Kenneth L. Stockdale
September 14. 1928 - March 16, 2001
My Dad adopted me with his wife Shirley almost 50 years ago. He was a tall man, very big to me in many ways. He had a large, silent heart. He was a protector, a leader, a guide. My dad was an unconditional lover. I consider him one of our country's silent heroes. He was with the first group of grunts (he liked to say) to land in Korea when the war broke out. He saw a dirty, ugly war and lost many friends right before his eyes. He didn't like to talk about it and when he did (at the Korean War Veterans Memorial in D.C.), I saw the only tears come from his eyes that I ever would in the life of this soldier. He met Shirley only after corresponding by snail mail, and AFTER he had proposed marriage. He worked three jobs for many years, adopted three children, took his family to Argentina, Kansas, Minnesota and Maryland, as he was promoted and relocated. My father retired as the last Chrysler Corporation executive to have reached his level in management without a college degree. He retired when he planned and lived the live he chose. I was always very proud of him. He adored me and the five grandchildren I gave him. I loved him with a love I will never know again....while I'm here, at least. It was, in truth, a heavenly love, from this Ken Stockdale....who was born Ervin Russell Youster.
Dad was born in Ohio and adopted by the Wedow-Stockdale family of Detroit. He was adopted as an infant just as he adopted his three children. His was not a "closed" adoption so my Dad learned the name of his birth mother after his adoptive parents died and he received the "hidden" papers. I didn't know this until after the birth of my fifth child. Dad and I were up sipping wine and talking long after my little family had gone to sleep. I remember it as "out of the blue" that suddenly I heard my Dad say, "I wish I had looked for my birth mother after Grandma died." POW! I was stunned. Not only was my Dad not one to speak of such "personal" things, but growing up, we learned NOT to talk about being adopted in front of my Dad. (And the SECRET papers were always hidden in a safe. very safe. a very hidden safe.) Something was just not right in my home growing up regarding the (((shhhh))) adoption subject. There were stories (and lies), questions....endless wonderings, but mostly silences unless I was alone with my mom. At a very early age I knew that in this family you just...don't mention "it". (This is the topic of a book I have been working on for years, and the reason that I will, eventually, jump off the Bay Bridge, probably, one day, perhaps.)*
*Suicidal Ideation/without intent...and really joking - wishing never to offend anyone*
So Dad had precious information which I did not. THE GOLDEN KEY was in his possession, by that time, for over 20 years! (My generation has no keys. We are the 'product' of the GREAT and IDIOTIC IDEA [read experiment] OF CLOSED ADOPTION, which is the topic of another book I am writing and which will lead me to commit another crazy crime. most likely.) He admitted by then it was too late; it was a regret. (Now I think he still could have tried to look for his mother. She would have been 76 years old.) I understood his hesitation and delay...and regret. I have always had that same feeling...rejected once was enough. No one wants to find someone that doesn't want to be found. Well, most don't I am guessing. Now, since my Mom completed her life's journey to God, I am in possession of the Golden Key, but it is my Dad's key. It is no answer or link to anyone for me...adoptee adopts adoptee, but I still feel compelled to try to open SOMETHING with this key. Perhaps it is enough to have the document. I see a NAME. A real human person with a NAME was my father's mother: Edith Youster, age 15 in 1928, Bono, Ohio. (((wow, a life's question answered))) It could be enough just to know. The power of the name.
Through the years since my dad died I have thought often about our one-time adoption talk. It lasted but a moment and yet it told a long story of a family of sawed off branches grafted onto one lone tree. This man, Ken Stockdale, made a tree grow where there was only an empty space before. He brought his family to a place where that very thing was happening around them. The little city of Overland Park, Kansas was just beginning. The air was clean, threats minimal, memories good. We watched houses come up where there were cows grazing the day before. Something where there was nothing. Dad showed us how to move as the world moved, how to grow as life grew. He valued hard work and loyalty. He was a man who could admit his mistakes and not feel anything but joy at anothers' good fortune. He was fair and loving. He showed me by his life what God the Father's Love is like. I know that if God did not give me this good father on the earth, I would be another orphan grasping desperately to understand unconditional love.
The story is that it was a big fight, back in the day. But my dad named me. The little baby, Laura Mary Florence, became Donna-Marie Stockdale. And it turned out to be a good thing after all. And that story is another blog.
1st Cavalry Division
No comments:
Post a Comment