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Turning 47: pt. I

“Message in a Bottle”

Spring 2018

On Saturday, I turn 47.

Out of all the birthdays I’ve had up to this point, this one will stand out.

You see, when I was back in the U.S. this Spring, I did a DNA test after hanging out with Big Bill, one of my favorite people on the planet. He and his girlfriend Kara had both done the ancestry dot com thing and had found out some interesting, previously unknown facts about themselves. Bill has a cousin about whom his family had been completely unaware. Kara and her fraternal twin sister had different percentages of estimated heritage. Interesting.

“Hmmm”, I thought.

Now, why was my interest piqued? It would be important to mention that I am adopted. Three weeks after I was born, a young couple in their mid 20’s, David & Sylvia Lightner, were ushered into a room at Lutheran Family Services in Denver, Colorado to see if they wanted this baby or not. Ha! They told me it like that, remembering it to be a bit odd. They were also asked on the phone, when alerted by the service, if they were willing to take a child if “mixed race”. Of course they were. They had been wanting and trying to have a child for 5 years. So, yes, of course.

So, I grew up knowing I had been adopted. It all felt good to me. I was very loved, but weirdly free. Three years laters they adopted my brother Keith from Costa Rica. At this point it seems that the parental floodgates opened with my parents finally being able to have their own; Kevin, then Kristopher, and finally, Konrad. Five boys in all. It was a horde.

Still, all that time, I had this sensation of being like the first person on earth, a bit like an alien, but not in a bad way. Just different. More David Bowie than E.T. So when I heard about this DNA test and what it could reveal, I thought, “Hmmmm”.

The ordered kit arrived, I did the spit test (seems simple enough. I went all dry mouth. Who knew producing spit could be a challenge?), and sent it off. Wait time btw 6-8 weeks. Ok. I was busy teaching , so I could shelve it. It was all a mild curiosity, always has been. Something hovering off in the distance.

Classes end, I finish up my grading the following week and just before I hit the road, I get a notice on the app that my results have come in.

Interesting...

I was always told that I was 25% English, 25% Irish, 25% Spanish, and 25% Native American. It always seemed a bit too clean, being a quarter of each, but there you go. In a brief meeting at Lutheran Family Services in 1994, at the urging of my girlfriend at the time, I found out that was true, except it was Mexican, not Spanish. They were still not allowed to divulge identifying information, but did say that my mother was the oldest of seven children and that her father worked for the airlines. My father was supposedly a gymnast. Was it true, was it not true? It was all just interesting, a fleck of something.

So according my DNA results, I am estimated to be 30% Irish/Scottish/Welsh, 27% Great Britain, 27% Europe West, 4% Native American, 4% Iberian Peninsula, 3% Scandinavian, 2% Europe East, <1% Finland/NW Russian, <1% Asia Central, <1% African North.

Wow!! They are clear to say this an estimate, but wow.

Next, there is section showing people to whom you are highly likely to be related. I go there and it’s divided into Close Family, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and distant cousins. There are 3 people in my close family. Am I looking at FAMILY?!! Wild.

This was on a Thursday.

So on Friday, I get on the road from Chicago, making my way south toward New Harmony, Indiana en route to Nashville, listening to local classic rock and singing along. Somewhere near Champaign, Illinois, I stop off to grab a burger at Culver’s. I’m sitting there waiting for my burger/fries, and I get this message through Ancestry...

“Hi Kurt...”

Turning 47. pt. II

“Hi Kurt...”

So when we last left off (read my previous post before starting this one, if you haven’t) , I had just received my DNA results and was heading south through Illinois on my way to see friends Marc & Amanda Chevallier in New Harmony, Indiana en route to Nashville, Tennessee.

Hungry, I pulled off near Champaign, IL to grab a bite. As I am seated, I check some emails, scrape off a few FB trolls, and dig in to the DNA info a little bit further, when I get this message;

“Hi Kurt,

My name is Arla. Today, the day before Mother’s Day, I am sitting with my baby sister, Annie, who happens to have processed her DNA through Ancestry. com. You showed up as a close relative. In July, 1971, at Denver General Hospital, when I was 19, I had a healthy, beautiful baby boy. I had to give him a chance at a better life. I believe you might be my son.

I welcome the opportunity to connect with you, if that feels right for you. If not, I respect your decision.

Arla”

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀🧠💥

What do you do with that? Less than a day after receiving the results, this lightning bolt comes out of the ether. ⚡️BLAM!

This was, what? I figured on an outside chance that something like this might happen, but on a much slower and plodding time scale. Like, there might be a 2nd cousin connected to a closer relative who kinda-sorta knew a vague rumor about a child being given to adoption. I was thinking this would be the start of a long trail uphill. Instead it was like an elevator door opened up, DING! “Here you are”.

Now, my thoughts over the years in terms of who my birth parents might be were mostly curious. Where did I get this nose? Why was I always driven to creating things? Where did I get my athletic ability. My dry skin? Old man hands? This bald head? Are they still alive? Are they entertainers? Artists? Architects?

On that note, I can remember vividly, when I crossed the finish line first at the state meet in Ames, Iowa in 1988, I thought about my birth mother. Was she able to see this? Was she somehow watching from a distance? I had hoped so.

When one is adopted, the balance of Nature vs. Nurture is given a full and open stage. I’ve come to think of nature as the internal drive, the motivator, that which moves, attracts, repels, and spurs you on. Nurture is the framework within which the nature is contextualized; the rules, knowing right and wrong, cultural cues, and value sets.

My drive didn’t always fit within the rules, but fortunately I had parents who, though adherent to setting and observing the rules, realized that my internal gyroscope gave me a different, off-script kind of movement. I am grateful for this.

So...what do I do with this bolt from the blue, this message, this elevator door opened right in front of my eyes? 46 years in the realm of speculation.

Here’s what I wrote:

“Happy belated Mother’s Day, Arla. 47 years is a long time to wait, so I hope you will pardon me.

I will fill you in on the details when I gather myself, but in the meantime, if you are curious, you can checkout my instagram accts @kurtlightner and @lionsandcranes

It is all a bit overwhelming, but amazing. I have been living in Sweden for the last 16 years, though this spring I have been in the Chicagoland area instructing art & design as a professor at Wheaton College. I will be heading back to Sweden at the end of the

month. I have two children; August (boy) is 15 and Esther is 12. Both with have birthdays this summer, and so click over in age.

So much, too much to write as I am just grabbing a bite to eat at a Culver’s en route to Nashville to see friends (I lived there btw 1997-2001).

Before I sign off for now, I just have to say THANK YOU! I have had a good and interesting life with much more to come.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Kurt”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I finished my burger (which was great, btw. Culver’s is a place I had never been prior to my return this Spring. I recommend), but I was in some kind of stunned haze. I just sat there, bewildered.

Where does this go? Would it be possible to meet my birth mother before returning to Sweden? Can I drive in this state of mind?

Turning 47: pt. III

“Despacito”

Previously on Turning 47: Your DNA results are in, Professor Lightner...Mmm, Culver’s...Hi Kurt, I think you may be my son....what the WHAT?!...

At a time like this, time ceases to exist, if only momentarily. There had been a fabric disruption, a shifting of tectonic plates. I think I was thinking of thinking, but it was more a feeling of feeling. None of it had a proper term or name. So I just sat there and finished my fries and diet root beer (another luxury I indulged greatly back in the U.S.).

I got in the car. The key worked, so there was that, and I plugged in the coordinates for New Harmony. Still, it took me awhile to get back out on the road, not because of my state of mind (I don’t think), but because the navigator was directing me to weave all around this big box shopping complex where the restaurant was placed. Aggravating. What are archeologists of 2000 yrs forward going to make of these sprawling Byzantine parking lots?

Anyway, I got on the road with this new knowledge just kinda humming in the background. “I just made contact with my birth mother...huh”. “Her name is Arla...huh”... “Wow”...”Huh...”. That her name was Arla was very interesting to me, you see, because it is also the name of the major dairy producer in Sweden. I have some Arla yogurt in my fridge as I write this (one of my favorite things when I first moved here was Yoggi, a super smooth, but thick, pourable yogurt made by Arla). I thought there was a sly joke being made by the universe here; mother’s milk. It is a nice coincidence.

Then a thought occurs to me that had previously never entered my mind; I caused someone else’s body to change by simply being. My mother carried me to term, and all the while she transformed around me. It had honestly never crossed my mind. No longer was I simply plopped down from outer space, first person on earth. I am here because of someone. Someone who has a name, who is alive!

On the road, day turns to dusk, and I am nearing New Harmony. Now, for those of you who do not know, this town is not your average, everyday, run-of-the mill small towns; it has a very peculiar history that the townspeople prize and keep up. New Harmony began as an experimental utopian village in about 1810, set up by residents who moved from Harmony, Pennsylvania; thus, New Harmony. They built all the structures according to their bylaws, ideals, and standards. About ten years in, a newly moneied robber baron bought out the town and set up his own, newer utopian settlement. This lasted another decade or so. From that time til now, the village has grown from these roots. It is speckled with the work of world-class artists and architects, like Philip Johnson, and has been a center of scientific research and discovery.

It’s placement, surrounded by an acute river bend, makes it more akin to an island. Residents drive golf carts instead of cars. It has a real eerie charm to it, and this is what I was driving into with my mind already swirling.

I arrive at my friends’ in the dark. The vibe of Savannah, of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, was all around. Marc & Amanda invite me in, hugs, offer a beer. We hadn’t seen each other in at least 10 years, though we are facebook-close. We reveled, commiserated about the state of things, marveled at Michelle Wolf’s roast at the correspondent’s dinner, and then I reiterated the story, parts I & II....when suddenly this noise starts coming from the darkness outside. What IS that? My friends know what’s up as we go to the door. There’s this guy standing in the middle of the street, wailing on bagpipes, just going for it. Sure, that fits just right. It was their neighbor from across the street, a bagpiper who has toured with Sting. Definitely right.

The next morning, we get up and go to their café in town, Black Lodge Coffee Roasters. Yes! Twin Peaks. It fits. They opened this café after moving here from Nashville 10 years ago, and every detail matches their aesthetic and standards of quality (do make a point to visit, it’s the nicest little café in weirdest little spooky town you’ll find). I ran into another old friend from Nashville there, designer Griffin Norman, who, by virtue of being a regular patron with creative scheduling, was working behind the bar as a barista. He gave me one of his provocative IMMIGRANT t-shirts (and took the photo in my current profile pic).

So all this while, I’m kinda just sitting on this new information, this new discovery, while bathing in an unexpected environment. I hadn’t written back to Arla, and wouldn’t for another week while I’m in Nashville. I’m just sitting with it, like a heavy blanket on a sofa.

I know the next leg of my journey after Nashville will take me to Garden City, Kansas for my cousin Matt’s wedding, but from there...?

Turning 47: pt. IV

“Nashville Skyline”

Those of you who know me well, know my abiding love and affection for Music City, USA.

It was here I first cut my teeth as an illustrator, doing work for the Nashville Scene, CCM magazine, and endless work for bands and musical acts with t-shirts, merch, and record covers. I wrote songs, recorded, played shows, and shot videos (the essence of which were stolen and reshot by Tom Green for his show...rrrrrr).

I was 25 when I moved from Chicago. Fed-up with the lake-effect weather and everlasting traffic, I just wanted out. But where?

