turn on Cine-mode, but the Cubs and Cardinals were in the final inning of their day-night doubleheader. During the previews of coming attractions, I was keeping an eye on the scoreboard with no sound or video. We always sit in the very back row, and in this case I was seated at the very end with no one to my right. I was not distracting anyone, as even my wife did not see the light of my phone screen, otherwise she would have surely said something unkind. I put the phone away as the movie started, and prepared myself to be unhappy. The Cubs had just lost, allowing the Cardinals to tie the 5-game series, and I would have to wait until the movie was over to find out what had happened?

SPOILER ALERT!!! Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed the movie, maybe even more than the original. The Greek island scenery was phenomenal, the acting tolerable, and the singing outstanding. The producers made a wise decision in not allowing the men to sing much this time, and 72-year old Cher was a show-stopper. Granted, her dance steps were a bit shaky, but her voice is still incredible. She looked and sounded great, as did Meryl Streep in her cameo appearance. Apparently, like me, the cast members also “see dead people,” as Meryl appears as the ghostly Donna at her grand daughter’s baptism. It was at this critical moment that my phone developed a mind of its own and started to play video clips of the ballgame. I could not turn it off, as Donna continued her sad, love song. My ribs were already sore from my wife’s elbows, and I’m sure that others were giving me that evil glare for being so rude & disruptive. My wife was hoping that M&M guy would come rushing into the theater and reprimand me with “Cell Phones Ruin Movies.” Fortunately, I was in the last row on the end, so the embarrassment was somewhat contained. As if to mock me, I could hear the announcer talk about how the Cubs had blown the game, as I desperately tried to shut it off. Finally, it stopped, just before I considered running out of the theater. I still don’t understand what happened? I always keep it silent because I rarely use my phone to watch video, so it still makes no sense why this happened, especially at the very moment when the theater was in tears, as dead Donna sang her love song and then disappeared.

I promise to use Cine-mode next time, even though the incentives they offer are worthless. I just hope they don’t make a Mama Mia 3, or it will be all about ghosts. These movies have kept the music of ABBA alive. This new version, “Here We Go Again” will undoubtedly be headed “again” to Broadway and “again” to future ABBA pay-days. I think one of the reasons that I’m captivated with the somewhat-silly plot is because promiscuous Donna does not know who the father of her baby really is, and ends up settling for her child to accept three different dads; nor was she married when she gave birth like my suspected birth-mother. As an adoptee, I feel a connection since I’m searching for my birth father, while fortunate to have had the father who raised me. I feel a bit shorted since I have two fathers rather than three, and don’t have Cher as my Grandmother.

Diary of an Adoptee: Graves #601

July 19, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Over the past couple of months, I’ve been obsessively adding names to my Jerry Banister Family Tree on Ancestry.com. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, other than to find some of my DNA matches and see how they fit into the family that I’m just getting to know. I chose a picture of Laborn Banister’s (1801-1885) grave marker to headline this post, since he is considered the elder statesman of the Banister family. He married Sarah “Sally” Yoder on November 22, 1825. One of my Banister connections sent me an invitation to the Yoder Family reunion in Maiden, North Carolina, but I think that I will focus on the Banister and Johnston families first, before I explore the Conrad Yoder branch of the tree.

Johnston is my adopted family, while my birth certificate reads Jerry Lee Banister. I was born August 27, 1951 and adopted by Burt and Catherine Johnston on October 29, 1951. The first two months of my life I spent in Indianapolis at the Suemma Coleman adoption agency that provided housing and care for expectant mothers. Years later, the home itself was torn down, but the office that I worked in looked directly over it’s former location. Like a homing pigeon, it took me thirty-five years to return to the “neighborhood,” but somehow I returned (See Post #392). This I consider to be the first of two astounding “coincidences” that continue to make me shake my head in disbelief.

