The past is done

My name is Clarissa. It was the summer I turned 12years old. We lived in a small town in California called Willets. I was an only child bored out of my mind on a beautiful California day.

Both of my parents were small business owners: My father ran his own woodworking shop and my mother made draperies. They both focused their attention on their growing businesses. Businesses that they both loved to remind me paid for the house and property that we lived on. They also reminded constantly that I should be grateful to live at such a beautiful property . They also liked to squabble over which business I would ultimately grow up and take over, after college, of course. But the truth of the matter was that I had no interest in taking over either of their businesses or even in going to college. But my opinion on this topic did not matter. In their minds it was a done deal.

Being an only child really sucked. Especially when your parents have managed to stay together through it all. All of their hopes and dreams are pinned on you. Times two. The thing that I loved and had a passion for was something that was a taboo subject in my house..... History. I could sit for hours watching the history channel on cable TV. One of the few extras that my parents paid for. Actually the only reason we had cable TV was that our property was so far out in the boonies we could not pick up regular local TV. So my parents had to get cable just to watch the news and luckily for me the History channel was part of the package.

The very first program I saw on the History Channel was a documentary on Anne Frank, the young Jewish girl who had kept a diary about the years she spent hiding in the attic of some sympathetic people who did not agree with Hitler's views on destroying the entire Jewish population in Europe. I was completely captivated by the dramatic accounts she wrote of. Her personal diary was like looking into her soul. I felt as if I had been there with her in that attic.

After watching hundreds of programs on that channel I wanted to get some space between myself and my parents. Our television was located in the family room and my parents would both use the double-sided desk in there to do their business paperwork all the while bitching and moaning at each other over which of their businesses was more work, or made more money, or had nicer customers, etc. Sometimes I had to sit right up on the television just to be able to hear my program.

On this particular day I could not take the bickering any longer. I jumped up and ran out the back door. I did not know where I was going but I had to get out of there. As I turned the back corner of the house the old barn that sat on the property suddenly beckoned me. It was an old dusty wooden building that once had held horses and chickens and various other livestock of the farming family that had owned it for generation before my parents bought the land.

We had lived there for a few years and the barn had never held any interest for me but on this particular day I was drawn to it as if somebody was in there calling me by my name. As I opened the creaky doors some birds that were nesting in the 2nd floor hayloft suddenly took flight scaring me out of my wits. Once they had all flown away I ventured in. What once probably had an old rustic country look to it now looked like a unit from a typical public storage locker. There was boxes upon boxes of papers. The boxes were so over full that papers were peeking out of the edges. There was old dirty, dusty outdated furniture that should have been dropped off at the local Goodwill decades ago. And one corner had a huge clothes rack with clothes neither of my parents would ever be able to fit into again. I could not believe it. My parents were undercover hoarders.

I wanted to get a closer look but I did not know where to begin. I first looked at the clothes rack. Yuck! So much dust flew into the air I started sneezing uncontrollably. There were some ugly matching dresses, jeans, leisure suits, a wedding dress, some kind of uniform like a soldier might wear, a somewhat pretty evening gown, a tuxedo, I mean this rack was loaded down with a wide variety of clothing. Maybe my parents had considered opening a thrift shop or something?

Next I decided to check out the boxes. They too were covered in dust. As I gingerly lifted the lid of the first box I immediately focused on the name written in big letters on the paper. Upon closer inspection I realized it was my name. I was looking at a copy of my birth certificate. As I pulled the papers from the box I learned that when I was five I had an ear infection that was so so bad I was put into a medically induced coma for 3 days. My parents had never told me about that.

I learned that I had broken my finger when I was 4 falling out of a tree. I had no memory of that either. There were pictures of a woman holding a newborn baby that according to the writing on the back of the photo was me and my grandmother. She died when I was 2. There was crude drawings that I had made in kindergarten and imprints of my hands and feet in paint. Pictures of me as a baby and as a toddler with people identified as various aunts and uncles and cousins I did not even know existed.