I wrote a short list of potential places; LA, NYC, Seoul, and Nashville. I had friends in each place, but Nashville was the only one within driving range (8hrs). Plus, while LA sounded very tempting, I also flashed forward to the disastrous heartache I would feel if I were to meet a woman, fall in love, break-up, and then see her face splashed on billboards advertising a new film or tv show, (basically the storyline to Bob Seger’s “Hollywood Nights”). And I’d already had enough heartbreak, (little did I know, this very scenario would feature in my future, regardless). NYC would come eventually. Seoul, Korea to teach English was a thought, but Nashville was within reach. So I booked on down I-65 to see some friends and check it out.

My expectations were very low.

I had imagined a cowtown, an oversized HEE-HAW set, everyone wearing cowboy hats, sitting on wooden fences, popping up from cornfields shouting,”Sa-lute!”. Now, I loved HEE-HAW as a kid, but as a next stop?

I couldn’t have been more wrong. It wasn’t anything like that. Young, energetic, vibrant, optimistic, and productive. And it was sunny. And it was warm. And you could get about with ease. And it was inexpensive. And it was friendly.

There are places you visit that somehow feel like home in an instant, but you don’t know why. This was Nashville, for me. No hemming or hawing, THIS was the place.

One month later I moved there, encouraged and helped by my friend Sally Carns (Gulde) and to a great extent my new friend Michael Oliver. And while there, I made a ton of friends quickly; through work, music, and church. It was complete plug and play writ large, the perfect sandbox, and I loved every minute of it.

20 years gone and the word about the greatness of this town must have gotten out. Everybody has moved to Nashville. The choking traffic I had escaped leaving Chicago had descended, like a heart attack patient with clogged arteries or severe constipation, or both. It’s awful. This was a common bone of contention among the friends I was able to see; Buddy & Kirk Jackson, Chris Donohue, Thomas & Katherine Petillo, Phil Madeira, Kit Kite, and Jimmy Abegg. It’s madness.

Am I side-noting the story too much here in Part IV? Is this the part in The Last Jedi where Finn & Rose jet off to that casino planet, leaving the core plot to throw in some cultural filler? Hold...patience. Where is Arla? She is hovering in my mind and chest, just like she is for you now I imagine. This whole revelatory chapter, are on my mind, and I’m slowly sharing it with my friends. We will get back on track, I only wanted to share a bit of the city I loved, and the people therein. I rarely get back.

Without belaboring it too much, I will say this; I spent January-April in Chicagoland. It was good and I enjoyed much about it, but I’m in Nashville all of one day and I can already feel my roots begin to unfurl and reach out for the anchoring ground. Traffic be damned, this is home. I just feel it. It was astonishing, 4 months vs. 1 day. That spoke volumes. Nashville, I miss and love you, but I know I can’t stay. I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Two days time is all I can afford for now.

Westward bound.

(Now, some of you have already skipped ahead, seeing the seemingly innocuous post I made on May 25th “Having lunch with my mother”, which at the time kinda slipped under the radar, but now is taking on a bit more weight. Well, I am trusting that a few of you were fans of the film Titanic. It may be a bit of a spoiler, but wait...)

Here’s a taste of my Nashville in the 90’s. Some of you remember well:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HC6gmiKzQU

Turning 47: pt. V

“Westward Bound”

15-16 May 2018

Begrudgingly, I trod the walkway from The Honky Chateau, home & studio of my inadvertent mentor and dear friend, artist Buddy Jackson. I appreciate this man so much, and that he allows room for me to crash at his place in Nashville when I’m there. Though I don’t want to leave, my car is pointed toward the freeway. Again, what would have taken 10 minutes in 1998 takes 40, bumper-to-bumper at a snail’s pace.

Once traffic loosened up, I headed back up to stay at Chez Chevallier in New Harmony one more night. My plan was to get an early start the next morning and catch lunch in St. Louis with Cayce Lanham Zavaglia, an artist whose portrait work with thread is incomparable (unless we’re speaking of Chuck Close, then there’s a comparison). See http://www.caycezavaglia.com

I hadn’t seen Cayce since undergrad 25 years ago, though, like many, we are FB and Instagram close. St. Louis is a little over a 2 hr drive from New Harmony, after which my plan is to drive as far west as I am able to get in range of Garden City in the southwestern corner of Kansas.

I arrive at the Contemporary Art Museum in St. Louis, our planned rendezvous point (because, of course, that what all artists do, we gom about in museums 😉). In true artist fashion I had to calculate my budget when ordering a sandwich at the museum café while I waited for her to arrive. “Just tap water, thanks”, I muttered to the artisanal sandwich chef, who pointed toward the tray of complimentary water carafes.

Cayce arrived a bit sheepishly. You know how it is; you knew someone from back in the day and you are regularly tic-tacking back & forth on social media in the intervening years, but when the time arrives for a face-to-face, parts of you are negotiating an escape. Fortunately, the momentum was forward and we lock eyes, tractor beam on.

It was easy as pie (and a lot less expensive than in the café). We rummaged over the last 25 years, her work showing in New York, and the art market. She was wondering how my work was coming since “my” gallery in NYC closed. Now Cayce, like many others, by no fault of their own, has been under the impression that I am Kurt Lightner. Now, I am Kurt Lightner, but there is ANOTHER Kurt Lightner who is an artist, originally from Ohio, now out of New York (since 2001). His work is solid, painting on mylar, sculpture, and installation. And his work is similar enough to the work I was making as an undergrad that the confusion was inevitable.

I’m going to tangent a bit further, because I have never really spoken or written about this matter. I first became aware of the other Kurt Lightner when I was living in Nashville. My friend Ted Graffam came to town after passing the New York Bar Exam after graduating law school in Buffalo and stayed at my place. Ted was looking at getting into entertainment law (and, boy, did he ever). He tells me this story about stopping in Ohio on his way down to see another college friend. They see a flyer in a café for a rave party happening that night “with paintings by Kurt Lightner”. Whoa!! So they show up to the event and tell the people at the door that they are friends of mine. “Oh, he’s right over there”, a door person gestures. It wasn’t me. It was the other Kurt Lightner, and Ted tells me like he’s about to burst for having to wait until he arrived at my place to let it out.

Weird. Hmmm. What?! I imagine most people are fairly protective of their name. Even in Sweden, where there are more Johan Johanssons than you could count. But to have another person be your namesake, working in the exact same field was, uh, jarring. So I dialed up my Netscape Navigator browser to see if I could find more information about this Kurt Lightner. And I did, and there was a phone number...

I can’t recall how much time passed, but one day I picked up the phone and dialed Ohio...”Is this Kurt Lightner?”, I asked. “This is.”, said the voice on the other end. “This is Kurt Lightner.”, I replied. Turns out he had heard of me too. We talked for about 20 minutes, art stuff mostly; materials, subject matter, our likes/dislikes. Turns out he is my age, and even has the SAME middle initial in his name: M. His is for Monte, mine is Matthew. Dizzying and somewhat frustrating. So I tell him about this idea I had hatched to try to get ahead of the confusion. “ I have this idea for a short documentary called ‘Growing Up Kurt Lightner’. Basically, it would follow both of us, our work and background, and serve to alleviate the tension of one of us breaking out before the other”. He thought it was a decent idea, or at least I got that impression, but as many ideas do, it landed on the shelf for a later date.

Cut to two years later; I’m living in Brooklyn, kinda courting this beautiful Swede. We are walking down Bedford Ave. and we see our friend Dale Hannon coming toward us. He’s waving. We’re waving back. Our paths meet. “Kurt Lightner!!”, he exclaims, “Meet Kurt Lightner!!”. 👀 I stutter, ”Are you...?” . “Yes”. 🧠💥

We had the grill going that night on N. 1st Street, and I and Kurt Lightner sat there kind of embaffled. He was starting his Masters at SVA that autumn. I have a Polaroid of us buried somewhere, which I will attach when I can.

One year later, 2002, I am in Sweden with the woman I walked with, Madeleine Müller, and we are about to welcome our first child. Meanwhile, the other Kurt Lightner is busy kicking down doors and making our name for himself. I have the pleasure of reading in the New York Times online, in between changing diapers, about his permanent piece at PS 1 and the European collectors snatching up his work at a collector only event featuring young, new artists on the scene. We still receive email intended for the other Kurt M. Lightner. It is still embaffling (not a word, but you get it. Deeply baffling). You can check out his work at kurtlightner dot net OR you can buy my work, some of it at least, at kurtlightner.bigcartel.com

If you are still reading this, thank you for allowing me to trudge through that for the first time, publicly.

So this is what I tell Cayce (pronounced like KC, btw). And now I’m sheepish. She too is embaffled. I mention that I’ve never been that comfortable with the gallery scene, and then I lay down the BIG story, about the DNA test, the message from Arla, the “what to do” aspect. She tells me that I really should try to meet her. I say, yeah, I’d like that, but there are a couple hurdles to leap. First, I need to tell my parents, who I will be seeing the next day. They are unaware that I’ve done the Ancestry thing or that I’ve gotten results back OR that I’ve been contacted by my birth mother. What will they say? How will they react? It is very important for me that they would be onboard before anything like that were to happen.

Cayce says go for it.

The time grew later than I had planned, but that is how it goes when you get to see an old friend and the things that clicked then, still click now. I needed to figure out my next move on the westward push. Cayce offers a sofa in her and Greg’s house (a gorgeous Georgian), but I’m feeling the tug. I need to get to Garden City by tomorrow for my cousin Matt’s wedding the next day.

So I thank her and continue to head west across Missouri, towards Kansas City. Hmmm....my friend Bruce lives there.

“Hey, Bruce! Are you in KC?....Would you have room for a traveler tonight?”

Turning 47: pt. VI

“Carry On, My Wayward Son”

16-17 May 2018

Following the directions given by the Waze app, I twist through street lit asphalt noodles on the outskirts of Kansas City toward Bruce’s house. I have no real idea where I am, having surrendered my Rand McNally skills to Lord GPS, the Omniscient. It’ll do, though this willingness to give in to technology does have me concerned about the plight of human capability, knowledge, and will.

The idea of Kansas City used to set my imagination alight. Having grown up 3 1/2 hrs north in Des Moines, Iowa, Kansas City meant one thing: Worlds of Fun amusement park. And I was certain it was...worlds of fun. If only we could have stopped there once when traveling to see our relatives in southwestern Kansas. We never did. The closest we got was a drive-by; seeing the tracks of the Zambezi Zinger and Orient Express roller coasters rising up above the tree line behind the gates. Here it comes, here it comes, here it COMES...there it goes. So close!

I make it to Bruce’s place. He’s putting his kids to bed, but offers me a beer from a local KC brewery and tells me to sit down & relax. I’ve known Bruce since 2nd grade, but we were never all that close growing up, just in the same class. However, in the last 10 yrs we have been able to reconnect via FB, and I’m grateful for it. This stop will be the third time I get to see the man during my stint in the U.S.; twice in Chicago, and then this time.

Bruce Copeland casts a wide net for people, open to hearing an opposing idea, and generous and accepting that there is room to differ without getting bent out of shape. A welcomed relief in this day & age. He has a big heart, and grateful to those who stepped into his life to help get him on the right track. This Bruce is nothing like the one I knew in elementary school; undisciplined, rambunctious, and hilariously disruptive. No, this Bruce is a good sounding board, measured and wise.