I’ve always known that I was adopted, but it was presented to me as something special. Certainly, the parents who raised me were something special, but I was born just like everyone else. I’m just not sure that I really ever understood that fact of life. I can remember mistakenly thinking that I was not really born but rather selected, almost like I was the “immaculate conception.” It seems very egotistical, but books I received suggested that I was “picked,” as if from a supermarket, instead of delivered without any option of choice. It’s embarrassing, but it gave me the impression that adopted children were not the product of a sexual encounter and because of that they were “good.” It was until years later that I learned how confused I really was. As a result, genealogy was never important to me, as I never really understood the intricacies of blood relatives.

It’s funny how I’ve added without much emotion, thousands of names on my family tree over the past couple of months. I have yet to meet a single Banister relative in person, let alone understand their relationships with each other. It has been an endless task, as another branch leads to another name of an unfamiliar person. In all this work, there are only a hand-full of DNA-relative connections that I’ve found so far. DNA is the only link that I honestly have to them, as I have yet to get confirmation on the Banister birth parents that I now strongly suspect. I continue to ask questions, but realistically I will probably never know the truth.

Yesterday, I took a slightly different approach to my family tree. I followed the route of my adoptive Johnston parents, and surprisingly it was much more intriguing, as I began to put together the connections of people I actually knew. It’s turning out to be a very emotional experience, as all these people that I’ve known only in-pieces, suddenly fit together like a puzzle. I learned that my Grandfather’s mother’s name is the same as my son’s wife, Eliza. I realized that Aunt Myrtle was actually my Grandfather’s sister, who made me envious at the dinner table because all she could eat was graham crackers. I wanted graham crackers for dinner! His other sister Gilberta was once married, but all I remember is how slow she moved on a walker. I also discovered that my cool Uncle Dick, who owned a swimming pool to host some of our reunions, suddenly had a new curvaceous wife. She spoke broken-English and we all whispered that she was half his age. I just uncovered that she was only 12 years younger and was from Germany. Also, my Aunt Ruth, who lived on Simonton Lake with Uncle Hershel, was actually my Grandmother’s sister, and our Aunt Edna was never even related. I was sad when I came across names that had passed away, and happy recalling memories of others. It was a completely different experience than tediously entering unfamiliar names.

I will, of course, continue to search for leads. The other adoption “coincidence” that haunts me is my fascination with the Marine’s Hymn. I’ve written about this before, but it took on new meaning these last couple of days. According to the adoption records, my 20-year old father was supposedly a Marine. The man that I now suspect to be my father was missing this important detail, as I was looking over pictures and his obituary. Surprisingly, the articles on his death failed to mention his service record, as Ancestry documents show that he spent three years in the Marines, including a brief stint in Korea. If he is indeed the father, he would have never know that I existed because of his enlistment dates. He and my birth mother might have gotten together during the Thanksgiving holidays of 1950, just before he got engaged and left for Quantico. I believe that she was in love with him and had visions of marrying a Marine, but he had other plans. I also contend that she would hum the Marine’s Hymn, with hopes of him returning to her, while she was pregnant with me. I convey this because the Marine’s Hymn was the only song I ever learned to play on the piano, despite lessons. I would play it over-and-over again, much to the consternation of my adoptive parents, who were well aware of this detail on the adoption record. I did not know this Marine connection to the father at the time, and I still wonder if this was some kind of bizarre prenatal influence? If so, it’s the only connection I have with the father.

Diary of an Adoptee: Suspicions grow #597

July 14, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I still have no confirmations but lots of suspicions in the persistent quest to identify my birth parents. The evidence continues to stack-up, but there is no admission. I have now had contact with 6 different DNA relatives on my growing Jerry Banister family tree that I’ve built through Ancestry.com. I’ve discovered thousands of “family” connections with less than a hand-full of confirmed links, as I continue to work the tedious process of verifying hint-after-hint that the site provides. Who are all these strangers, many of them dead, and why do I insist on doing this?

