It’s difficult when you are an adult and find yourself an orphan, for lack of a better word, by the eventual death of both parents. In truth, you have all the required skills for the successful continuance of your path in life, but the loss takes you to the edge of a cliff that leaves you looking out across a gaping void.
My father, Bennie Mac Carter, and I were always struggling to establish some common ground. My mother, Lois Elinor King Carter, divorced my father when I was 2 and quickly married my step-father. Divorces in the 50s and 60s were still a bit scandalous. It wasn’t typical. All those “Father Knows Best” and “Hazel” television shows broadcast a different image of what family life should be like. Joint Custody was not even a concept at the time or a probability. My father worked at Bethlehem Steel and didn’t participate much in child care. This involved cloth diapers being rinsed in the toilet, and those pinching diaper pins that were hard to master. My dad saw us every two weeks and gave us extravagant presents for the holidays. Chocolate bunnies that were toddler sized, elaborate Valentine Hearts filled with 3 pounds of candy, 3 picks from the Sears Christmas Catalog, and birthday presents that resulted in a guitar, a horse, and my first dog. My mother, unlike June Cleaver and Mrs. Brady, worked outside the home. She was hired at Martin-Marietta as a riveter while many young men were in Korea for the conflict or the stabilization. When she lost that job as the men started coming home, she went to a drug store chain, and eventually to Food Fair/Pantry Pride. My sister and I were placed with a neighbor for child care, and spent summers in North Carolina with her parents.
My mother was a beautiful and alluring woman. I knew she was a bit different than most mothers even as a young child but I couldn’t explain it then any easier than I can now. Certainly there were prettier women. Certainly there were more demure and domestic women. But she held this authority of beguilement that seemed like a super power for a Marvel character. As a child, I used to think it was something she sprayed on like the perfume on her vanity. But now I know it was more in the way she entered the room and how she made eye contact that lingered on anyone she was marking.
Christine: Hello Sherry?
I’ve been waiting to connect with you for so long. I am glad you reached out. I am Tony’s (Anthony) daughter. I see on the site that you and I share a high amount
of DNA as well. I helped him with his 23and Me account which is how I got the email you sent through 23 and me. I am happy to put you in touch with my dad.
He lives in South Carolina. I will tell you I do not recognize the names you gave. Given how high our matches are, you would think I would, We might be on the
verge of solving a family mystery.
Feel free to email be back and we can go from there. I’m happy to share phone numbers so we can talk families and geographies.
So nice to hear from you.
C.
Sherry: So nice to hear from you also.
I was just talking to my sister…(who now may be my half-sister)
I’m in a bit of a shock, but maybe not surprised if that can make any sense?
My family is from the Carolinas but moved to Baltimore in the 50s. I was born several years later. My sister is 6 years older than I am and remembers my mom
was very good friends with Paul Carey (?)–who used to own a small car business in the Essex area. Is that a relative, your uncle? My mother passed away
several years ago at 91, and my dad (?) in the mid 2000s.
I am attaching my phone number. Maybe we can talk a bit later this afternoon.
S
Christine: Paul Carey is my grandfather. Anthony’s father. He had car business and package goods store in Essex. This information surprises me as well, but I understand
how you must be feeling. I’m sorry for your shock. I will be happy to call later so we can sort this out.
Sherry: I am still digesting this really. It’s coming in waves. Can we talk at 3.
Christine: Yes! I believe I have the answer to most of your questions and know how you are related to our family.
I close my computer and sit on the stool in the living room and close my eyes. The room isn’t really getting blurry. I take a deep breath and tell myself that isn’t really the scent of L’Air du Temps wafting around me. But then, I’m not sure of anything anymore.
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