He comes down from putting his kids to bed, and we shoot the bull. Talk about professoring and what that was like, the drive, where I’m headed next. And then I lay down the story of the Ancestry results and subsequent message I received from my birth mother. I had yet to contact Arla again, save for letting her know that I would be in contact after processing this huge information, which is what I had been doing, slowly, in waves. Bruce takes it in stride, and we just chill.

The next morning, I’m up early (for me) staring down the barrel of a 9 hr drive. Bruce makes some coffee and we chat about old times, a bit of “where are they now” and “remember when”. So good and all so improbable. I’m completely open to all of this improbability. It seems to be the soup in which I am swimming.

I hit the road west again, this time across the Sunflower State: Kansas.

Now, this drive is notoriously monotonous, droning on forever in a dull, never-ending string of utter nothingness; at least for most. This is not the case for me. I grew up taking this trip at least once a year, fighting for room with my 4 brothers in the back of our brown 1984 Dodge Caravan, sometimes with a dead animal strapped to the rooftop for my dad to taxidermy later (the inspiration for one of my band’s songs,”Skunk in a Box”). For me, the drive is actually dynamic; cruising past vast wheat fields, big white grain elevators, sprawling irrigation crawlers, paralleling the occasional, impossibly long freight train, and rolling through the sand hills where I used to imagine playing Cowboys & Indians (growing up being told that I was 25% Native American, I always fought for team Indian). So the drive, for me, is sheer nostalgic joy.

In making my way to Garden City, I decide to go through the town where I spent my formative years from 2-7; Hutchinson, Kansas. In my mind, and experience, Hutchinson is a place trapped in memories ending in 1978, when we moved to Des Moines. In those memories, it’s always sunny, warm, and golden, like a postcard or advertisement of the time. It’s always Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. It’s always Sesame Street. Always the Krofft Supershow. Always CHiPs. Always The Six Million Dollar Man.

What was our old address? I had it memorized in 1st grade, but now? Hmmm. I kinda recognize these streets, but...hmmm. Eventually I make my way to W. 25th Street and see our old house, remembering jumping up & down on that porch with excitement as a boy, seeing Grandma & Grandpa Rupp pulling up in their impossible road yacht, a 1971 Chrysler New Yorker. And there was my best friend Marci McCoy’s house, where we used to eat Zingers and watch cartoons. And there was the church, across the parking lot from our house, where my dad went through his ordination process to become a pastor. All there, but altered, slightly, by time.

This whole experience has felt like traveling through time; from teaching at my alma mater, seeing old friends, and revisiting people and places once locked in memory, and then, suddenly unlocked. Here it is, right in front of me; where I first learned to ride a bike, where I got my head stuck between some metal bars, where I dropped a bunch of bricks down a tube to hear them splash (inadvertently ruining a septic tank).

So I tooled through Hutch, and so much of it had not changed from my memory. I stopped at Dairy Queen and had a Blizzard, then into Dillons grocery store (exactly the same), and then into the public library. I just wanted to go in and see if it smelled the same as I had remembered. A woman at the check-out desk asked me if I was looking for something. I said, “Yeah...1978”. I mentioned that I moved away as a kid and just wanted to come in and see if it smelled the same. “Does it?”, she asked. “Exactly the same.”

After that, I went to the riverside park, and got back on my way to Garden. Again, I had taken liberties with my time and was running behind, but it was only another 3.5 hours to go...or so I thought.

After an hour and a half, I take a rest stop in Kinsley, KS, heralded as the historic halfway point on the railroad between New York and San Francisco. There’s a little park there with a giant locomotive. I was snapping off a few pics when suddenly I feel the air temp drop precipitously. I look back and see the sky is dark, gun metal gray. Uh oh. I get in the car and sit there, turn on the radio and hear the scratchy emergency weather report coming in; severe thunderstorms and possible tornadoes in Ford, Finney, and Gray counties. This is my direct route! Better get going.

The wind was raging, trying push my car off the road. I didn’t get but a few miles from Kinsley before I chose to pull over and wait it out. Driving on these rural two lane highways with semi-trucks passing at blistering speed is gamble enough in fair weather, but in these conditions? Nope, not worth it.

So, I parked my car on a side road, perpendicular to the storm and waited. It was awesome, like being in a terror spa. In Sweden, we don’t get this kind of dramatic weather and I had missed it thoroughly.

Eventually it let up enough for me to get back on the route. The rain, wind, and lightning were still relentless the entire way, but then there was also Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” and Tommy Tutone’s “867-5309” coming through on the radio, so there was a balance.

One last 10 minute leg to go, I rounded past Garden City proper, heading down South Star Highway toward my uncle John and aunt Cindy’s farm, where my parents were there to meet me. I knew what I would have to reveal when I saw them. How would they react? I really had no idea. This might go belly-up. Whenever the subject of “would you be interested in finding your family” would come up, and it very rarely ever would, I got a sense of eggshell walking. So, what would happen when they hear the words I am about to say?

Finally, I arrive, and my folks and uncle are there waiting in the doorway. Greetings and hugs (I hadn’t seen John since 2001). The farm is in the exact same place it’s been since before I could remember, and here it is, right in front of me.

We bring in my bags, and then I begin to divulge my tale...

Turning 47: pt. VII

“All in the Family”

17-21 May

During that blustery drive across the southwestern stretch of Kansas to the Double Bar “L” farm, a thought occurred to me that continued to build. In her original message, Arla had written both her email and phone number, the area code placing her in Colorado. I’m thinking, I’m already this far west, and Colorado is only a few hours further...maybe I could just continue to drive after joining my family here for my cousin Matt’s wedding and perhaps...hmmm. I only foresaw two obstacles; one, I had been borrowing one of my folk’s cars for the entire Spring in Chicago and had already racked up considerable miles, and two, they could have a bad reaction to the news. That was a toss up. So I would need to tread lightly if I were to reach for that.

Coming in from the rain, I set my bags down and kick off my boots. I’m shown where I will be sleeping; downstairs in the den area where my cousins and I used to play Atari PONG on the Magnavox console TV. This was formerly my Grandpa Lightner’s house and there are still vivid set pieces from that time; the Brunswick Balke Collender pool table, the card table with inset compartments for each player’s cards, the mid-century stonework. My aunt and uncle had expanded the back of the house, where my grandpa’s desk used to sit, into a large, open sitting room with a wrap-around sofa and a couple comfy rockers the color of oxblood (which looked to me like pair of Claes Oldenburg soft-sculpture art objects resembling over grown livers). There was a lot of memory in this place. I was about to make one more.

After getting settled, I was talking with my mom & dad about the trip, the time at Wheaton, and such. Then I said, “I took the opportunity while I was here to get my DNA run through Ancestry”. My mom shot back, ”Oh wow. We thought that might be something for you.” (positive). They were visibly excited, in a good way. “So, what did it say?”, my dad asked. So, I showed them how it worked on the app; the background information estimated by the service, and the section showing others whose DNA markings make them a close match to distant relative. They were fascinated, of course, bordering on giddy. They had never known any more information than what they had told me, so this was a big moment for them, too.

When I showed them the 2nd section for connections, I pointed out this woman marked as a close relative who I had seen straight away after receiving the results. “I saw this and thought, ‘Am I looking at my mother’?”, I said, “But it turns out, she’s my aunt. My birth mother contacted me the day after I got the results”. Oh wow.

Visibly, my parents were afflux with emotion; glee to reservation, and back again. So I read the message that Arla had written aloud to them, then my response. My dad was impressed, ”She sounds level-headed and cautious. That’s good.” Over a career as a pastor, he has seen and counseled all sorts of desperate people in distress and in need, so he knows the markers and potential dangers in situations like this. He kinda teared up. This was an emotional thing for them.

Then he blurts,”Hey! You’re already in Kansas! Colorado is just next door! You should try to meet her.” And that was that. Wow. No need to angle. I would go to Colorado. But first, we had the business of attending my cousin Matt’s wedding the next day.

Now, I would never be accused of being known to travel great distances to attend momentous events in my relatives’ lives. It’s not a point of pride, just a fact. But this particular wedding was a little, nay, a lot different.

Matt became a widower last year when his wife Emily was t-boned at a rural Kansas intersection by a 17 yr old driving upwards of 90 mph (145 kph) outside of Hutchinson, leaving behind six children under the age of 10, including a newborn and two adopted toddlers. It was such devastating news to receive being overseas. I never had the pleasure of meeting Emily, but my sense is that she was a dynamo, the engine, the dreamer and doer, and she perfectly matched Matt. I saw them as two tent posts, creating a warm family nest together, and then suddenly, one of the tent post falls, and the tent falling in around them. I reached out to Matt via FB, but did not expect a reply. It was an extremely grievous time.

Then, in the Spring, as I’m making plans for what to do after classes finish up, (the plan was to drive to Nashville, hop a plane to Seattle, drive down and up the coast to see friends, fly back to Nashville, spend some more time there, then drive back up to my folks in MN, and fly out to Sweden on the 30th of May) my folks called to let me know that Matt was getting remarried May 19th and it sure would be nice if I were able to make it. My northwest plans were foiled, but I was amazed and thrilled for Matt and, of course, I would go. I would be able to celebrate with him and offer my condolences about Emily in person, all in the same go.

So I hear that the woman he’s marrying, Megan, is also the survivor of a departed partner. From what I know, her husband died of cancer, leaving her to care for their four children, also all under 10 yrs old. 😮 so that means...let me do the math...6 + 4...hmmm....WHOA!! Ten under ten. That is incredible on top of improbable on top of nearly impossible; that they found each other and that they already knew each other from high school and that they and their families can begin to heal. Just beyond.

And since they were both originally from Garden City, it seemed the whole city showed up (well, at least 300 people). And all ten kids stood in the wedding as both groomsmen and bridesmaids. There was sadness and joy. Emily’s folks were there, which must have taken all the strength and love they have. What an emotional event!

Matt and Megan get in their 15 person van, with the “Just Married” markings soaped on the back, and drive off...only to drive around the block and return, cause...you know...ten kids. And the reception. There, my dad was making the rounds, shaking hands, seeing relatives; cousins, aunts, uncles. He wanted to take me around with him and reintroduce me to a bunch of people. My father was completely in his element at the reception, it was a joy to see. I was able to get reacquainted with several distant Lightner relatives who knew me from the time I was just a rambunctious, curly toe-headed kid. That my path would take me through the arts and performance and abroad, and not to farming, with fingers the gauge of a baseball bat, was always a bit intimidating, but the conversations flowed with ease, and were very intelligent, even some Swedish spoken by the husband of a second cousin of mine who did a student exchange back in high school. I felt the instant acceptance as I always had as a kid.

It was about this time that my dad began to lobby me to tell everyone the big story about finding out my background and hearing from my birth mother. I felt very private and protective of the story, just having had this lifetime mystery unveiled to myself. I wanted to maintain a level of control over the rate at which I revealed, which I was able to do up to a point but, man, was he excited about it. And that’s a whole world better than the opposite reaction.

The plan now was to stay at the Double Bar “L” to hang with my family until my folks and aunt Mary Sue left to return to Minnesota on Monday. Then...Colorado.

