As an adopted child, I often wonder what life would be like being raised by a different father? In my case, it would have been two extremes. My adopted father was a successful financial executive with an 8 to 5 desk job, who frequently traveled to Switzerland, Italy, and France, as I recall. He worked for Miles Laboratories, manufacturers of Alka-Seltzer and One-A-Day vitamins, among other popular products, at their Elkhart, Indiana headquarters. My mother, also a Indiana University graduate, where they met, stayed home to care for me and my 3-years younger adopted sister. 

By contrast, my bio-dad, who was described as “gregarious,” held a factory job since graduating from high school and worked nights, the shift he preferred. He would proudly punch Clock #1 at Cummins Engine in Columbus, Indiana, an honor he was given upon returning from Korea. His wife was kept busy at home raising six children in tiny Scipio, Indiana. 

If there truly is a multiverse, as posed in science fiction stories, I can sometimes envision myself living life under these two different circumstances. Maybe more, if you consider that bio-dad probably never knew that I existed and obviously didn’t marry bio-mom. She was the youngest of a large farm family that secreted her to an adoption home to give birth to me. The other possibility in this multiverse is being raised by a single mother in times when this was rare and unacceptable. Fortunately, for me, they chose the adoption route.

I did grow up a Hoosier, living in northern Indiana as opposed to southern. I ended up in a city of about 40,000, at a school with over 1,000 in my high school graduating class, and in neighborhoods with sidewalks. I joke about this because my wife and I looked at a home once near Lebanon, Indiana. My concern was that there were “no sidewalks”- apparently a bit too “country” for my tastes. None of this would have been the case with the rural lifestyle in my multiverse options. 

I could have been the oldest of seven children in bio-dad’s household, if his wife to be had been understanding of my circumstances. She was certainly shocked when I showed up in her life as a result of a DNA test, matching one of her daughters. Fortunately, I was conceived over a year before they married in October of 1951, so he was not disloyal to her.  I also could have been the oldest of five children conceived by my bio-mom, Edna Faye Banister, through two different men, either of which could have been a step-dad to me. Or, my very  presence in Edna’s young life might have discouraged any further relationships on her part, as I fantasize about the multiverse of possibilities. 

Regardless, I had the opportunity to spend some time alone with my half-sister when my wife and I visited Tuscaloosa on our recent road trip. She gave me some background on what it was like to be raised by the man that contributed to half of my DNA. I also met her son who found my facial expressions to mimic those of his grandfather, a.k.a. Cecil Ralph Banister. 

Working a night shift, Cecil was rarely home, unless asleep, and spent most of his time outdoors and shirtless with a dark tan. He was an exceptional athlete who stood out at 6’2″ tall in high school basketball and excelled at shuffleboard and golf in his later years. He played industrial league sports with Cummins and was extremely competitive.  As an example, he taught his grandson to play chess and then proceeded to beat him 285 consecutive times, counting each one, before the poor kid finally beat him.

Grandpa would take him on long nature walks while teaching him to speak Pig Latin. His only son, besides me, died in a motorcycle accident at age 16. Words like “country,” “outdoors,” and “nature” don’t seem to be in my vocabulary.  I do enjoy sports but was never much more than an average participant, while my adopted father was short and left-handed, so fundamentals were not easy for him to teach me. At least, I was fast!

Cecil was a professional shuffleboard player, he would win prizes, including liquor bottles that he rarely touched. He once sat all the kids down at the table and had them sample the booze, hoping to discourage them from drinking because of the unpleasant taste. I don’t think it worked!

My adopted father had a bad temper but he was mild-mannered. He never hit me. Cecil, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to slap the girls and used switches on all the kids. He was not violent with his wife, sticking to hands-on discipline around the house. I only got in one fight in my life and was certainly never encouraged to use my fists. Wrestling practice was as close to combat as I ever got. 

Cecil could be a controversial figure. He painted a swastika on his shuffleboard stick and golf balls to identify them as his. It caused a stir in various competitions where he participated. Why not just his initials CRB?

Guns and hunting have never been a part of my life. I could have never fended for myself or protected my family. Cecil was a hunter and owned a gun. He sadly shot himself with it through the eye at age 79. The pain was apparently more than he could stand after surviving the war, by-pass surgery, and the health issues associated with lymphoma. 

My adopted father, Burt, bought a sailboat, the closest he ever came to commuting with nature, with the exception of his well-kept lawn and petunias. After the war, he promised himself never to spend another night in a tent. The one time we went camping together, he stayed by the fire all night. Cecil thrived on being outside and hand-built an octagonal cabin on his Creekside, Scipio property with mirrors so he had a 360-degree view of the land and creatures around him. Burt, on the other hand, never owned a tool box. We just used my mom’s!

One of Cecil’s daughters gave me a spoon engraved with USMC on the handle. It was obviously something he took from the Marine’s Mess Hall and is now the only possession of his that I now own. I also have a few pictures, newspaper clippings, and an obituary. I have lots of pictures of the only man I ever called “dad” and all of his “years of service” pins from Miles. The only thing the two of them had in common was a “love” for IU basketball and Bobby Knight, something that I also shared. 

