The Big Secret

 The Big Secret. Angela Taylor Perry

I grew up as an only child on a one hundred and thirty-acre farm in a small town called Cassopolis in Southwest Michigan.

Cassopolis: 6,000 population, no McDonald's, one small grocery store named By-Low, one hardware store, and one high school. If you yawned too long with your eyes closed, you would miss downtown. On the south side of town, a tiny ice cream shop called the Tastee Freeze sat right on the edge of Stone Lake, a small body of water that I probably thought was large. I remember in the winter, there were always ice fishermen sitting on the lake in their little huts.  I worried about them and wondered if they ever fell in.

On the way out of town, right before the railroad tracks, an A&W Root Beer stand served the best homemade hamburgers and french fries that I had ever tasted. A hot juicy burger on a warm, soft bun with just enough mustard, ketchup, and pickles, topped with melted cheese, found its savory spot on the tip of my tongue at least once a week. The root beer was to die for on a hot summer day. Sweet root beer served in a frosted icy-cold glass mug was better than chocolate. I envied the kids who could skip school and go to the root beer stand, but I didn't have a car, and I couldn't just leave school. I probably wouldn't have anyway because I felt like skipping school was something I shouldn’t do. Not that I was a miss-goody-two-shoes but more that I was just afraid to do anything that might get me into trouble. Every one of the rich kids had a car, at least, I thought they did. I had a car, but I could only drive it to take my grandmother places. 

My mother made all my clothes until I was in my mid-twenties. Her style, for me, was not high fashion but practical and boring.  

Cassopolis was a farm town. It was pretty common to see a big John Deere tractor or hay combine going right down the middle of the street. I lived about three miles west of town across two sets of railroad tracks, way out among the country cornfields where the closest house on each side of our home was at least a mile apart. When my folks moved from Chicago in 1944, they bought 110 acres intending to be farmers.  I’m sure farming was my mother’s idea. She was a librarian and believed she could do anything with directions from a book. 

I loved wandering all over the farm. I would imagine that I was on an incredible journey with my two canine companions. A brown and white collie named Queenie and a caramel-colored cocker spaniel named Taffy. They followed me everywhere, protecting me. I was fearless with them at my side. When a stranger came towards me, they would growl and show their teeth.

 Our old farmhouse had a unique stone wall enclosed front porch. The smooth, round stones that molded its floor were an incredible treat under my bare feet on a hot summer day, especially after a good hard rain. Three steps down from the porch opened into an expansive grassy front yard; at least 50 yards of grass surrounded the house. When it rained, the driveway was my muddy playground. One of my favorite things to do was to run outside after a hard rain and make sloppy wet mud pies. I would line them up in the middle of the driveway, so my dad’s truck wheels straddled them. When they dried, I would taste them and imagine they were pancakes.

Summer was my favorite time of the year on the farm. There were chickens, pigs, and two Clydesdale horses to appreciate. The farm was incredible! I learned contentment and independence on the farm. Most afternoons, I would head into the woods with my two canine companions feeling total freedom! Trees, beautiful yellow and wild purple flowers inspired kept me calm and peaceful.

My mother says I was too young to remember when I sat in my favorite spot in the driveway eating stoneground marbles, a place where a small puddle of water formed after a rainfall. Little round stones would collect in a small mud puddle after heavy rain. The pea-sized rocks were smooth and fun to roll over my tongue. I liked to sit on the ground and feel my thighs on the wet sand. I sat wide-legged, scooping the dirt between my legs, tasting the dark round stones were the best. Sometimes my mother saw me sitting in the driveway. With one hand tucked behind my head and the other hand opening my mouth, my mother could circle her big round four-finger inside, past my teeth, clear to the back of my throat so she could scoop out all the rocks I was sucking on. I don't remember swallowing them. I guess that’s what my mother was afraid I would do. I liked to taste cold, wet dirt. My mother's finger was significantly larger than my mouth and always tasted like garlic, not that I knew what garlic tasted like, right. I just remembered the peppery smell that signaled that my mother was cooking. She would say, "You're too young to remember that. You were only four!

Celia, my neighbor-friend, was forever in grown-folk conversations. She could dramatize any story someone else told, word for word. One afternoon, in her usual demonstrative tone, she shared her latest discovery with me. We lived just a quarter of a mile from each other, down a dusty country road. We played together almost every day. As usual, one day with one hand on her hip, she tells me the shocking news she overheard the night before,

“You and I have the same mamma!” I was caught entirely off guard. 