Now, I really need to message the woman who gave me life...

Turning 47: pt. VIII

“Birds of a Feather”

20-21 May 2018

Not many dry eyes in the church during Megan & Matt’s wedding that afternoon, unlike the post-reception drive back to the farm. My dad is playing the push/pull in an effort to have me spill the beans about my discovery to my aunt Mary Sue, making reference to her son Josh, who was also adopted and who has also made contact with his birth-mother. Mary Sue mentions that Josh is guarded about it, which I understand perfectly well.

There is a space created in the psyche when you spend a lifetime speculating about your origin story. It is a private place where you are left to wonder where you got this skill or that, why you are drawn to what you are drawn to, where your physical attributes are derived. I suppose some adoptees make these thoughts verbal, but for myself, and it sounds like my cousin Josh, this is an area closed off outside of the mind.

When visiting a doctor, the question will arise, “Is there any history of ________ in your family?” The response is always, “I don’t know. I’m adopted,” often accompanied with a shrug. You can only know yourself up to a certain point, based on your own personal history, everything else is purely speculative and experimental. Perhaps, this points to why I’ve thrown myself into so many different situations and pursuits, sometimes recklessly and with abandon; bands, jobs, relationships, projects, experiments, travel... It’s a feeling that anything is possible.

This impulse to reach out and try my hand at something new crystallized when, in my senior year in high school, I went out for cross country running. Though I had run on the track team the previous year, I had never competed at the cross country distance before (5K). It was nothing at which I had expected to excel, it simply sounded punishing. But, my girlfriend from the previous year had done the do-si-do on me with my best friend, and I thought it would be good if I had something else with which to occupy my time and mind.

I am tempted to recount that entire season, because it was crazy, but to be brief; I went out wanting to be at least a dependably average runner on the team and ended up being the fastest high school runner in the state of Iowa. It made national news and for the remainder of my last year in high school, I was talking to recruiters more than I was in class. For a 17 yr old whose time spent in little league sports as a kid was sad and abysmal, (I was far more interested in the way the gym was designed, or how the grass on their field was mowed, than the game at hand) this was mind-blowing. Somehow, I was secretly a natural born runner. I ran the same distances in practice as my teammates, did the same workouts, but our equal effort did not amount to equal results. And nothing but my dumb-luck, joining the team, would have bore this out. Where did it come from? What else can I do?

So this part of me, this place of wondering where from and why am I, has always been there, reinforcing itself with each experience, good or bad, as life has progressed. I have a fair understanding of myself, my tolerances, and capabilities at this point in my life, but I am always up for trying something new as if, perhaps, there is another hidden tool yet to be revealed. This has been part of my own private thought life, so to suddenly start gabbing to everyone about finally finding the door that may unlock these mysteries was off putting. My desire was to release it in my own time, in my own way. My dad, God bless him, wanted to shout it from the mountaintop, he was so excited. It was your average, family, stuffed in a vehicle, comedy. A Thanksgiving on wheels.

The next few days were spent relaxing with family on the farm. There is a certain brogue particular to western Kansas. I will not be able to spell it out phonetically, but shares a rhythm and cadence with the farm machinery, and I am just sitting in it like I’m in a hot tub. It has a very soothing hum. Words like “wash” become “warsh”, “golf” becomes “gof”, and the tempo is kicked into low gear.

Within the full extended family, both sides, there is a deeply earnest belief in the Bible, biblical principles, and faith in salvation through Jesus Christ alone. Many of my relatives have been missionaries; to Mexico, Costa Rica, Japan, and Kenya, with my own father being a pastor. So it was not surprising to hear that many of them are doing the Walk Through the Bible, a course that sets a schedule for daily readings from cover to cover. What was new, and innovative, is that uncle John & aunt Cindy were doing the audio version via the Amazon Echo. This came to light when, after a run of wowing us with various, “Alexa...” questions, the Bible narration began. And wouldn’t you know it, it was 1 Chronicles 1:

“Historical Records From Adam to Abraham

To Noah’s Sons

1 Adam, Seth, Enosh,

2 Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared,

3 Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, Noah.

4 The sons of Noah:

Shem, Ham and Japheth.

The Japhethites

5 The sons of Japheth:

Gomer, Magog, Madai, Javan, Tubal, Meshek and Tiras.

6 The sons of Gomer:

Ashkenaz, Riphath[c] and Togarmah.

7 The sons of Javan:

Elishah, Tarshish, the Kittites and the Rodanites.

The Hamites

8 The sons of Ham:

Cush, Egypt, Put and Canaan.

9 The sons of Cush:

Seba, Havilah, Sabta, Raamah and Sabteka.........”

At any point, there could have been a “and so on, and so forth , yadda, yadda, yadda“ to break the tension, but I sat there until I was about to burst. Everyone listened reverent and serious as this roll call continued on and on, verse after verse (54 verses in all). If this were a film, the absurdity of sitting around with all my aunts and uncles and some of my cousins, ears intensely locked on to the narrated list of lineage, would be hilarious. But no one was saying anything. I looked over at my cousin Olivia and she could read my mind. Wishing not to display any disrespect to my relatives, I quietly got up and ushered myself outdoors.

The air was filled with the sounds of the birds filling the trees and criss-crossing the farm; grackles, swallows, and martins. It truly sounded like a jungle. I walked around this farm I had known since I was a kid; there was the barn, the grain elevator and silos, the corral where grandpa’s horse “Red” used to hoof, the machine shop that still smells the same, the motorhome. And the sky!

The area around the farm is flat as a board, making the sky an enormous, unimpeded canvas. Thunderhead clouds can be seen slowly rummaging into the clear sky from over 100 miles away. And the sunsets here are beyond measure.

All of it. All of it was time travel. It was the place between generational links, between the names of lineage. This was alive, changed but unchanged. Familiar, but exotic.

After some time, I went back in. “I’m so sorry” I told my cousin, “I just had to get out.” She laughed and told me it was probably a good move. Had I caught her eye and decided to stay put, I am certain it would have devolved into a death spiral of unsuccessfully stifled forbidden laughter.

My dad caught me going down to the basement and once again plied me to tell my tale, explaining to me that it was news that my relatives would want to know about, that these were people who had cared about me since I came into their lives nearly 47 years ago. That was the kicker. So I told him I would, though I would have preferred the information to be passed indirectly through the grapevine, then come back to me in question form.

So, as my aunts and uncles were gathered after dinner, I shared my story. I am not sure what my dad expected the reaction to be, but it felt like the same reserved reverence given to Alexa reading through the begats scripture. This was not stand-up, my preferred means of delivery; this was straight, no jokes. I couldn’t get a bead on the audience, but I trust that the information was received positively.

And that was that. I hadn’t seen my Lightner relatives for twenty or more years and though I have felt like the odd bird in the nest, I felt deeply loved and my presence appreciated. Well, they liked my jokes, at least.

Monday came, and my folks and aunt Mary Sue were just getting into the car to start their drive back to Minnesota. My plan now was to make tracks west for the mountains, see some friends, and make myself available for a few days just in case, on the off chance, I might be able to meet up with Arla...

I mean, I’m only in the states for another 9 days.

Turning 47: pt. IX

“Rocky Mountain Way”

21 May 2018

Monday morning at the Double Bar “L” farm and I am seeing my folks and aunt off. Before they go, my dad advises wisdom, should any meeting take place. “She probably has a lot more to risk than you, keep this in mind. Are you ready for this?”, he asks. I say that I am, and believe that I am.

One final farewell and my dad climbs into the minivan with my mom and aunt, and utters the phrase that has punctuated the beginning of all the road trips we had as a family, “We’re off like a herd of turtles!”, and they set off on their 12 hr journey back to their small town in Minnesota.

Traveling long distances by car is the way my family has always made their way to far-away destinations. The thought of flying to a place rarely, if ever, enters into the equation. Whether it is too extravagant, modern, or would relinquish the feeling of hands-on control, it is not something that they do. I have this same bug in my system. I love driving hours on end, marathon road trips, like the one I am on. Nature or nurture, I don’t know, but I love it. And for the month following my arrival back to Sweden, my dreams will consistently be of me in a car driving behind the wheel.

The drive ahead of me is not so long, 6-7 hrs, but promises to be dramatic, landscape-wise. But more on that later. For now, I say goodbye to my uncle John, thanking him for all the hospitality, food, and remembering to bring me a knife at meals (after living abroad, I am completely lost eating with solely a fork and fingers. Who knew?).

And I head out, off like a herd of turtles.

My plan is to be in Colorado until Sunday the 27th at the latest. That is the slimmest margin I can afford to return to Minnesota in time to catch my flight back to Göteborg on the 30th. This will give me a week to be in the vicinity should Arla be up to meet, a general sketch I describe to her via email. Whether or not she is game, I will be there. How could I not?

Man, is this part of the country, western Kansas, is beautiful to me. Flat forever on the horizon, semi-trucks barreling by, wide open skies, fields of grain extending as far as the eye can see; corn, wheat, soybeans, alfalfa, sunflowers, rows creating a visual rhythm as I zoom by, cruise control set to 75 mph. Having experienced it all from the backseat growing up makes being behind the wheel all the more enjoyable.

So what would it be like to meet my mother, my birth-mother? I have always pictured the emotion of it overwhelming me, with deep guttural yawps I had never heard before. Over the years here in Sweden, my mother-in-law (now ex-mother-in-law), Eva, has been bent on getting me on this television show, “Spårlöst” (means “without a trace”). The show’s premise is to follow and assist adoptees in Sweden search to find their families. Though I am touched that she would want this, I have absolutely no desire to make my meeting with these mysteries being unveiled a broadcast event. No way, no how. I can only imagine wailing uncontrollably like a buffoon on camera, and this is not how I wanted to be presented to the public. She would return to the idea again and again.

NOW, if a meeting were to happen, it would be in private and, hopefully, in the right conditions.

The only blood relatives I had ever met were my children, August and Esther. There are certain attributes and personality quirks, in both, that I can see come directly from me, (but then, from whom before? I wonder. How deep does this go?). August is lean and goofy, Esther is observant and hilarious. In fact, she is the most naturally funny person I’ve ever known. So quick witted. Years ago, shortly after their mother and I divorced, we were sitting at the dinner table, eating and talking, when August or I said something awkward that stopped the conversation. Esther looked up, as if toward a camera, and said, “We’ll be right back”, as if we were on air. She was 7. I must have laughed for 3 minutes straight. A real watershed moment. August and I share an interest in cars, though his far outpaces mine. We’ll be out and he’ll say, “Dad! Dad! Did you see that?” I’m like, “What?” “That! Over there! It’s a Mazda XBGDHTVFX-3! There are only TWO of those in Sweden! I can’t believe I’m seeing this!” I am excited for him to be starting auto mechanic school in the autumn. So, this is the extent to which I have been in touch with my bloodline, and whatever traits there might be in this shared DNA. What would await?

I cross the Kansas/Colorado state line. The landscape is exactly the same, flat, though a bit more arid and wild. I pull off to the first rest stop a couple miles in. It’s completely vacant; a perfect setting for a scene in a David Lynch production. I skype with Sara, my girlfriend back in Sweden, to just show her the area where I’m standing. Both the US and Colorado state flags are waving strong and proud in the gusting wind. It’s good to talk to her in this unassuming, nearly off-the-grid location. I am wishing she could be with me on this road trip. Skyping is the next best option. Thank you, internet.