The Fantasticks were not fantastic. It’s the second straight local theatre performance that we’ve left at intermission. It also seems as if my computer is working against me, considering the loss of my entire post this morning, a couple of power shut-downs, and content freezing. I may have a virus – maybe my machine caught Pink Eye? I’m growing more and more impatient with trying to keep this site updated with fresh content. I just renewed the johnstonwrites.com site for two more years but I’m running out of things to write about. Poetry ideas have been few and far between. Maybe this 3,000 mile drive will be inspirational or at least get me out of a rut. 

We leave in four more days with the first stop being Schnauzerville to drop off Tally before spending the night in Panama City. Tally will be away from us for her longest stint ever, but she will be with her puppy friends. I’m sure she’ll miss the dog park and hanging out with us by the dinner table. She probably will not get the quantity or variety of treats that we feed her. Definitely, Tally will miss sitting in my chair most of all. I’ll probably miss sitting there myself.

I did find a couple more Ban(n)ister DNA cousins this past week. They’ve been ceremoniously added to the Jerry Banister Family Tree in Ancestry. Two of the stops on this upcoming trip will be with DNA relatives – one on my birth mother’s side and the other on my bio-dad’s. I’m still trying to find clues as to my existence. I pulled out The Adopted Family book during the course of a sleepless night. It’s allegedly the book that the adoption agency gave to my parents to help them deal with the adjustment of having me in their home. It suggests that I was “special” because I was carefully selected rather than born into their family. It conveniently ignores the fact that there is no natural connection. I’m still trying to sort out the biology of family. 

Thanksgiving 1950 was on November 23rd. Cecil Ralph Banister was 19 1/2 years old, while Edna Faye Banister was two years younger. They went to the same North Vernon, Indiana high school but Cecil had graduated the year before. He was working at Cummins Engine in Columbus where he would retire in 1985 after 35-years of service. Military leave took him to Camp Pendleton in San Diego, California and to Korea as a Marine. Cecil married Marilyn Jean Foist on October 8, 1951. Edna, on the other hand, never finished high school after giving birth to me on August 27, 1951. He most likely never knew.

Edna is still alive but unresponsive while, Cecil sadly passed eleven years ago on this day. DNA solidly connects me to him as the biological father and adoption records to her as the birth mother. She was recently acknowledged for her 89th birthday on Facebook by her daughter, but I must be blocked by the son because there are no recent posts. Up until now, it’s been the only source of photos of her, even though it often felt like stalking.  I honestly don’t know if she’s still in good health or if dementia has taken away any memories of me. Nonetheless, I have no current information on her whereabouts or condition. She’s the only person left that could possibly tell me how the two of them got together. It’s an intriguing saga of the bastard child that is the frequent subject of Hollywood dramas. 

I’m speculating that it was a family get together for Thanksgiving that resulted in my birth nine months later. It might have been just the two of them hooking up for a date during the holiday break from school and work? They were distant cousins in a small town with limited dating prospects, so the fact that they were related never really mattered when it came to the attraction. He was older and getting ready to go into the Marines so that was certainly part of the appeal. She was the youngest daughter of a railroad crossing guard who also did some farming. Edna also had seven older siblings so she also could have snuck away undetected for this fateful rendezvous with an older cousin. I probably will never know the true story but it’s fun to use my imagination. After all, without this night or more together, I would not exist. Rest in Peace – Cecil – you are gone but not forgotten!

I like to joke that I have “multiple mothers” as we celebrate Mother’s Day every year. After all, it took more than one woman to raise me, along with Mother Marriott to watch over me when I travel the world. I’m not a religious man, so Mother Marriott takes the place of Mother Superior. Silliness aside, I give all the credit to my adopted parents who rescued me from the Suemma Coleman agency. I also know the identity and whereabouts of my now 89-year old birth mother. Sadly, she does not acknowledge my existence even though she made it possible over seventy years ago. 

Being a teenage mother is difficult in any era, especially in the early 1950s when unwed pregnancies were shunned. I can only imagine the shame that was imposed on my birth mother by her family, friends, and society, forced to give me up to strangers whether her decision or not. They undoubtedly tried to hide her condition and took her far from home to give birth. I would guess that there were times when she tried to figure out a way to keep me as part of her life, and moments when she hated me. Since abortion was not a safe option for her back then,  I was probably better off raised by the loving couple that I’ve always proudly called  “Mom and Dad.” I could never blame her for trying to erase all the memories from her mind. 

Mother’s Day for me is a time for reflection and appreciation, as I try to make sense of my life. I no longer have a mother to honor on this day. I hate to call it indiscretion that gave me life. I prefer to think of her as being naïve and caught in a moment of passion. The birth father was about four years older and preparing to enter the service. I’m sure that neither of them thought about the consequences, but she had to live with the “mistake,” while he probably never knew that a child was on the way. She got little support and undoubtedly lots of criticism. I’m simple grateful that there was a special couple that wanted a baby when they couldn’t have one. As a result, I became a treasured part of their family when I could have been a burden to a teenage girl. 