Does it really matter? I can’t exactly explain why, but apparently it does. It’s like trying to fill a hole in my life; something that I must do before I die. In some ways, I feel like time is running out. I also feel like a late-intruder, interfering with other lives rather than following the natural course of family relationship-building. It’s similar to being late to the party, which from what I understand will be taking place later this month in the form of a Banister reunion. I’m certainly not invited, as is the case with several branches of the extensive family who eventually moved even further away from their Jennings County roots. Initially it was seven Banister brothers, Joseph, Fred, Louis, Clyde, Ivan, Ora, and half-brother Alvin….AL-VIN! The annual get-together will be in Seymour, Indiana, where many family members have since settled, and so that John Cougar Mellencamp can attend if he’d like to sing a couple of songs about “small towns” and “little pink houses.”

I am working on a face-to-face meeting with Terry, my initial DNA-relative match (third cousins) from first testing with the ancestral website 23andMe. Terry found for me the birth certificate and census info on Edna Faye, my suspected birth-mother, that led to this genealogical quest. We have not yet determined how we are related, but will discuss the possibilities in the near future. He lives up near Wala Wala, Washington, but he and his wife are coming to Portland to pick up a repaired violin bow. I hope we can “orchestrate” some answers, as we both have a similar challenge in trying to identify our birth parents. Conversations and e-mail messaging with him over the past six months have led to similar exchanges with even closer matches through saliva samples submitted both to 23andMe and Ancestry.com.

One of the “keepers” of similar Banister (or Bannister) trees is a relative I’ll call Bruce, who I mistakenly thought had written to me with the suggestion of also taking a DNA test through Ancestry.com. This was some time ago, after I told him about my possible connection to his family. I took that second test but never found a match with him. As it turns out, I got his identity confused with someone else, so some of my initial inquiries to him were undoubtedly confusing. Who is this guy claiming to be related? It’s very difficult to keep all these Banisters, who are essentially strangers, straight in my mind; especially since there are now over 2000 names to sort out. I’m lucky that Janine (second cousin), and Julianna (first cousin or closer), both Banister descendants, have been so helpful and understanding over the past few months. Even though I never was able to get in touch or find a match with Bruce, I did find these much closer ties by submitting on both web-sites. Just the other day, another second to third cousin, Deb, popped up as a match. I was actually expecting this to happen once Janine had told me about their recent conversation regarding my place in the family.

It’s very difficult to earn credibility when the woman that most likely is my birth-mother refuses to acknowledge any association with me. It’s frustrating because the more I research this connection the stronger the evidence. It’s compounded even further when I consider the possibility that the father might have also been a Banister. It’s a big family concentrated in the same area, so these type of relationships naturally develop. In fact, I watched two of my distantly related cousins “hit-it-off” while playing miniature golf at one of my adopted-family reunions. They eventually got married, had three kids, then divorced; always giving us “something to talk about.” I’m just glad to be alive, and certainly not embarrassed with being the product of “kissing cousins.” I’m just sad if I’ve stirred up a controversy and embarrassed a few people in the process of trying to discover my mysterious heritage.

Diary of an Adoptee: Half-Sister? #587

July 3, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s Fourth of July eve and I’ve got a lot to celebrate. I had an unexpected conversation with my closest DNA match on Ancestry.com. It’s amazing how so many “strangers” have come forth to help me on my quest to identify my birth parents. First, there was Terry, a “third cousin” and experienced genealogist, who helped me with birth and census records that led to the identity of my suspected birth-mother. Then there was “second cousin” Janine, who also responded to my messages on 23andme, after DNA tests showed us to be a match. She was kind enough to take the time to talk with me about her connections with the woman that I believe gave me life. There was adamant denial on the part of Edna Faye, who is confirmed without question through multiple court, census, adoption, and birth documents to be my biological mother. “Don’t you think I would remember something like that?” she responded to her older sister’s daughter, following my inquiries. She’s seen the certified letter that I sent to her son, and at least knows that I am alive and well. I got this confirmation from a “first cousin” that I talked with this morning. It’s really all that I ever wanted, other than the identity of my birth father.

