I was adopted in August 1947. I was four months old. I was the first of four adopted children. None of us were genetically related.

My parents were amazing people. For clarity, let me remark that when I refer to my parents, I am always referring to the people who parented me, that took care of me, fed and sheltered me, guided me, and provided for me.

I was born at Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers in Detroit. I have no reason to think that I got less than good care there – but I think, based on photos of my first weeks and perhaps months, I hadn’t had the kind of attention that is best for new babies. There was a complete lack of animation on my face – but that changed quickly.

My folks thought this too – that while I’d been cared for, there were too many kids, and too few staff to provide the human interaction which babies should have. I’m sure it contributed to the decision to adopt four kids, and provide foster care, over the years, to 26 others. Our family was often five, with the four of us adopted kids, and a foster care baby.   The babies came from the agency as newborns, and then usually were adopted about six months later. These babies were held, and talked to and cuddled.

I never didn’t know that I was adopted. I think I was told the story, often, of my origin. I don’t have any recollection of finding out I was adopted. My folks always told me the same tale. It went like this: we wanted a baby, they told me, and couldn’t have one. We went to the hospital where the babies were and were taken to a big room with lots of babies. We looked at them all, and then we picked out the cutest one and brought you home.

I loved the story. I was chosen. I was selected. My parents wanted me.

When my wife and I decided that we would like to become parents, I requested information from the State of Michigan. I wondered, of course, whether there were any genetic anomalies that I should consider. The information that came back, with names deleted, as was the standard then, showed the biological mother and father were both in good health.

I found it interesting that they were both Canadian citizens. They were both quite young. She lived and worked in Detroit, as was not unusual then. Windsor, Ontario, Canada is but a bridge ride over the river. He remained in Windsor.  Their ethnicity was similar to that of my parents.

I learned recently that my biological mother had visited my mom on two occasions, I’m guessing to satisfy her need to know the baby had gone to a good home. I had. My aunt told me the two women liked each other right away. Of course, as my uncle said, everyone liked my mom.

My father worked hard at Ford Motor, in the Central Office Building, and Mom took care of the kids. Her ability to comfort a crying baby was legendary. Dad had a good job at Ford, but he was not a wealthy man. He and Mom made financial sacrifices in order to have the four (4.5) kids.

We lived in a modest home with modest furnishings, in a modest suburb, in the area known charmingly as Downriver Detroit. They didn’t want me – or any of us – to grow up in the big city. As a teen, I found suburbia bland and boring – but now I appreciate coming to age in such a community.

I had a good home, growing up, and a good family. Dame Fortune smiled at me.