I get back on the road, and will stay on this path for the next few hundred miles.

Musically, I alternate between my CD collection (thankfully brought a sleeve from home and purchased dozens at Goodwill back in Chicagoland), and the radio. Now, when you’re on the road, away from your local pre-set channels, you are at the mercy of the strength of the radio signal. You might find a station playing the perfect music or news, only to have it start to crack and fizzle as it loses it’s reach. Then you have to scan for another. I do like it, though, getting to know the culture of a given area via the radio options. During these stretches, one can reliably count on three radio flavors; Country, Christian, and Classic Rock. And you can find multiple versions of only these three, all within the same market. It started me sketching out a song in my head about this.

The miles wear on, the music plays at volume, and I’m singing along heading into the unknown. Then I see them; the Rocky Mountain range peeking up at the horizon. Faintly visible, just a touch of ultra-marine blue, added to copious amounts of white is how I would mix the paint. The feeling of seeing this has never changed since I was a kid, a feeling of power, possibility, adventure, and wonder. I have never gotten over it, and am exhilarated to know this, just this sight, still sends me. Every time I have been to Colorado, I am aware that this is where I came from (because that’s what the birth certificate says). And every time I think, I MUST have family here. This time I know for sure.

I stop to grab a bite to eat and check my messages and social. Arla has replied. She says that circumstances are such that we would not be able to meet this time, but that we most certainly will at some point in the future. Unfazed, I write back to say that there is no pressure, since the revelation of existence has already jumped us from 0-100, but that I will still be staying in Colorado this week if circumstances happen to change. I also emphasize that my being in the states is actually a rare event and that sometimes there is never a best time for things. Sent.

Sandwich and email finished, I celebrate with a strawberry shake and an extra shot of insulin.

See the transitions in landscape here>>>> https://youtu.be/q-eIu1qM2SE

You will pass the farm, Double Bar “L”, at 01:35. (Double Bar “L” is the family branding sign, used to brand livestock. It’s a capital L with two bars underneath. )

Below, you can see the Rockies come no into view.

Turning 47: pt. X

“Take the Highway to the Great Divide”

22-23 May 2018

Being a mono-tasker does have its advantages; a sharp focus on the task at hand, attention to detail, seeing a project through to the end. However, it comes with some stark deficits. In my haste and certitude in driving here, I have not only completely forgotten to contact any of my friends in Colorado to let them know I would be in the area, I haven’t even bothered to look up who is even living here. I have not thought this through.

Colorado Springs sits at the rough middle point in the state, east of the range, and I decide I’ll stop there to gather myself and hatch a plan. I just plug “Colorado Springs” into the navigator and let it guide me its deemed destination in the city, where ever that happens to be. It turns out to be the courthouse. So, park and sit for awhile, feeling mildly panicked, checking FB for people I know in Colorado and start writing. Friends who haven’t heard from me in years are now receiving messages, like “Hey, I’m in Colorado. Are you around?”.

Not feeling like the brightest bulb in the pack, I feel like a walk in the sunshine and a good stretch the legs is in order. As I head up the downtown street and across to a park, my senses are heightened by the unfamiliarity of the place. This leads me to finding a café. Starbucks, of course. Like a McDonald’s sign in a foreign country, a known quantity in a strange place is always a welcomed sight, however bland or blasé it might be. I order an iced coffee and take a seat outside. Check my social for any messages (none), and sip my cold beige.

Yesterday, before they left the farm, my aunt Lydia gave me both her phone number and my uncle Harry Kent’s, saying I would be welcomed to stay with them in Denver, should the need arise. Need has arisen. So I make the call.

Harry Kent & Lydia had been career missionaries in Costa Rica until retiring back to the US a few years ago. Though I had just been with them in Kansas, I hadn’t seen them for decades prior. They are very gracious, but also quite staid, so I am feeling both grateful and a bit like I’m on my tip-toes when Lydia gives me the green light to come.

The drive from Colorado Springs to my aunt & uncle’s takes about an hour and a half, but WHAT an hour and a half. For those who live here, I imagine the mountains to my shoulder and the massive rising and dipping earth formations have long become so commonplace as not to be noticed. But for these fresh eyes, it is a tall drink. I would prefer to be a passenger at this point, giving my full attention to the gorgeousness of it all, like I did when I was a kid on family vacation. As it is, I have to drive, and driving and gawking do not mix easily, especially for this mono-tasker. So, I try keep my eyes on traffic, while stealing glimpses when I am able.

Colorado is where my parents met, at Bear Trap Ranch in the mountains to the west of Colorado Springs. Both were in college at the time and were working there over the summer of ‘66, my mother in the kitchen, while my dad was a horse wrangler. The details of their courtship are unclear to me, other than my dad was strapping and my mom looked like Sally Fields, but I do know they were married within a year and have been ever since. The stretch between their hometowns, from southern Minnesota to western Kansas, was an enormous yawning midwestern gap (one our family would lap dozens of times). My dad would finish his studies at Kansas State in Manhattan, Kansas (very confusing when I was a kid. Where were the skyscrapers?), while my mom would teach kindergarten. Then they would move to Denver, where my dad would attend seminary, which is where I come into the picture in 1971.

In those early years, I can remember returning with them to Bear Trap; seeing young college co-eds in school sweatshirts, the smell of ponderosa pine, and the incomprehensible natural wonder of the mountains and surroundings. My dad always talked about his desire to move back to the Rockies when he retired. Instead, it is his older brother, Harry Kent, who has made Colorado his post-career residence.

The sun is setting as I arrive at their place; a latin turquoise blue house in a neighborhood of strict beige on beige. I absolutely approve. My aunt & uncle greet me at the door, show me my room, and give me the grand tour. The walls are lined with artifacts and memories from Costa Rica; sculptures, prints, and paintings. It is such a relief to be able to be caught by the family net, even after so many years and such distance.

Over the next couple days, Arla and I volley emails back and forth; I am still confident, feeling the needle is beginning to point toward a “yes”. In the meantime, I am fielding replies to the odd messages I had sent out to the diaspora of friends in Colorado. I hear from my friend Dawn Wilkinson.

Dawn was the Assistant Residence Director (ARD) in Fischer dorm at Wheaton when I was a Residence Assistant (RA) on 5-South, a year that nearly did me in. See, for both my freshman and sophomore years, I had developed this reputation for being wild and/or crazy, warranted or not. I would merely say that I was uninhibited. I certainly was making the most of my time, going for broke. Anything creative; music, performance, comedy, art, intricate pranks...it was all the same cloth to cut. I was going full-bore and having a blast, trying and doing new things, surrounded by some of the most interesting and creative that I had ever met. I was certainly set on having a good time and making an impact. An impact which backfired on me when, in my junior year, I took on the position as RA.

Now, Wheaton is a small school, about 2400 students, and when word spread that I would be in charge of 5-South, this naturally drew the interest of a certain type of student. One with a certain flexibility to rules and regulations. This would have been all fine and good had the school kept their former RD (Res. Dir.). However, the person they brought in, two weeks before school was to start, was a strict, by the books, rule enforcer. It was law by black & white vs. rainbow tie-dye, that whole year. Had my floor been a full house of buttoned-up types, it still would have been a challenge (it was 46 guys, after all, 18-19 yrs old on their first foray away from home). The sum of these parts added up to a nearly impossible and completely unmanageable year for me. This was the year I learned how to sleep through alarms, the year I sunk Marianas trench deep into Sergio Mendes & Brasil ‘66 records, and the year my grades plummeted, nay, spelunked, a full grade point. One of the saving graces was my superior, Dawn Wilkinson. She was the buffer between me and the RD, and was one of the few reasons I was able to make it through that year, tattered, but intact.

So, now, present day Dawn mentions to me the Air Force Academy is putting on their annual graduation air show in Colorado Springs, where she is. Perhaps, we could meet afterward? So I cruise down to see the air show which has just ended (although there is air to look at). Turns out they had started an hour earlier than scheduled. Bummer. Dawn & I text and she gives me the address of the church where she’s working. I plug in the coordinates and head that way.

I meet her in the church office and we go out to sit in the lobby. We talk Wheaton, our old colleagues from Fischer dorm, Colorado, her husband Dave (who I knew from back then), their kids, my kids, Sweden, and this trip I’m on. I lay down the skinny on why I am out this way.

“Do you think it will happen?”, she asks. “We’ll see, but I feel pretty good about it,” I say. We talk and talk, and then her teenage son and nearly-to-be married daughter arrive. “This is the guy I’ve been telling you about all these years! You know, the crazy one”, or something like that...(not verbatim). More talking and sharing and then it’s time to go. 25 years can go by and feel like a blink of an eye. Time is one of the strangest things we experience in life, I am convinced.

Getting back in the car, I can see Arla has written again! From her tone, I am certain she is getting closer to granting my offer to meet. Time, place, and logistics are the obstacles, yet, what I am seeing looks like a solution is coming....soon.

Turning 47: pt. XI

“Meet Me Halfway”

24 May 2018

There are known-knowns, known-unknowns, and unknown-unknowns.

In less than two weeks time, developments have shot through at light speed and run the gamut; from a nebulous, experience-based self-awareness established over 46 years of living (the bedrock to my understanding), to a clinical and scientifically processed DNA background clarification, to an actual, definitive piece of a near half-century puzzle, falling into my lap.

In this two week timeframe, my emotional state, though amplified and humming with electricity, has been bridled and restrained. Like watching a thunderhead form, rising and slowly expanding, a thick, towering physical presence in the sky, the light from the sun glinting and radiating its contours, being absorbed in its mass. Its movement is slow; one can try to predict and anticipate, but one cannot know.

Whether or not this slow churn has precipitated or informed my sense of how I envision any potential face-to-face with the mother of my birth, I cannot say, but it certainly does dovetail seamlessly into how I am experiencing this. What I would like to happen is to simply sit and have a coffee with her. I do not have an agenda, no laundry list of questions, gripes, complaints, or concerns. I just want to be there with her, sharing the same space.

Knowing that these kinds of meetings have the potential to be fraught with emotion, my expectation and desire for myself is to run at a low hum, letting the time and conversation roll as it will. I have no mandate to fulfill. Still, I am wondering how Arla is feeling or thinking about all of this.

This attitude, coupled with an unwarranted optimism, is how I am approaching my time here in Colorado, giving time to be available. Though it is not guaranteed, I am believing it will happen.

In the meantime, there are more people to see while I await a definitive reply. Today will take me across to the west side of Denver to see my friend Lil, who I haven’t seen since 2002, just before leaving from Brooklyn to Gothenburg. At that time, she was visiting NYC with her mother and bought me a few parting gifts. The card attached read, “To my dumb friend”.

Lil and I met in Nashville back in the late 90’s while she was pursuing her nursing degree at Vanderbilt University. If you were ever to hike the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine, Lil would be an ideal person to go with. Rugged, sensible, and woods-smart, a real git-r-dun kind of friend, and not afraid to be on a trail far from civilization. Still, I haven’t seen her for 16 years, and in that time she’s married and had three daughters. Now, if I can just find her place, I will see if she’s the same Lil who’s willing to call me out when needed.

