Reminiscence: Dad Meets His Sister

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1

My father lost his mother when he was 13 years old. It was the “Spanish Influenza” epidemic of 1917 that killed her. His grandmother, who had helped take care of him and his older brother most of their lives, had died only about a year before his mother.

Dad had been born in a small historic city on the Atlantic coast, when his father was away exploring new opportunities in Texas. His mother and grandmother had taken Dad as a babe in arms, along with his toddler brother, half way across the continent on the train to rejoin his father.

Shortly after they had arrived in Texas, and his mother had taken a job, Dad’s father left the family. A divorce came shortly afterward, and before long the father had remarried and left the area. He did not support the family from this point on.

2

Knowing that his father had acted irresponsibly toward his mother was a source of pain and shame to my Dad, whose most deeply held values were commitment to helping others, loyalty to family and friends, moral rectitude, and taking responsibility.

When I was in my early teens, Dad told me that he had met his father only once, when he was about six years old. His father had taken the two young brothers to an elegant barber shop in a neighboring city, where he had treated them to a manicure, the only one Dad ever had. That was it. He led me to believe that he suspected that his father had been unfaithful to his mother even before the divorce. That would have hurt him more for what it said about his father's moral character than for the harm to himself and his brother.

Dad and his brother, with advice from a concerned neighbor, raised themselves by selling newspapers both before and after school. They took other jobs when they could find them, going to school every day; they lived on the second level of a garage on their mother’s home lot, the neighbor exercising a Power of Attorney. The mother’s modest life insurance money paid for renovation of the garage. The lower level was rented out to a reporter at the local newspaper, and the house was rented to a family. Never did the boys hear from their father, who was simply not part of their lives.

Ten years or so later, when the two brothers were making their way in different cities, Dad saw an advertisement for a vaudeville song and dance act at a nearby theatre. The two performers, who turned out to be brother and sister, were also named “Derrick,” so Dad contacted them. Their mother told him she was the second wife who had left with Dad’s father all those years before. “Bob,” “Sally,” their mother, and Dad spent a few hours together during the day before the second performance. Dad learned that his father had divorced his second wife as well, though she and her children were still receiving support from him.

They went on their way on the vaudeville circuit, and Dad did not hear from them again.

3

Dad never knew anything about his forbears and had no knowledge of his family’s history. Growing up, I was not aware of any curiosity on his part to learn more. But many years later, after Dad had retired, Mother wrote that he was taking her to his birthplace on the coast to see if they could find out anything about his family’s life before the move to Texas.

My wife and I joined them after a few days. They had found some information in a local historical society, including Dad’s parents’ marriage license and the name of Dad’s grandfather on his mother’s side, and together we found a burial record at a local cemetery and several references to his grandparents – and parents – in turn-of-the-century city directories. I was surprised that all this seemed quite meaningful to my Dad, and was also surprised that he and mother were going on to another city farther down the coast to pursue hints that his father had come up from there.

By chance they came across a woman named “Derrick,” who turned out to have been the widow of Dad’s half-brother “Bob.” After Mother and Dad returned to their home, a little package came from this woman with several mementos of his father, which his half-brother had had. The next time my wife and I visited my parents at their home, Dad showed us the little treasures, which proved that his father had indeed lived in the more southern city before moving up the coast to where he had met and married Dad’s mother.

4

With my wife, I lived in a large northeastern city, a long way from Texas, but after seeing how fortunate Dad himself had been in his researches, I decided to make a cold call to the one person named “Derrick” in our own telephone book, one “S. Derrick,” who turned out to be “Sarah.” She had been a widow for a number of years. She was reluctant to tell me, but did eventually acknowledge that she had been known as “Sally” when she and her brother had had a song and dance vaudeville act. I don’t know whether she told me in that first conversation, but she also remembered the day when she had briefly met my father.

Although retired, Dad still traveled for his profession now and then. The next time his business brought him to our city, he brought Mother with him, and he told us he was going to call his half-sister and see if he could arrange a reunion. He seemed uneasy about this, which was unusual for my Dad, but was convinced it was the right thing to do.

After a brief telephone conversation, the meeting was arranged at “Sarah’s” apartment across town. We all went: Mother and Dad, my wife and I. The encounter was quite uncomfortable and did not last long.

We began by introducing ourselves, Dad giving a brief summary of his career and Mother chipping in to let “Sarah” know that he was being overly modest. My wife and I talked about our jobs and where we lived. All this was an effort to establish a friendly ambiance and to build a base for developing a relationship. “Sarah” seemed to understand this intent, but seemed rather distant and stressed herself.

Getting to family matters after a short while, a few sentences were exchanged between Dad and “Sarah.” He ultimately told her when he had been born, the day of the month as well as the year. Looking down at her hands in her lap, “Sarah” told us she had been born a month or so before him.

Dad seemed his usual outgoing, empathetic self, and we left soon after. As we drove off, he said quietly to us, “I was afraid of that." We knew how bad he felt.

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