Did Mama Have a Boyfriend?
She never explained why I look nothing like my siblings.
To say WWII was a tumultuous time is, of course, an understatement. Events during that time though are what brought my parents together. Dad was an Army paratrooper and mom worked at a munitions plant in the same city where he had come for combat training. They met at a USO dance and after a whirlwind romance tied the knot in Fort Benning, Georgia on New Year’s Day, 1942.
Just days later dad was on his way to Europe until September of 1945.
It must have been a great reunion when he got back because I was born six months later.
Wait a minute?! I thought it took nine months to make a baby.
Maybe I was premature. I was the first after all. Nope. I was mom’s biggest baby at nearly eight pounds.
There had to be a reasonable explanation for it right? I was sure time would tell. And boy has it ever.
After I was born my sister came along about a year later. Then a brother another year after that. Mom was on a roll. Two years after my brother came another sister and two more brothers in the next four years to round out our little group.
That was pretty typical family size in the ‘50’s. I, being the oldest, was the first to graduate from high school and shortly after graduation I join the military. As a matter of fact, I was the only sibling to join any branch of the military. I really respected what my dad, and many other dads like him, had sacrificed to win that terrible war.
As time passed I began to notice a troubling trend as all my siblings matured; they were all tall. My sisters were in the 5’7” range and my brothers were all close to 6’. I barely broke 5’6” in my dress shoes.
And they were all dark like both my mom and dad. I was blond and blue eyed. Surely it had something to do with some distant relative. After all, I did take after my mom’s side of the family.
But that assumption didn’t soothe my growing suspicions either.
As we’ve aged the differences have become even more pronounced. My siblings have had cataracts, bad backs, heart problems and each of them has grey hair. Me? No cataracts, solid back, no heart problems and my hair is still light brown. I’m a real outlier. I’d really like to meet the milkman.
In 1987, after my dad had passed away, mom gave me a small facsimile of his honorable discharge from the army. It confirmed what I had thought all along. Dad had been discharged on the 26th of September 1945. I was born in mid-April of 1946.
So let’s count that out: October, November, December, January, February, March and half of April. Maybe it was fast gestation because of the war. But probably not.
Another puzzling concern was that my next younger brother was named after my dad. He was the junior instead of me, as would have been the tradition.
The more I analyzed these inconsistencies, the more anxious I became about confronting my mother. But I really wanted to know why I was so different. It wasn’t just the differences in appearance either. I was treated differently.
My brothers went fishing and hunting with dad but I never felt included. I once asked my younger sister what she thought it was. She said she was told that it was because I was “special”. Whatever that meant.
It wasn’t going to be easy to ask her. She hadn’t been doing well since dad died and suffered with debilitating osteoporosis complicated by the juvenile rickets she had contracted while growing up through the Depression.
“Mom,’’ I began, “I’ve noticed that dad had only been home six months when I was born. Can you tell me about that?”
She kindly gave the most ambiguous answer she could. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “We have always considered you our son.”
What the hell did she mean by that?
Was I a war refugee dad had dragged home from Europe? Had I secretly been adopted by them? Was mom my mom and dad wasn’t my dad?
Not sure if I was ready to know the truth, I accepted her bizarre response and didn’t push. And now that she’s gone, I’ll never be able to get a full explanation from her.
However, with the advent of modern DNA testing maybe I can get a little more information about my true heritage. Recently my daughter had her DNA tested. My entire family on my dad’s side is from the Czech Republic so I should have a fairly high percentage of Eastern Europe or Bohemia. Right? Or as I joke, “I was Czechoslovakian until 1992 and now I’m only Czech.”
Of course my daughter was happy to share her results with me. As far back as we can go in our genealogy my dad’s line is Czech. The amount of Czech in her DNA results? NINE percent.
That doesn’t add up for someone whose grandfather immigrated from there.
Although the rest of her results were consistent with my mom’s side of the family, this only deepens the mystery.
It’s also telling that every time I’ve shown some friends pictures of me and my siblings they always say I look nothing like them.
I wonder why.
Did my mom have an affair?
Did my dad know I was his? Did he care?
I have asked myself on several occasions, “Does it really matter?”. Sure my dad and I were never very close but he was my dad. He provided material and emotional support for me and was a great example of a man worth emulating.
He never said, “I love you, son”, but he did express his pride for my career choices and for being a good dad to my own kids.
I may not ever know if I was his, but I know he loved and treated me like I was.
And to me, that’s all that has ever mattered.