Once again, I am thankful to have my navigator, but it gets me thinking; what if all the traffic and incomprehensible noodling roadways are a result of an assumption made by engineers, designers, and developers that every driver is now using and depending on GPS? It would explain a move away from a logically understandable grid system. And while I’m at it, let me just voice my disdain for round-abouts. For someone more inclined to the four-way stop, these little jessies seem pointless, especially when using a navigator. “Take the third exit on the round-about and head straight.” So now I need to count?

After twisting, turning, and looping around, I finally exit the freeway and head into Lil’s neighborhood, one of a multitude of planned communities around Denver where house distinction is negligible. And apparently, the names of the streets are given the same limited consideration. I am looking for a street called “Dartmouth Ave.” and I see it right away...but then there’s another one, and another, and yet another. I feel like I’ve driven into a glitch in the Matrix.

Upon reaching the correctly numbered “Dartmouth Ave.”, I park in the cul-de-sac and check my phone. BLAM! Arla is up for meeting!!! Wow! Ok. Would I be okay to meet in Pueblo on Friday or Saturday? It would be a halfway point between us. I write back and say YES, and that either day would be okay. A bit of back and forth over which would work best for her, and it’s decided that Saturday would be best. Then, a minute later, it’s Friday. I’m game for either. We stick to Friday.

All this, before getting out of the broiling car and up the steps to ring Lil’s doorbell. “Lil!!” She invites me in, we hug, say hello, and asks if I want something to drink. I probably say yes, but I can’t recall. I’m just mesmerized, both by the news, and by yet another instance of this improbable journey, Lil Thompson! She doesn’t look any different than when I knew her in Nashville, except now she is rooted and very happy. And, of course, she has a bear-sized dog who looks exactly like the one I knew her to have 20 years ago. It wasn’t Boaz, but it could have been.

We gab a bit, and then a bit more, and a bit more still, catching up, mentioning people we knew, the whole nine yards. Then I tell her what brought me out to Colorado and the new, hot off the press news. Wow!

We then drive to grab lunch and hang a bit. Once again, I am amazed that none of the inter-veiling years have altered any bit of the way we interact. It’s as if I had just seen her last week. I have read, the way a person makes you feel leaves a far more lasting impact than the things that they say. While I remember our conversation, and was even surprised that we agreed on so many things, it was how it felt, just chilling with her again, that has remained with me. It made me wish we didn’t live so far away.

After a nice iced coffee, we drive back to her’s, take a selfie, then hug goodbye. She wishes me good luck in the coming days of the adventure. I hop in my car and head into the mountains , up toward Evergreen, a small, influential bedroom community tucked in the foothills. I’ve actually been here before, back in the early 90’s celebrating Christmas with some of the loveliest people I’ve known, my then girlfriend’s family. This time, I’m solo, and it’s summer. I have a few college friends living up here that it’d be good to see; Kerry Cox and Benny & Kathleen Simpson.

I have been relishing this interim waiting period, being able to see people I haven’t for years. And now it’s all the more vibrant, knowing that I will actually be meeting Arla in the next day.

(Here’s that drive up to Evergreen, with music by another long-time friend, Jason Harrod. I’ve posted it before, but now you know its context.) 👇🏼

Turning 47: pt. XII

“Tomorrow People”

24 May 2018

Gravity is a constant, but in the mountains feels more pronounced. It works the engine more going up, and the brakes going down. Now, when I drive, I like to glide on cruise control. This is nigh on impossible on the steeply graded freeways around Denver. I’m feeling a similar tug inside, knowing that, tomorrow, I will be meeting my birth mother for the first time in life.

What’s that going to be like? From our brief, but rapid correspondence, I have garnered a few bits of information which I’ve already tucked between my right and left ventricles. In the nine months which she carried me, she would play her Gibson guitar, singing me songs by John Denver, Linda Ronstadt, and Carole King. Now, c’mon...really?! “Tapestry” is kind of a default staple album for women I’ve dated, playing in the background as some organic gruel simmered on the stove. I love that record, and Carole King. John Denver, as well, but then, he did have Denver as a last name (actual name Deutschendorf) and several songs about Colorado, like Rocky Mountain High. My parents made no secret as to where I was born, so hearing that song by a guy named Denver meant a bit more to me than perhaps some of my classmates. Daydreams of origin.

Another thing I knew was that, like me, she is the oldest of her siblings (seven, to be exact). Every position in the sibling pecking order has its stereotypical traits, and their pluses and minuses. For the oldest, it means fewer hand-me-downs, more initial attention, and fresh parents. It also means being the first experiment when it comes to parenting, through being disciplined, setting an example for younger siblings, and being the first to disappoint and break your parents hearts (or their will, whichever comes first). The oldest is simply held to a higher standard of responsibility and scrutiny. It seems to me, if I were given up for adoption, she must have had an uneasy time of it, being oldest.

I can imagine the stress and consternation that must have gone on in her family back in 1971, perhaps scolding or shaming, feeling the disappointment cascading down. I don’t know this to be the case, but I have to imagine that this played a role in my being given up for adoption.

The one thing I want to communicate to her is that if she has had to deal with any guilt or shame or was shamed over me, that needs to end now. I can absolutely relate to this, having my first-born out of wedlock. Absolutely verboten! And being first-born?! Unthinkable. And yet...thinkable. It happens. It happened. And I felt the strains of shame showered over me for years; spoken and unspoken, internally and externally. Rules were broken, standards shattered, hearts in pieces , and expectations flattened. Yet, in the midst of that sprang life, it would not and will not be denied. And life is beautiful. Everything in its time.

Perhaps some of you reading this may be thinking...how can he speak of this in this way? So glib. Matter of fact. Has he no shame? Believe me, I lived with it, that heavy cloak that arrests joy, impedes movement, and sinks self-worth. No thank you. We all do things that result in an unexpected change in course, for better or worse. I choose to take the longview, believing that endurance, perseverance, grace, and mercy win the day. And that, like this journey I’m on, you never know what’s around the corner.

I arrive over the crest, into Evergreen, Colorado. My mind is abuzz with thoughts and Jason Harrod music when I drive in and park in front of the Bait Shack Tavern. As I had in Colorado Springs, days before, I sit in the car for a few minutes and collect my tumbling thoughts. I’m sending Kerry a message that I’m in town, and would he have time to meet. He responds, says he’ll be by in a few minutes.

Now, even though Wheaton was a small college, that doesn’t mean you know everyone. I knew of Kerry Cox at school, but we never really hung out. He was in the music conservatory, a fact of which I was unaware. No, Kerry and I have been able to get to know each other over FB, finding a kind of simpatico in how we view and address the current national discord. It comes from a similar reading of the gospel; promoting mercy, humility, kindness, patience, and listening. The anger and turpitude, the call for vengeance and embrace of hatred, greed, nationalism, militantism, lust for power, the gaslighting of immortality and racism within the discourse of some church folk and leaders just churns the stomach and goes directly against the gospel. Especially with the knowingly over-amped tones of the christianese dialect. Even people who have no set belief or reject organized religion recognize that.

And yet...and yet, I continue to hold on to those tenants and teachings that confound; turn the other cheek, taking care of the poor, the stranger, loving your neighbor AND your enemy. These things are beyond me, but they are where I want my compass needle to be pointed. I have heard too many people who profess to believe, downplay these teachings as “nice and all, but not in the real world”. Okay. I see it differently. I believe it when I read, ”What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” or “do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”. This is foundational for me, and how I filter this mire we find ourselves in 2018. And through our postings on FB, I can tell that Kerry shares the same sensibilities.

One thing that has fascinated me about him from seeing his posts is that he is an ultramarathon runner, like 100 km or more. Back when I was in college, I became intrigued hearing about the Western States 100, a grueling 100 mile (161 km) race through the Sierra Nevada mountains. We talk about about the sport over a couple local brews. He tells how time is like a funhouse mirror on the trail, where your mind starts to play tricks with distance. I’m fascinated. He says his goals with the events is to simply finish. I’m just amazed, and just as intrigued as I was in college. Perhaps some day.

We wrap by talking about his music publishing company, talk marketing, and only briefly touched on politics in a “grateful to know I’m not alone” kind of way. And, of course, I talk about what my tomorrow schedule looks like, with the entire tale. It was good to see Kerry, to meet him for real.

From there, I drive over the ridge to Evergreen Lake, walk around and find a bench to sit and just reflect on this journey and tomorrow. Mountains rising up all around, the sky blue, sun beaming. I guess I’m in a prayerful mood, grateful and meditative. The fact that I am back in the US after all these years, teaching art & design, seeing family and friends, eating tacos, driving distances, reinvestigating my paths, all of it. All of it feels very improbable, and yet, here I am.

And tomorrow...

Turning 47: pt. XIII

“Mother & Child Reunion” (pt. 1)

25 May 2018

Before making what I thought would be a temporary two-year move to Sweden, a thought would cross my mind whenever I found myself in a confined space with strangers. It would be most pronounced in elevators, those closets crammed with people moving vertically, all holding their tongues; Could I be related to someone here? What if? It always felt possible. After moving to Sweden, I ceased having these thoughts.

Today, I am scheduled to actually meet my birth mother, Arla. Not randomly in an elevator, but in Pueblo, a couple hours south of where I’m staying with my aunt & uncle. I set multiple alarms to make sure I’m up and on the road to make our 10:30 rendezvous. My aunt Lydia, ever vigilant, knocks on my door to make sure I’m up and at’em.

Lydia makes me some eggs, as she has each morning of my stay, and she, Harry Kent, and I discuss the day and my expectations. As I have mentioned, my vision was merely to sit and be in her presence. From our writing correspondence, I already had a good sense of her personality and sensibility, and I felt that it was reciprocated. A quick prayer, and I’m off.

It is crazy, a bit, but not in an unnatural way. Other than the small matter of a 46 year period of living with unknown information, it felt strangely normal. Now, I have been fortunate to get to know quite a few people over the years, and I know that there are certain types of personalities that would be running for the hills on an occasion like this. Not me. And not Arla, either. That is a good sign.

So I’m on the road, mountains to my right, and I’m thinking about yesterday. After seeing Kerry and taking a pause at the lake, I got ahold of Benny & Kathleen Simpson who also live in Evergreen. Like many from Wheaton, these two married shortly after college and it would be odd not to see them as a pair. Though, like most people I was able to meet on this trip, I hadn’t seen either of them for at least 20 years. I generally don’t worry about things like that, which may be a marker of an ENFP (my Meyers-Briggs personality test result from college, which remains consistent even after all these years).

Benny sends me their address and I head up the mountain in their direction. I’m told he may not be there when I arrive, but that Kathleen and their two oldest would be. Twisting and turning up mountain roads, it’s no wonder car ads so often feature on these serpentine passes; it feels good. I can remember as a child, when we would vacation to Colorado from Kansas, my parents telling me we would be driving up “those mountains” that we were seeing on the horizon. In my child mind, that meant the road would simply continue straight up, like a ski jump. That’s how I had imagined it. I became familiar with switchbacks fairly quickly after that, but still reserve a place in my mind for this idea of a highway draped over the Rockies like a piece of fabric.