I was so excited when I saw the message today from Julianna on the Ancestry website. It had been several months since I sent her my initial probe, as both she and her son were identified as my closest DNA relatives. In her defense, I’m sure that it’s difficult to sort out this type of personal request, and it takes time to validate my surely-shocking revelations of kinship. I’m relieved that she, along with Terry and Janine, are seemingly convinced of my credibility. The implications of learning about an unknown relative are borderline scandalous and wrought with fraud. Take for example, the Amazon Prime series, Sneaky Pete, where he convinces the family that he is their long-lost cousin. I add this bit of humor, because it’s the only way I can sanely deal with this situation.

I had a great conversation with Julianna, almost as if I’d know her my entire life. It obviously took a while to settle into a comfort level, but she was patient and asked a lot of questions. I almost felt guilty that the discussion was all about me, and in my e-mail follow-up apologized that I wasn’t more focused on her needs, as is typical of my style. First, I was surprised when she picked up the phone, and then relieved that she was fully receptive to my situation as a child born out of wedlock. She, in fact, candidly admitted that it might be her father who had the affair with Edna Faye. He was married shortly after my birth, so it may partially explain why their relationship ended. He was the right age of 20, two years older then her, and closely fits many of the physical details described in my adoption records. At this point, I don’t see his connection to the Marines, but that may have been a bit of fabrication on the part of my young, scared mother. There were also two “n’s” in Bannister on these records, as opposed to the single “n” that is the correct contemporary spelling. All I know is that after looking at the picture in his obituary, I see a strong resemblance and it gives me chills!

I will be interested in Julianna’s reaction when she sees the picture of me that I sent this afternoon. Will she see the same resemblance that I did? She also mentioned another Banister that fits my birth father’s description. This may be an closer relative to Edna Faye, and as a result explains any embarrassment and consequential denial. I’m feeling somewhat remorseful in this quest, as my intent was not to humiliate, but rather to assure her that I was content with the adoption decision. Instead, I may have opened a “can of worms” involving unpleasant memories of speculative too-close-for-comfort relations. Julianna was surprised when I mentioned an upcoming Banister reunion, an event that her side of the family was always excluded from attending for some reason? Perhaps, there was a family “cover-up” that led Edna Faye to being sent to distant Indianapolis to give birth, and this resulted in a separation between the two sides. Hatfield vs. McCoy? Also forgive me, I’ve had a few glasses of wine while writing this to settle my nerves, as I contemplate the 66-year old mystery that I’ve recently uncorked. Frankly, I don’t care what happened, but obviously she does! As a result, I may never know the truth.

I will continue to stay in touch with Terry, Janine, and Julianna, who’s last names I’ve omitted to maintain their privacy. I want them to know how much I appreciate their support in my journey of curiosity. They have each taken the time to speak with a total “stranger,” yet a bond is starting to form with all of us. There have been remarkable invitations to get together after only a single conversation. With the passing of my adoptive parents a few years ago and the special love that I try to maintain each week with my adopted sister, I know that they were never blood relatives, and I’m not sure if that really makes any difference? All I do know is that I’m making biological connections that have the possibility of being equal or stronger. I’ve built an extensive family tree around thousands of people that were not part of my life even a year ago. I’m still not sure what I want, but most certainly it is not controversy.

Diary of an Adoptee: Father’s Day #564

June 14, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I have been a father for 43-years and a grandfather for twelve. I have two step-daughters that honor me every year, along with three grandchildren. There have also been two fathers, only one of which I’ve known and loved, and another that gave me life. I remember both of my grandfathers fondly as I was growing up, and just recently there are “grand-strangers” that have sprouted branches on my new or “second family tree.”

I have written of my “second family,” that decided not to get to know me, but allowed me life. I could have been aborted rather than adopted, so for that family decision I’m forever grateful. Somehow, I don’t feel that I would have been better off staying with my birth mother, but I also feel that I missed something. I missed getting to know her and her family and that natural blood connection that most people experience with family.

