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.