I was totally engrossed with finding more stuff. I eagerly got down the next box. When I opened it a single newspaper clipping fell out. The headline read “Local U.S. Soldier among those killed in airplane crash in Germany!” The young soldier had been on a flight from New York City headed to Germany when it was shot down by enemy gunfire shortly before landing. His name was Arthur Finch, He was 23 years old and it said he was survived my his new bride....and there in black and white was my mothers name. It said she was 20 years old and worked as a seamstress.

I was in complete shock. I never knew that my mother had been married before she met my father. I had always thought they were childhood sweethearts. Now that I think about it, I just had just assumed that because my parents never talked about the past. When I would ask them about it they would tell me that the past is done and over with and that all focus should be on the future. None of my parents families were around for me to ask about the past soI just filled in the blanks myself.

I finished looking through most of the boxes that afternoon. I found out a few more interesting facts about my parents such as my dad's bankruptcy, my Mom's cancer scare and also that my Dad had gotten a DUI a few years back. None of this information was ever known to me except for the fact that I stumbled onto it in the barn.

The wedding dress and ugly matching dresses must have been from my Mom's marriage to Arthur. The one thing my parents did tell me was that they had eloped. The tuxedo belonged to Arthur. I wanted to ask my Mom about the marriage so badly, but I knew better. Such things from the past were not topics discussed in our household.

As I reread the article about my mother's first husband I looked at the date of the article. It was dated May 16, 1963. How could that be?. I was born in January of 1964. My parents were married 2 days after I was born. I had just assumed that they knew each other for at least 9 months prior to getting married . But 9 months prior to my birth would have been in April 1963. Arthur had still been alive and living with my mother as man and wife, he left in May,. One month after I had been conceived.

I could not believe what I was reading. According to these papers Arthur was my father. My Mom already pregnant when she met my Dad.

After crying for what seemed like hours I had an epiphany. It suddenly made sense why we never spoke of the past. Why we had broken all ties with with family members on both sides It had been to protect the secret of my birth.

It amazes me what my parents went through to keep me from finding out that my Dad was really my stepdad. But the biggest amazement came from me myself. At 12 years old I had the sense to realize that even though Arthur was my Father, the man sitting across from my Mom at the two-sided desk was my Dad, always had been and always will be.

I closed up the boxes and went inside, exhausted. I never spoke of what I had learned that day until now. My parents have long since passed away and I have reconnected with those long lost family members. We all know the truth of my situation but we don't speak on it either. The past is over and done with and the future is looking bright.

That day in the barn really piqued my interest in the stories each of us have to tell.

After that afternoon in the barn whenever I would accompany my Mom or Dad to work I would slip away to the retirement home a few blocks away. The nurse at the front desk was always happy to see me and she encouraged my visits. I would wander around until I found a resident willing to sit with me as they recounted stories of their youth and the the triumphs and failures they had experienced. I loved it. Each new person was like a blank canvas and their stories filled the space with bright beautiful hues and somber grays and shades of brown. I was hooked on the suspense of learning the twists and turns a life can take before coming to rest.

The nurses at the rest home loved me and said that my visits did such good for the residents that I sat with. Actively recounting their lives and treasured memories had a positive effect on their current state of well being. That really made me happy knowing that something that brought me such joy was helping others as well.

Like I said life is funny with all the twists and curves and hiccups it throws at you. I'm all grown up now and actually making a decent living. I bet your wondering which profession I chose after college right? Did I become a seamstress/drapery maker or did I become a furniture maker/woodworker?

Neither! I did go to community college for 2 years just to develop better writing and communication skills. Instead, I turned my love for individual personal histories and my love of writing into a well paying free lance profession as an obituary writer. I have written obituaries of famous people as well as regular ordinary folks. Each story as diverse and unique and exciting as any Hollywood picture.

I guess it can be said that even though I did not follow in my parents professional footsteps I did uphold the family tradition of doing what you love, working hard , and being your own boss.