Trust me, I got anything and everything that I needed from my first family, including great love and abundant opportunity. What I didn’t get was a family that looked or sounded like me. I can’t really even speak about other characteristics or a common demeanor that might have been missing, as most people take for granted.

I have a few pictures of my birth mother, her sisters, and parents. I’ve even had a conversation with a cousin, where she recognized familiarity in my voice. I don’t quite understand this yet, but it gives me hope that I will find more connections with these people who share my DNA. I will continue this quest despite the fact that the woman I’m 100% certain is my birth mother is unwilling or unable to admit any connection.

What I don’t know (and may never) is the identity of my birth father. I know that he was of Irish decent with dark features like mine, a few inches taller, and enjoyed sports like I do. He was supposedly a Marine when I was born, so a veteran like my adopted father, who served in the Army as a medic in WWII. I guess I’m lucky to have had two legitimate fathers, when most people I know just have one. There is, however, only one man that I would ever call “Dad.”

For several years I haven’t had anyone to call on Father’s Day or even send a card. Even the last few years my dad was alive, he tragically couldn’t always remember who I was. I honestly don’t know if my birth father even knew that I existed or how long he may have lived. He could have died as a soldier, or never spoken again to my birth mother. She was presumably carted off in secrecy to the big city to give birth, leaving me only with the name Jerry Lee.

Once again, I’m positive that I’ve found my 85-year old birth mother after all these years, but she is denying any relationship, perhaps out of embarrassment. Only she knows the true identity of the father. It’s really all I want for Father’s Day this year, but I’m sure I’ll get something Cubs-related instead.

Happy Father’s Day to my one and only Dad. May he rest in peace, along with my grandfathers, and the great grand-strangers I never knew. Thank you for accepting me as your only son, and for making me the man I am today. You are my teacher, mentor, life- model, and hero. Sorry you didn’t live long enough to see your Cubs win the World Series or the birth of Nora Grace. Just know that you are loved every day.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sweet Baby James #553

June 6, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Geriatric Rock Star Week continued last night with a James Taylor performance at the Moda Center here in Portland. He is a very spry 70 years old, but due to the health-related cancellation of Bonnie Raitt the show moved very slowly since he had a lot of time to fill. He told several stories, including one about the album and single “Sweet Baby James,” recorded in December of 1969. It was written about the son of his older brother Alec, who named the child after him, so James Vernon Taylor is singing about baby James Richmond Taylor born May 16, 1967. This is the chorus:

“Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rockabye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won’t you let me go down in my dreams
And rockabye sweet baby James”

It’s funny what you find on the internet. One report I read indicated that Baby James was put up for adoption and renamed Edward. The story sounds similar to my own adoption, since the mother, Brent, was still in high school. Baby James would have just turned 51 and be eligible for an AARP card. Another version has the couple getting married later, retrieving the adopted child, and then having Sweet Baby James. Nonetheless, Baby James has managed to keep a low profile, despite his namesake’s fame.

Speaking of old farts, I officially received notice today of my 50th class reunion next summer. It will be held August 9th & 10th in my hometown of Elkhart – home of the “Blue Blazers.” Just as Lewis and Clark “blazed” a trail to Portland, I will “blaze” my way back to Indiana for this monumental event. I have two friends here in Portland from Elkhart, but both were in the younger Class of 1970. I have not been good about staying in touch with with my Class of 1969 friends, although a few are on Facebook. I also follow the “I was born in Elkhart, Indiana” FB posts. My sister, her kids, and several cousins still live in the area. Our adoptive parents passed away 4 years ago. The timing will make it possible for my wife to be with her mother to celebrate a 98th birthday, since she’s only about 50 miles from my hometown.

