The Gift
by Kathe Campbell
Nine months had run into ten during the medically unsophisticated days of our country's great depression in the early 1930's. Yet, with each weekly checkup, my parents listened impatiently to the doctor's unconcerned response . . . "Don't worry about it folks, I've had several new mothers fill out a ten month term."
My father delighted in their home, tailor-made suits, and a new car every fall. His glorious tenor was his trademark as he conducted Easter Sunrises and poured his heart into community service. His proud name still encircles the archway of the boys orphanage he founded after the devastating stock market crash. But best of all, an abiding love for God and family reigned as he shed his striped serges, and grey flannels on weekends, completely at home washing the cars or manicuring the yard.
Mom was no bigger than a minute, a born cook, gardener, and hostess. Men gushed with envious stares as dad whirled his dark-haired Irish beauty around the floor at their monthly dance club. She played piano and organ at church, bridge with the girls, and sang contralto with the St. Cecilias. They were big city dwellers with a fenced back yard, an enormous willow tree, a fish pond, a dog and a cat - but no child.
My folks were ecstatic over thoughts of their first baby, but after eight years had nearly given up. Now the surgically frocked doctor soberly rendered my poor dad an unthinkable choice in the father's waiting room. "Either the child, or your wife, I'm so sorry," he solemnly announced.
Caesarian sections a rarity then, their lovely dark-haired daughter died at birth and my parents were left to grieve. Mother would face many weeks recovering from the almost impossible delivery. Furthermore, she bitterly faced the thought of never again bearing a child to take home to the yellow nursery the couple had so lovingly created.
Dad handled the simple funeral arrangements alone and in agony. The baby was laid to rest next to her maternal grandmother with a simple prayer and a flood of tears coursing down his cheeks. It was crushing telling his beloved of the woeful day, clutching flowers in trembling hands while holding each other tight in the bleak, white hospital room.
Week upon week slid by routinely for my father. To work, and visits with mom, cheering her days with bouquets of violets and wisps of baby breath she so adored. Home again to ascend the stairway where there loomed the bright and lonely nursery still awaiting it's child. In misery, he laid in bed at night unable to sleep while hopes of fulfilling their destiny seemed lost forever. Thoughts of adopting a child began invading his dreams and awakenings, but was he too old at forty-four?
He was soon spending evenings at the Children's Home where it was rumored they had to sweep him off their porch each morning. Although most depression families were saddled with overwhelming hardships, dad had job security, babies were plentiful, and he aimed to start adoption proceedings immediately.
My father would have to be blind not to notice the smiling wide-eyed girl baby with just a hint of red hair so different from his own lost infant. The ladies had crowed loudly upon his visits . . ."She's a very healthy, happy three month old, Sir, and she has a wonderful disposition - our best recommendation amongst so many."
He visited all the babies often, but always returned to my shameless and playful flirtations, craving his unconditional love. He had become smitten, even before discussing the idea with mom. They would have their child to take home.
Christmas Eve only a day away, and mother looking and feeling considerably more fit, dad once again sought out her doctors. "She needs to be home and we see no reason why she shouldn't care for a baby...with much help, of course," they agreed.
The plan in motion, dad raced to the Children's Home to make arrangements for a judge to preside over the paperwork, and a temporary live-in nurse. No man could have been more exuberant or passionate at the thought of introducing me to the woman who was to be my mother that very evening.
They sipped wine, held hands, and talked excitedly across a candle-lit table in the most fashionable spot in town that Christmas Eve of 1932. After dinner, dad nervously escorted his beloved up the steps of the gray-stoned building, and at the appointed hour entered the hushed and dismally outdated reception room. Almost immediately a nurse appeared and placed me in the arms of my father. Without hesitation I smiled up at his familiar face, cooing and flailing my arms and legs in utter joy. My parent's jubilant, tear-filled eyes met for the supreme moment when dad placed his gift into my mother's outstretched arms.
Pure exaltation pervading her very being, and a thousand butterflies fluttering aimlessly up her spine, she looked longingly at my father and whispered . . . "Oh, honey, she's so tiny and beautiful - is she really ours?"
Seventy-seven years have left me with this beautiful story told a thousand times - precious memories of adoring parents who wanted me more than anything. My father had taken the bull by the horns to soothe a tattered soul and awaken his tenacious spirit. It matters not our days and years together, our typical highs and a few lows, for being his daughter was ultimate bliss. He had chosen me, and I chose him.
Kathe Campbell lives her dream on a Montana mountain with her mammoth donkeys, a Keeshond, and a few kitties. Three children, eleven grands and three greats round out her herd. She is a prolific writer on Alzheimer's, and her stories are found on many ezines. Kathe is a contributing author to the Chicken Soup For The Soul and Cup of Comfort series, numerous anthologies, RX for Writers, magazines and medical journals. Contact Kathe.