I get to their place as the sun is setting. Kathleen is there with their two oldest, with Benny arriving just after with their youngest, fresh from a big soccer match. We chill a bit, Benny offering me a local beer and Kathleen fixing me a hamburger. I’m amazed by the level of hospitality I’ve been shown throughout my time in the US, something I certainly took for granted, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, before moving away. We get to talking about Wheaton, how it has and hasn’t changed, would I be going to the reunion in the autumn, and how teaching went.

It was an all-encompassing job, teaching three courses in an academic system of which I was no longer accustomed, but one for which I had to make quick work of adapting. It was a non-stop term, and it stretched and worked me tremendously, and though it wasn’t always a stellar, I loved it. However, I came away with a couple thoughts I hadn’t had previously.

The first is that I think 18 is far too young for a good number of people to be pursuing a college or university degree. While there are exceptions, for most, the desire for learning, not just making good grades, doesn’t really begin until the last couple years in school (ages 20-22). Physiologically, the human brain is not fully formed until around 25 years of age, with the pre-frontal cortex (the center for good judgement) being the last to come online. So kids are put in this place where everything is designed to distract; its their first time away from home, hormones are surging in vex (to steal a line from Lisa Enoch’s poem “A Chocolate Lover’s Villanelle), athletics, concerts, general hanging out, and more. Studying and subject learning for many are drowned, to the lower percentiles of importance. I know it was that way for me, for better or worse. And it’s WAY too expensive to blow it simply because going to university is “just what you do” when you graduate high school. No, I think taking a few years before going to college is the wiser move, which is difficult when it’s so combined with athletics.

From my teaching in Sweden, the age of students at the university level is around 25-30, with the majority having worked and travelled extensively between their “high school” (gymnasiet) and university. They are allowed to experience the distractions of being young before hitting the books in pursuit of a degree of their choosing. And prior to this, at age 15, a student chooses a high school specializing in a particular trade or discipline; science, business, art, mechanics, journalism, etc. So, by the time they got to my class, they already had a foundation in art & design and an idea of where they wanted to take it. This was the big difference I found between the two systems, one that threw me for a bit of a loop over the term. Still, I loved it and was grateful for the opportunity.

My recommendation is for students to take gap years, let their brains form, soak up experiences before heading to college, so that experience isn’t merely 13th grade. Benny and Kathleen’s interest is piqued, as their daughter is currently a junior in high school and thinking of college. But, yeah, that’s one of my take-aways from the term.

The second take-away I’ll share at another time, perhaps... on to Pueblo!

So, I’m tooling down I-25, and I’m ahead of schedule and pull off at a rest stop. I can’t quite grasp the enormity of what’s about to go down, so I don’t really make an attempt. I just want to be on time. I give Sara a call over Skype, just to talk. It’s all good, I’m relaxed. Though, it is bizarre to feel like you're in a movie. I start to look at people as if they are paid extras, moving and interacting according to script. That’s a bit how it feels.

I get to Pueblo city limits and have Barnes & Noble plugged into the navigator. I am seriously hoping this is the only Barnes & Noble in Pueblo. I am a half hour early, which is good. I’ll just peruse the store a bit and see if I can’t find the book on Dietrich Bonhoeffer that Lil had mentioned yesterday. This B & N has a Starbucks café inside, which is ultimately where we had planned to meet. I walk over there to have a look-see. Hmm. I walk in to the roped off area, do a quick spin to see if I arouse any preordained attention. No. Nothing.

So I order an iced coffee, find a table, and sit there as the clock hits 10:30. I may have been reading something, but my only memory is that I was looking and waiting. My eyes would dart to every woman of a certain age. “Is that her?”, “IS that her?”, “Is THAT her?”, “Is that HER?” One woman looked a bit too worked over by life, but I thought, “Well, if that’s her, then I’ve got to love her”. It wasn’t.

10:30 turned to 10:45, then 10:55. Now I’m thinking a) there is more than one Barnes & Noble in Pueblo b) there’s another Pueblo, only spelled differently c) Arla is late, or d) she got cold feet. That would be something...I really hadn’t anticipated that.

I am alternating between nursing this coffee and scanning the room, when I sense a certain, indelible presence just beyond the fern partition...

Turning 47: pt. XIII

“Mother & Child Reunion” (pt. 2)

25 May 2018

Previously on Turning 47...

“I am alternating between nursing this coffee and scanning the room, when I sense a certain, indelible presence just beyond the fern partition...”

For the last hour, I’ve felt a bit like Goldilocks...”This one’s too La-Z-Boy, this one’s too fanny packy, this one’s...”

Could it be? I stand to attention as a figure, whose blue eyed gaze is locked on mine, moves forward from behind the Henri Rousseau-like café boundary foliage, cautious but steady, coming into full view. Oh my...yes! No doubt. This is unquestionably my mother. Look at her! Wow!

We embrace and embrace and embrace, transforming this mini-Starbucks franchise dashed in the back of a big box bookstore in the baking Colorado morning into the centerstage of a previously unheard symphonic allegro, one completely silent to any of the other patrons around us.

I say,

“You look a little different than the last time I saw you.” She laughs as we stand there with our arms around each other, held tight.

Feature-wise, Arla is absolutely my mother; chin, cheeks, nose, teeth, eyes. It’s incredible. This is incredible. We return to my table and just sit there in disbelief, looking at each other. Did we speak? If there were words in these first minutes, I do not recall. We were present, tuned into the hum of the moment. We have our hands on the table and I hold hers as we take it in, waves of emotion washing over and through. Contrary to what I had imagined, I am not a wreck of emotion. I am simply sitting here with the mother of my origin for the first time, ever. I am simply here.

She studies my face. “What do you see?”, I ask. “You look like both of us,” she replies...both she and my father. She tells me that he had long ago died from what may have been cancer, discovered while he was at a dental appointment. He was 21 at the time. This information was passed to her by his sister over the phone back in the early 70’s. It sounds very odd, and her expression leads me to believe that she may be perplexed by it as well. It was certainly a loose end that she was not able to confirm. Circumstances had driven them apart in the winter prior to my making myself known.

“Okay, where did I get these?”, I present my hands. Now for certain observant friends of mine (as well as taunting classmates in elementary school), my hands have always had a distinctly ruddy, rough, ancient look to them. The kids in school used to call me “Old Man Hands”, wrinkled and knobby. Just one of those ideosyncratic features that mark a kid out as weird in the grind to try to fit in. Even Bruce, who was at Adams Elementary with me, made unprompted mention of my hands when I saw him in Chicago, “They look better on you now”. “Yeah...”, I said, “Guess I grew into them. Kinda like when your parents buy shoes two sizes too big.” Eventually, I would come to appreciate and own them after decidedly diving into a massive, iconoclastic transformation at 12 yrs old, striving for and exploring the life of a purposeful outlier. That’s when I halted all effort to fit in. Wasn’t going to happen. That realization opened up everything.

“You got those from me,” and Arla shows me her hands. Wow! “And this?”, I make a circular motion around my balding pate, one which I have had the privilege of sporting since I was 19. “No idea.”, she replies. Ha! This goes on for awhile, as we continue to survey while sitting in awe.

She tells the story of her pregnancy, having been scuttled away into a dingy institution meant for young, unattached pregnant women which doubled as an asylum. She tells of being sprung from the place by a friend who insisted she live with their family. Her friend’s sister also happened to be pregnant at the same time. They were able to spent their entire pregnancies together. Then, on the same night, the sister and Arla both went into labor, rushed to the same hospital, giving birth on the same day. They also had each made a decision put their newborns up for adoption in an attempt to give their children the best chance at a better life.

“Were you ever able to hold me?”, I ask. Yes. Twice. And only twice. As I was received by Lutheran Family Services, Arla was required to sign over claim to her newborn baby boy to the adoption agency. Everything inside her was shouting “NO”, and her thoughts sloshed back and forth with scenarios where she could change her mind, leaving the hospital with me, only to be snapped back by the sobering realization of her situation at that time made this impossible. It couldn’t be. These thoughts would persist with her well after this day in late July, 1971.

I can only imagine how that must have felt. But today, Arla is glowing, as we sit here, radiant, in fact. It was the look of a woman emancipated, relieved, and freed.

She had buried all of this 47 years ago, as deeply and darkly as possible, never having uttered a word of it to anyone, not one word, until my goofy mug showed up on her youngest sister’s Ancestry page the day before Mother’s Day.

Her sister Annie has written me since and recounted the sounds she heard coming from Arla that day in the car back in May. A wail from deep inside. This reminded me of an “Invisibilia”podcast I recently heard, entitled “A Man Finds An Explosive Emotion Locked In A Word”. An anthropologist working in the Philippines discovered a new word which he could not satisfactorily translate. The word is LIGET. (Find the podcast, it’s fascinating). I believe she was in the throes of this upon having my profile pic shoot through like a lightning bolt, down through all the layers to her stubborn, unbreakable core. An involuntary vocal release of ancient, pent-up grief. Pure, unbridled energy.

And, this only happened two weeks ago, and now, here we are, in person, communing. And she beamed. At long last, this 47 year old glacier had cracked all the way through in one go, and from it, all of this firmly guarded forbidden information flowing out beyond her grasp and control. It was this historically locked part of herself, now suddenly opened, through which she needed to carefully navigate, like crossing a potential emotional mine field, in telling her family; her husband and three grown children.

She tells me how she had revealed it to her husband, (only two days prior to us sitting here) while he was watching TV. She came into the room, “scared shitless” as she puts it, and stood right there between he and television. This is the bleeding edge of bravery, it could ALL go haywire from here. She said it took her all the way back to 1971, when she had to tell her dad that she was pregnant. “Do you have something to say?”, he asked. She did, and in tears, she was immediately caught in his arms, unconditionally. This was the go-ahead to meet me while I am still in Colorado.

At this point, though the gauzy fog and haze of this improbable moment has sustained us to this point, we are both ready to switch venues for some lunch.

And so we pick up and walk outside...

Turning 47: pt. XIII

“Mother & Child Reunion” (pt. 3)

25 May 2018

When I began my career in the 90’s, I was making illustrations in scratchboard and linocut, doing mostly editorial and portrait work for magazines and newspapers. One of the figures in the business whose work I looked to and admired was Mark Summers. Mark also works predominantly with scratchboard and made his claim creating the portraits of the authors seen on Barnes & Noble signage, stationery, and merch. So, it’s an oddly homey feeling seeing his work still abundance within the Pueblo store as Arla and I walk toward the doors and out to find lunch.

Outside, I see signs for fast food everywhere. “Subway?” Good enough. I’m finding myself uncharacteristically self-conscious of my movements, actions, the way I’m walking. I never think about these things, but now, every gesture feels like it’s on display. I’m fine if I’m up on stage trying to make an audience laugh, I have zero stage fright there, but I’m not here to goof around performing comedy. I want to make an honest impression, but I still want it to be the best I can make it.

At Subway, while waiting in the roped off shuttle line, I tell her how I always end up ordering the same thing; the Spicy Italian. Even after asking what the Sub-of-the-Day is, I always go for the same sandwich. Arla is vegetarian and a nurse, and has a whole quiver of information on the many ills of meat, but she tells me that she will refrain...today. Good, because I love a good Spicy Italian. She orders her veg, while I give the “sandwich artists” my second step instructions, “Everything, no tomatoes, extra jalepeños.” Arla gasps, ”That’s exactly how I order! Too much water in the tomatoes, right?” Ain’t that right? Wow!