Last night, James Taylor made other Septuagenarians proud. I’m only a Sexagenarian, so the “sex” is still there. I was not as impressed with Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen, although his “Danettes” were young, sexy background vocalists. I’m looking forward to our next concert with Train along with Hall & Oates, since lead vocalist Patrick Monahan is only 49. He will be the youngest performer I’ve seen this year. Paul Simon, who we saw a few months ago is 76 and the oldest, while Daryl Hall is 71 and John Oates is also a “septu” at just seventy. The Doobie Brothers were all in their late 60’s, still performing their hits from the sexy 60’s. Yet to go this year is the “youthful” Def Leppard, Journey without 69-year old Steve Perry, and to kick-off the new year 71-year old Elton John on his “final” tour.

Diary of an Adoptee: Natural Relatives #550

June 3, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I suppose that Roger Bannister was the most famous of those who share the same last name that I was given at birth. It was spelled like mine, with two n’s, as it originally appeared on my birth certificate, but that turns out to be an incorrect spelling of my birth mother’s actual maiden name with only one “n.” Roger was the first to break the 4-minute mile, back in May of 1954 at Iffley Road track in Oxford, England. It only lasted for 46 days, but earned him International acclaim. I am most likely not related, because despite the fact that I’m an everyday runner, my feet don’t move nearly that fast. Even though they might not be as famous as Roger, I have recently established some important Banister (or Bannister) “family” connections thanks to websites like Ancestry.com and 23andme.com.

As an adopted child, I’m allowed to fantasize about potential connections to star athletes, royalty, musicians, writers, scientists, and other famous people that might have given me life. Who wants to think about genetic connections to criminals, misfits, losers, drug addicts, or plain-old-nobody’s? It’s my mission to find the truth, and be proud of my heritage. Little-by-little I’m getting there. After 66 years of life, I just finished the very first conversation I’ve ever had with with a true relative. Connected only through DNA, I was blown away by this experience.

Respectfully, I wanted to keep our first conversation under an hour, so I prepared some notes. Admittedly, I was very nervous going into the appointed time, and opened a bottle of wine to settle my nerves. I wasn’t sure what to expect since I had grown-up with “dozens of cousins” that are still some of my favorite people in the world. I recently got together with several of them over the Christmas holidays, but they were never “blood relatives.” The first thing that this newest cousin said to me was,”your voice sounds like other family members.” I can’t tell you what this meant to me. All my life, there have never been physical characteristics or mannerisms that I’ve shared with my adopted family. It was always an awkward yet humorous moment when people would say that I resembled my parents. They were both relatively tiny people, while I was six-feet tall with wide, muscular shoulders and weighed at least 190 pounds. I did develop a sense of humor like my adopted mother and a knack for the numbers of my adopted father. In fact, in retirement, I see so much of this man in my everyday actions that it is scary. I was proud of both of my parents growing up, and there was rarely a sense of embarrassment, but there is also a genetic factor that ultimately influences our behavior.

Before our conversation, my natural cousin sent some 1946 photos identified as my birth mother and her older sister. My birth mother would have been only 13 years old, 5-years before my birth, but I’m slowly but surely getting more information on her life. In the background of the picture, was the family farm in North Vernon (Jennings County), an area where most of my blood relatives still reside, whether they recognize my existence or not. Prior to this, I had only seen Facebook photos of her in her mid-80’s, along with her surviving son, daughter, and grandchildren.

My new-found cousin once again indicated that my birth mother is denying any connection to me. There apparently have been conversations about me involving her mother and my birth mother’s sister. At the same time, there was a coincidental message from another relative that may potentially help identify my birth father, a mystery that I thought was secretly protected only by my birth mother and maybe this year-older sister. Instead, I now have the last names of Burkman and a daughter who married a Proctor to expand my search beyond “Banister World.” Apparently, there is a Banister reunion in a few months. so maybe “my dirty little family secret” will be discretely shared and my status will change from an out-law to an in-law. In the meantime, I’m headed to the Jennings County library for photos and other information that may lead to answers, but more likely to more questions.

