Note—This breaks a record for the shortest turn around on re-running a previous entry. This first ran just last August, but I thought at the time it would make a perfect Mother’s Day post. So it’s back today.
My wife, Kathy was noodling around on Ancestry.com and discovered that my birth mother, Margaret High, died last June in Cheyenne, Wyoming. She was 91 years old. I never had any contact with her and only discovered her identity through the diligent research by my late brother's ex-wife Arlene Brennan a few years ago.
She came from a pioneering Montana ranching family in aptly named Twin Bridges in the remote high country of the Missouri Brakes. She served in the Marine Corps during World War II. Four years after coming home she got pregnant and was disowned by her parents—or so we were told in the myth-tale of our adoption—and reportedly gave birth to my brother and I all alone and unattended. By prior arrangement W.M. and Ruby Murfin got us within hour of the birth and soon adopted us.
|The Murfin family circa 1952--W.M. Murfin, Patrick, Timothy, and Ruby.|
It turned out that while we were growing up in Cheyenne, she had taken a job at Frances E. Warren Air Force Base as a telephone operator. There is no indication that it was anything more than coincidence. She never married.
My brother once tried to contact her but she wanted no relationship with us. She .had what seems to me—I could be wrong—a hard, lonely life and we represented the worst moments of it. I respected that decision.
|In my fantasy Ruby and Margaret High meet at the coffee shop in Cheyenne's Plains Hotel--the nicest place in town--white table cloths on a Saturday afternoon|
I wonder if they would have liked each other
or had anything to say
if they had met for coffee and pie
on a Saturday afternoon
at the Plains Hotel Coffee Shop
each maybe in a summer dress,
faux pearls and clip-on earrings,
white gloves for sincerity and probity.
After the pleasantries and forced smiles
would they have fallen into awkward silence,
each eying the other for signs of pity or remorse,
blowing clouds of cigarette smoke
and wishing the black coffee with sugar
was a vodka highball?
Could they fall to chatting like old school girls
having just two boys between them,
boys given by one and ransomed by the other,
babes that shattered one family
and filled the void of an aching heart in other,
children that crushed one dream,
and raised impossible expectations in another?