We sit and gab while we eat. She mentions all the wrong that she had imagined could have happened to me in life along the way, referring the two strung-out teenaged kids we saw sat in front of Barnes & Noble as we exited. “You could have been a tweaker, or dead.” I repeat the same back to her, and how grateful I am to just be here in this moment. We made it!

I can tell that I am absolutely cut from Arla’s cloth. It is uncanny. Here is an example and you can tell me whether you think that fits my MO; in the 80’s, she had just quit her job at a newspaper and started a singing-telegram business from the ground up. Does that sound like something I might do? Of course it does. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t done this myself.

We finish up and decide to go for a drive in search of a park, some nature away from this sea of shopping center concrete. We head over to the historic commercial district to stop at the Arkansas Riverwalk, a noted attraction. The air is arid and it’s hot as an oven when we get out of the car, (at least to this Scandinavian living ex-pat). We walk and talk, filling up our water bottles at the fountain. She is spry and lively, and I say so several times, blown away that we are both alive, in this time, right here and now. We talk about Sweden, my kids, her kids (my half-siblings, heretofore unknown to me. What are THEY like?), and her grandkids. I am just soaking it in. Jokes are made back and forth, she teases me for my Swedish interjection for “uh huh” (å), and we lapped the small park twice before returning to the car to try to find another place with a bit more tree life.

Pueblo is tabula rasa for me, but Benny Simpson was telling me he really likes the city, saying it still has the feel of the Colorado he knew from the time before the development boom. It does have a work-a-day feel to it. Still, as a child, I had visions of Pueblo, though I had never been there. Back in the late 70’s, the Consumer Information Center ran humorous television ads promoting their catalog. The mailing address; Consumer Catalog: Pueblo, Colorado, 81009. Pueblo, Colorado. Pueblo, Colorado. Pueblo, Colorado. The name just stuck in my mind. Partly because Colorado always naturally featured in my mind, partly because we learned about the pueblo in school (a flat roofed, multi-level dwelling made by Native Americans of the Southwest), but mostly because of that ad campaign. I always loved good ads and jingles, and felt some kind of weird longing or trust when hearing the voice-overs at the end of an ad for the latest K-Tel record: “Send check or money order to: Freedom Rock, P.O. 1313, Greenville, Tennessee 37744”. I have no idea why. So, for me, Pueblo, Colorado is as mythical as Gilligan’s Island.

Yet, I am lost. I have no sense of where I am in relation to anything else, and do not know which direction to head, really. The path feels aimless, like a film from the New American Cinema era. However, the conversation continues unabated. “I could have been a serial killer, for all you knew,” she says. “Sure, I suppose that’s probably true. Still, it would have given this portion of our movie a bit more of a dramatic peak,” I counter. She laughs. It’s so good. We drive down the pike until it is apparent that we are going away from, rather than toward, anything of interest except scrub brush. I make a U-turn and head back.

After cross-hatching the edge of town for 20 minutes, we finally find a park, with trees. We walk around the park, just talking. I dare grab her hand as we walk, though the heat and bit of awkwardness make it temporary. Still, it’s good and comfortable and kinda normal. I tell her that I’m thinking of putting up a post on FB simply stating: “I had lunch with my mother” and just leaving it at that. Those who already know the story will catch it right away, but most will be puzzled by it, probably. She likes it. It’s so understated. I feel like I could spend several more hours just hanging, but I can sense that Arla is getting restless. Had I only known the city better, I would jet us there. Instead, we take a few selfies, and drive back 10 mins to the sea of parking in front of B & N.

Before we part, Arla says she has a gift for me. She pulls out something weighty, wrapped in white, printed material. “Rocks!!”, I exclaim. Of course! I love rocks. I’m always bringing stones home with me from the places I’ve visited. I love the textures, shapes, consistencies, and knowledge of their origin. Exactly the same for Arla! Perfect! Arla gives me three stones, wrapped in this delicate scarf; Rose Quartz, Green Calcite, and Clear Quartz, symbolizing love, health, and energy. It’s just perfect. They make it into my baggage a few days later as I fly out, back to Sweden. She later tells me via email that this was a favorite moment for her, as she loves rocks too, and was not expecting such an enthused reaction.

One last hug, sighs, and we part. She gets in her white Honda, starts it up, waves adios, and drives off to exit the maze that is the shopping center parking lot to head west.

Of course, I sit there, reverberating, combing my thoughts and feelings together. That was awe-some! Wow. Wow! That. Just. Happened.

My drive back up to Denver is mild, and I pull off the exits several times just to stop and take it in. I am feeling markedly different, no longer the first person on earth. I have three half siblings. There is a definite, direct line connecting me all of this and to my nature. I had the opportunity to sit with one of the living reasons for my being, my mother, in the flesh, one from whom I’ve received 23 of my chromosomes. Cut from her cloth.

So, now, as my brain undulates at low frequency, I am calculating my schedule over the next couple days. I have one more day to spare before beating my way back up north to Minnesota, where I will tell my folks all the news. Perhaps, before I go, I will get a chance to see another friend or two. I really do not want this trip to end.

Ad for Consumer Information Catalog from 1978 —> https://youtu.be/XG03zlQiWt8

Turning 47: pt. XIV

“Carefree Highway”

25-26 May 2018

There are not many things I enjoy more than driving long distance on an open stretch of highway. That feeling of forward momentum, containment, and control, passing scenery at 70 mph. The mind is slowed, allowing thoughts to arise, marinate, and gel en route to some far off destination. When I was a kid, I dreamt of being a truck driver, like BJ McKay (and his best friend, Bear). That seemed like the perfect life. Conversely, worming through streets, intersections, and round-abouts after pulling off the exit, with the traffic lights and prerequisite speed bumps, erodes the joy of being behind the wheel.

I arrive at uncle Harry Kent & aunt Lydia’s after sunset. I have a key and I let myself in. They are there and eager to debrief and hear how it all went. “It was good,” was about all I could say. Certainly, I did say more, but the experience was just too grand and expansive, too beyond, for me to give the response that it deserved in that moment. It would have to wait until I was able inspect, dissect, analyze, and internalize. I am not a sprinter, I am a long distance runner. This would need long-form.

The next morning I wake, fully knowing that I had actually accomplished my mission to meet my birth mother and that it happened just as I had hoped. Contentment is humming low in the background. I think of Arla and how it is for her waking this morning, hoping that she was feeling the same notes.

I have one day left that I can spend in Colorado. I had wanted to get to the “Garden of the Gods” in Colorado Springs, and have always wanted to since since I was a kid, seeing photos of the Kims, friends of my parents, posing under impossibly configured rock formations, but it won’t happen this time around. I text an old high school friend, Dave Nelson, who I had been trying to meet up with at times when he was in Chicago this Spring. “Lunch?”, he texts. “Oh yeah”.

After another navigated drive to the west side of Denver, I arrive at “Your destination is on the right”. Walk up, knock on the door, and there’s Dave. Dave, who I probably haven’t seen since high school graduation in 1989. Of course...of course, we are also FB friends, despite our opposing political views and worldview understanding. He’s just a good guy, and fair in an argument, and it’s really good to see him. He shows me his house, the yard, and his pride and joy: the back deck. It is inarguably cool.

Dave suggests an Alaskan BBQ joint he likes. I am definitely game, and follow his big black Chevy Silverado over to the place. I’ve never eaten Alaskan BBQ, much less heard of the concept, but those two words together (Alaskan) + (BBQ) are all that’s needed to start the synapses snapping and my Pavlovian mouth, watering. Those who know me are well are aware that my all-time favorite television show is “Northern Exposure”. Set in the small, quirky town of Cicely, Alaska, the show centers on Joel Fleishman, a recently graduated physician from NYC, with all the presumptions and proclivities of a New Yorker. As a way to pay down his med school debt, Joel agrees to practice medicine in underserved Alaska for what he thinks is two years. It’s a classic “fish out of water” story, but it goes much deeper than that, with the characters and a warbling Jungian feel in the background. The writing is impeccable, even 30 years on. So, Alaskan BBQ? Um...yes?

It’s great to sit with Dave, and such a rarity to hang with someone who shares the exact same historical connection in time and place. We talk about growing up on the Eastside, people we know or knew, the trouble we used to get in and where. We weren’t tight back then, but relative to now, we might as well be brothers. I could feel equally in place hanging with Dave, whether it be flying business class on a job or fly fishing in some river. Just a good hang.

After lunch, we decide the best course of action is to head up to Red Rocks in the truck. Dave puts on Gordon Lightfoot, and I’m just relaxing with the window down, the reverberations of yesterday and inner calm of today blending perfectly. I am at peace. Look at these mountains! I cannot remember if I told Dave about meeting Arla the day before, but I would be surprised if I didn’t at least make mention of it. I do know that it was all still tumbling around in my mind and that I had only just begun to survey the event. It may have only come out in blurps and chirps.

We grabble about the trail at Red Rocks after parking in the park’s parking lot. As a stand-in for the “Garden of the Gods”, this place is not too shabby; red rock formations jutting skyward at large-scale, half-tilt angles. The place is made more famous for its amphitheater, nestled amid towering mountainous rock, which the was the venue of U2’s live album “Under a Blood Red Sky” from 1983. Dave and I talk life, belief, and narcissism, only lightly touching on political ideology. Whether that’s the Iowa in us or just being amicable, it feels better to engage person to person without all the bloody armor.

We finish the trail and drive out to tool through the foothills a bit. Dave takes a route by an area where wealthy people have their homes. “Dave...this is so Eastside. Going to see where the rich people live,” I said. We just laugh. “I know! Ha! You’re probably right,” he says. It is true, at least from my experience. Eastsiders are a hard bunch, chippy and dismissive about people who live on the west side of Des Moines; Clive, Urbandale, and West Des Moines. But, they are also fascinated and intrigued by how it is possible for people to actually live at a more luxurious level. Hate and curiosity. There is prejudice on both sides, to be sure. I went to jr. high and the first two yrs of high school on the west side, milling with kids above what I perceived to be my caste. It was a thrill to be around upper-class kids who strove to learn, but it was also the most natural thing in the world, being from the Eastside, for me to be the disruptive, cut-up in class. It was certainly an education. Both Dave and I share this rooted Eastsider perspective as we roll on past the monied enclaves.

We return to the parking lot outside the Alaskan BBQ (which is called The 49th Bar & Grill, for those of you interested), and just sit and talk. I don’t respond to his fishing me with the libertarian “it’s not a democracy, it’s a republic” line. I’m just glad to hang with this guy, despite our entrenchment on separate hills. We say goodbye at least 5 times, with discussion broadening the farewell each time, and then we drive off in our own directions.

So good to see Dave, even if he does like Ted Nugent.

Once again, my mono-tasking has allowed the other pressing items to coil around me like python. Where am I going to sleep tonight? Having already said goodbye to my aunt & uncle in the morning, with the intent to let them relax from playing host, I didn’t think through or make plans for tonight. Ugg. I text my friend Jolly, an hour away in Boulder, however she is going to a dinner party tonight. Hmm. Would Benny & Kathleen be willing to put me up for the night? Though living in Sweden has broken much of my carefree hubris, preplanning and confirming with others is still not first on my mind. However, I think they would be very interested in how it went down in Pueblo yesterday, since I had laid it out to them the day before I met Arla.

Let’s see...