Remembering Papa

Most of my friends and readers know that I’m adopted.

Some have taken the time to read my various blogs about finding my biological mom (NOT a good ending, unfortunately) and finding my biological dad (well, at least he didn’t send his lawyer after me!). If you’ve stuck with me through these very personal stories, I thank you!

And if you read a copy of my recently published book, Caring for Mom and Other Loved Souls, I also thank you! And if you actually took the time to leave a review for the book, I applaud you for supporting a first-time book author. I know it might not be easy reading a memoir about a 93-year old’s end of life… especially someone you likely didn’t know. But it was a story I had to tell, about my “mom” (my adoptive mom who raised me and who I view as my true parent). And I’m more than thrilled that it is done and out there.

This past month my Uncle Joe passed away at the amazing age of 95. My father’s brother (again, I know it’s confusing, but I’m talking about my adoptive father, Ed, who raised me, and who I view as my real father). Here’s a photo of my Uncle Joe (from left to right), Aunt Helen and my parents, from my wedding in 1987.

My Uncle Joe’s death brought up a lot of memories about my father. Joe was my dad’s younger brother although Joe outlived my dad by 33 years. My dad passed away at the age of 68, decades ago. He was robbed of so many good years. My two sons never knew him, an enduring sadness for me.

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Confessions of a Memory Hoarder

Along with routinely sharing a great deal of storytelling throughout my youth, my parents left me with many family photo albums and boxes of both our family and distant family memories (including letters, scrapbooks, military artifacts, and more). My mom even wrote a short autobiography in her later years, which is packed with her lifelong stories, and is such a treasure for me.

Throughout my life I have always been one to collect and preserve memories. Some people might even say I’m a “memory hoarder” and they would probably be right.

Ah, memories, and the stories behind them. They were important to my mom and they are important to me.

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