Diary of an Adoptee: Mother’s Day #526

May 13, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Today is Mother’s Day, and I bought my wife a silly “I’m a Cool Mom” t-shirt at last night’s Mean Girls performance on Broadway. With two grown daughters, she certainly deserves much more, but I’ll leave that up to them. I’m not her mom, nor the father of her children, but she is a remarkable woman, having raised her kids as a single, working mom. By the same token, I hope my son remembers to acknowledge the love for his special mom. My wife will call her 96-year old mom tonight, but we won’t see her again for a few months. We sent her flowers from Hawaii, and maybe the Cubs will win today for one of their oldest and biggest supporters.

My mom passed away a few years ago and I think of her often. She was another special woman in my life, having adopted me at birth and then raised me as her own. I Love You, Mom and Dad. All those years together I also knew that there were two unknowns who initially gave me life, and out of loyalty waited to pursue their identities. However, there were other people in my life who strongly felt that I shouldn’t wait. My adopted sister, for example, included her birth mother in her marriage, that I thought was a little awkward for our adopted parents. She saw it as her right to know and easily connected with a second family, while I was perfectly content with one. By the same token, a friend of mine became more curious about my birth mother than I was thirty years ago. Despite the fact that adoption records in Indiana were sealed, she used her media credentials to access those files and give me the name Edna Faye Bannister along with an address.

Yes, I was curious and took this friendly lead and made some inquiries, but my heart was not into it. It was still with the two people who made me who I am, rather than the two who gave me life. In retrospect, I was also looking for a Bannister with two n’s and a person who has gone by two other last names, so I never found her until just recently. There were detours along the way, including a lead from the wrong state, an address that was only the adoption agency, and other information that turned out to be inaccurate. The adoption agency gave me general data on the birth parents like ages, hair color, interests, and siblings. All this ever led to were fantasies about what life might have been like if circumstances had been different?

Ultimately, I realized that I was probably better off with the adoptive family. My birth mother was only 18 years ago and had not yet graduated from high school The father was two years older and a Marine, as was outlined on the descriptions that the adoption agency provided. Their relationship apparently didn’t last. Once both of my adopted parents had died, I was encouraged by another friend to take a DNA test. The results led to a distant relative connection, who was also a professional genealogist. He sent me some historical birth and census records that matched up exactly with the seven brothers and sisters along with their age differences, from the initial adoption agency description. Because it was such a large family and included twins, there was little doubt that I had found her, and she was still alive, with an 85th birthday about to happen. Over the past six months, as described in the other other entries in this blog (See Diary of an Adoptee entries), I was able to connect with her through her family. In the process, I probably embarrassed her by exposing this secret of my existence to others. Apparently, she is not interested in any direct communication or contact with me.

I will respect her decision, as I continue to seek photos and information on her life through other sources. In a way, I’m a bit disappointed that she wants to remain disconnected, but in another way it’s a relief to not have the responsibility of knowing her. Obviously, what is important to me is not as important for her. Granted, I do not know her state of health or the circumstances of her relationship with the Marine. It could have been rape, the nature of their break-up, or it might have been a one night stand that makes her want to remain distant? Memories of me perhaps are not pleasant, yet she did name her first legitimate son Jerry Lee, the very same name she had them put on my birth certificate. Regardless of the how’s and why’s of my conception, I am just grateful that there wasn’t the decision to abort, allowing me to live a full life. As a result, I am thankful to the loving couple that raised me, as well to the mystery pair that made me.

Today I only have one living mother, despite the fact that we’ve never had a relationship. It’s also the very first Mother’s Day that I actually know where she lives, in addition to being alive and safe. I would still like to know something about the father, but only my birth mother and maybe her year-older sister are left to share that knowledge. I may be eventually able to find out through DNA comparisons, but I’ve found that not everyone who shares DNA is willing to respond to my inquiries. I would just like to say “Happy Mothers Day” to this stranger that gave me a start in life, and to let her know that she made the best possible decisions in giving me up for adoption. Fortunately, I met the nicest people who gave me everything I needed to succeed. Finally, it’s the best day to acknowledge that the two mothers in my life who have never met, gave this love story a happy ending, since any new chapters are unlikely to be written.