Because of me, my birth mother’s life drastically changed. From what I’ve been able to uncover, she had to quit high school, get a factory job, and struggle with doubts of desirability and prospects for future relationships. She was a tainted woman, harboring a secret for the rest of her life. I made my best efforts to let her know how grateful I was for life and what I’ve done with that time on Earth. I’ve made serious misjudgments just as she has, and it’s sad that we never got to know each other. She might even be proud. 

Abortion was never a legal option for her as Roe vs. Wade didn’t happen until 1973, Consequently, I can’t give her or her family credit for preserving my life in the womb and allowing for my adoption. They never had a choice, as women have today. Adoption is always the best option with a healthy child and mother, but it comes with emotional and physical hardship. Those that have gone through it, like my birth mother, are strong, selfless individuals who preserve lives and enable others to raise families. Depending on the circumstances, all women should have a choice when it comes to their bodies, so it’s hard to belief that the 45-year law is now being seriously  reconsidered. I’m so thankful for life on this Mother’s Day, especially since it was such a hardship on my birth mother. I have life, but I’m not necessarily Pro-Life. 

The year 1943 was all about war. My dad was twenty-two years old and serving our country. This week would have marked his 101st birthday, with my mom technically just 13 hours behind. I would be adopted into their family nearly eight years later, carrying on the family name of Johnston. My son is the last of that surname, with his son taking on the last name of Jordon alongside two Johnston sisters. They all live about 15 minutes away from my new Florida home. 

My youngest grandchild, Nora, age three, gave me a hug before dinner last night and said, “I know you’re glad to see me!” It was so cute! We all got together as a family for the first time this year, following exposure to Covid, although I have done some babysitting on my own. Nora’s older sister Maddux will soon be thirteen, and not nearly as excited to see me. She grew up thousands of miles from me, so Nora is my first chance to be a true grandfather – part of her life on a consistent basis. The oldest grandchild is Gavyn, having just turned fifteen. He was sending back pictures from Indiana of his first romp in the snow. It was his birthday present from my ex-wife that included an airplane trip on his own. They are all growing up so fast. 

We dined at Olive Garden last night after first agreeing to celebrate Gavyn’s birthday at Dave & Buster’s. However, with his detour to Fort Wayne, we decided to go without him, deciding on Pincher’s. Then, my son’s work schedule changed, so we picked The Twisted Fork, closer to his workplace. Upon arrival, we discovered that there was a long wait due to traffic from a nearby carnival and we all rerouted to Carrabba’s. We initially agreed to wait an hour for our table but grew quickly impatient and switched finally to the less busy Olive Garden. It’s always complicated when the seven of us try to get together. 

My son agreed to help us hang some overhead lights and fans next week since we haven’t heard back from the electrician we called. My wife wants to get them installed because her sister and husband arrive soon for a visit. Our neighbor is also expecting my son to help connect some TVs she just purchased from him, so he’s highly in demand. Nora will likely be his assistant, knowing that once again I’ll be glad to see her!

It’s a small world when your neighbor five houses down turns out to be related. His last name is Foust, who in the early 1900s married a Bannister. Sam (James Samuel) Foust and Emma Lulu Bannister tied the knot and had two sons near the turn of the century in Madison County, Indiana. My birth parents were both named Bannister, also from Indiana. The two families had something in common, as we trace their genealogical heritage. Each kept changing the spelling of their last name. Fousts were also Fausts, while Banisters sometimes added an extra “n”. I’m not sure why the additional “n” made a difference, but after the World Wars, the Faust clan apparently changed vowels to disguise their German Heritage on American soil. 

This older generation of Ban(n)isters and Fausts experienced a similar challenge as we do these days. In January of 1918, a pandemic known as the “Spanish flu” (influenza) is first observed in Haskell County, Kansas. It spread across the states much as Covid has in current times, leaving death in its path. Fortunately, Sam lived to be 91 and Lulu 82 – great  longevity in that era. Sam’s father, Joshua, also sired Jesse, who in turn fathered Everett, who engendered  Gregory, my new neighbor. Lulu’s father, Lee  Bannister had a brother, David, spawned Henry, who was my birthmother’s (Edna Faye Banister) grandfather and Charles who was my birthfather’s (Cecil Ralph Banister) grandfather. I am, therefore, the bastard offspring of two Banister brothers’ children and a first cousin of James Samuel Faust (Foust) family 3x removed, if I’m understanding the lineage properly? Greg Foust would be the great-grandnephew of husband of first cousin 3x removed – I’ll just call him neighbor. 

The Foust/Faust fame is in the development of the Gutenberg Press by moneylender Johann Faust. also known as Fust (another variation of the spelling), who provided some of the financing (800 guilders) through his banking connections. “There is also apparently a Faust Castle in upper Austria, a 15th century castle on the Danube which, legend says, was built in a single night for Dr. Faust by the devil. It has been owned by several noble families and has been a hotel since 1966.” I have been warned not to go there because back taxes are still apparently due that, as a descendent, I might be obligated to help pay or risk being imprisoned. Hotel Faust like the Hotel California – I can check in but I can never leave!