Retirement is not without Hassles: The Race Is On #496

April 17, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I’m approaching monumental Post #500 after just over 15 months of writing this blog. The number 500 has always been significant, living in the backyard of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway for 20 years of my life. It was exciting to be part of the Greatest Spectacle in Racing, the one-and-only Indianapolis 500 that takes place every May. Racing has always followed me, as I have followed it. I’m sure it’s only by coincidence that Formula One came to Austin once we moved there, and now the Indy Car Series is coming to Portland this Labor Day weekend. Racing has somehow always been my loud, fast neighbor that I simply can’t avoid no matter where I go.

I can never think of racing without fond memories of my grandfather William Jennings Johnston. I vividly recall driving him from our home town of Elkhart, Indiana to Indianapolis for a week with me and my family. That was about 1990, just after my Grandmother, Mildred Neoma Walker Johnston, passed away at age 91. His visit was a memorable experience, as I rarely had spent time with just him alone, so we spent our time getting to know each other better. We went to the Indiana World War Memorial and the Soldier’s and Sailor’s Monument. At that time, I was involved in a fundraiser called “Chip in for Victory” to raise restoration dollars for the Miss Victory statue that crowns the monument in the center of downtown Indy. I worked for WIBC Radio and put together a partnership with Chesty Potato Chips and the Indianapolis Colts, so that was part of our discussion about my job. We found his name, along with that of his son and my father, inscribed in the marble interior as a tribute to the Indiana Veterans who served. “Thank You for your service, Gramps!”

I have a picture of my grandfather smiling at our kitchen table next to a box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes – his favorite. I also took him to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway museum where he told me a great story. He and his buddies hitchhiked the 164 miles from Elkhart to Indianapolis for what I believe was the 1915 race. They had the actual program on display. On the way back from the race they stopped for the night and slept in the hayloft of a farmer’s barn. My grandpa laughed about the dream he had that night that had him crashing in the race, and the shock of rolling off the bail of hay he was sleeping on. He hadn’t been back to the Speedway for 75 years, so I can only imagine the changes that he saw when we took the tour bus around the two-and-a-half mile oval. It was a memorable day and an unforgettable story, as I tried to imagine myself going to an Indy Car race where the average speed was just under 90 miles a hour, only 60,000 attended, and the mechanic sat in the car next to the driver. Carl Fisher was the pace car driver, Howdy Wilcox won the pole, and Ralph DePalma drank the milk, winning the 5th annual race in what would have taken over 6 hours. I think of my grandpa every time I go to an auto race. He would have died two years after our visit at the age of 96.

Life is nothing but a race, and retirement is the final pit stop. You need a strategy to get to the finish line, and mine included saving money for travel. I’m sure my grandfather would been amazed at all the places I’ve seen, when in his era it would have taken more than five jarring hours in a car to travel that 164 mile route just to get to Indianapolis. Since I was not a genetic descendant of my grandfather, I can’t claim his longevity or that of the father who adopted me. The man I believe to be my birth grandfather, Pete Banister, only lived to be 61, so I have surpassed his life span already by five years. His father Henry only lived to be 42, but there is hope since his grandfather, Labein, died at the ripe old age of 84. That should give me the twenty years I need to complete my travel bucket list. I do not yet know the identity of my birth father, so there is yet no history on that side of the genetic pool. However, with the newly discovered dangers of my vices like alcohol consumption, Diet Coke, and Advil, I have probably shaved a few years off my life, despite all the miles I run everyday.

If I could somehow manage to be in as good of health as my wiry 96-year old grandfather, who by the way was a Camel smoker for many years, I would take that challenge of living past the age of 100. However, if I developed Alzheimer’s like his son who raised me and died at 93, I would not want to put that burden on my family. In my opinion, longevity is strictly relative to good health, otherwise it may not be worth it. So far, it has been! My grandfather was never a rich man, but he never spent a day in the hospital. That’s the kind of wealth that I want as I continue to approach the waving checkered flag at the inevitable finish line.