What could she be saying? If this were true, then that would mean she was my sister! A sister? Could this be a good thing or a bad thing? 

I was stunned. I thought Celia’s mother was kind, sweet, loving, and empathetic. I liked being near her. Honestly, I thought she was my auntie. I couldn’t wait until my mother got home from work that day so I could confront her with this unexpected news. I am terrified to ask, but there is no one else to ask.  I could hardly sit still waiting at the back door to hear the car drive up in the driveway. As soon as I heard the wheels come to a stop and the car door shut, I met her at the back door. I blurted it out before a word came out of her mouth. 

“Mommy, when Celia came over today, she told me that she and I have the same momma!“ 

Mother looked flustered and quickly ushered me into the house, 

“Let me get in the house Angie; then we can talk.” My mother had a routine when she came home from work.

Wash her hands at the kitchen sink, change clothes then read the daily paper.

My mind was racing. My first thought was if this were true, it meant dad wasn't my dad! And if he wasn’t my dad, then who was he?

I waited at the kitchen table. I rocked back and forth so hard and fast in my favorite rocker until the chair began to make a cracking sound on the wooden floor. I am bouncing with anticipation to hear the verdict. My main concern is my dad. I loved my dad more than anything in the whole world. I would be lost without him. Finally, my mother calls me to the kitchen table. In a quiet, controlled voice,

she says, “Be still for a minute, Angie.”

 I can see the hesitation on her face. My childhood is not a subject she wants to reveal. I can tell because she is not making eye contact.  

“Yes, it is true.” 

You must recall that my mother is not ordinarily quiet and gentle. Her soft voice signaled my attention to listen carefully. 

“Celia’s mother is your mother.” “Her name is Edna.”

I am rocking faster now.  Mother looks me straight in my eyes and, with her hand on my knee, says, “Edna is my niece.”

“Edna is my sister Marie’s daughter.”

The family calls Marie Big Ma. Since Marie is Edna’s mother, Big Ma is my grandmother. I am trying to imagine all this new knowledge.

“Yes, this means that dad and I are your Great Aunt and Great Uncle.”

 I immediately wanted to know why this was such a kept secret! 

I’m talking loud, breathing shallow, “Do Celia and I have the same DAD?”  I HOPED NOT.

Celia’s dad reeked of smoke. I HATED THE SMELL OF HIS CIGARS. Wow! How did all this happen?  I have two mothers? 

Why was this secret kept from me?

As the story goes, I was born when my birth mother Edna was twenty years old, and her husband, my birth father, was in the Navy. His name was Ambrose Neal. My birth mother grew up in Chicago, and her mother Marie and my mother Roberta were sisters. Edna lived with her grandmother in Chicago and found it challenging to work and care for a baby. So, she had to leave me alone with her Granny (my great-grandmother) while she went to work. It seems I was too much for Granny. I wasn’t a year old, and Granny was well into her early 60’s. Granny calls her daughter Roberta (my mother) to come and get me. My mother rescued me more than once from Granny’s care. Edna drove from Chicago, Illinois, to Cassopolis, Michigan, about 100 miles and took me back. Why my birth mother eventually left me with her aunt, I will never know. I never heard Edna’s side of the story. 

My parent’s confession caused a strange disconnect in my soul. When they admitted the truth, and I wondered how this knowledge would fit into my life. I asked who would take care of me, now that I knew this big secret? Would I stay where I was? Would I have a choice? Nothing changed.

On the eve of my twenty-second birthday, my birth father Ambrose called me. I felt a mystery was unfolding. I was surprised and delighted to meet him. He lived in Chicago, Illinois. On one of my visits to Chicago staying with my cousin Glen, we went together to meet him. I was so excited. When I saw Ambrose, he smiled and reached out to hug me. I saw myself in his smile and his short stature. This moment was quite surreal and welcomed.

I visited him at his home a few years after that. This time I met his wife. She was very kind to me. Ambrose told me that my great aunt and uncle sent letters requesting that he sign adoption papers, but he and Edna refused to consent. Maybe they thought that someday we would all be together. What a fairy tale!  My mother discovered that I could legally sign my adoption papers when I was fourteen. 

On one warm sunny day, I walked into a courthouse in downtown Cassopolis. A lawyer sat me down at a long heavy wooden table. I can still remember the smell of the dark oak wood in the attorney’s office as he spread out the documents for me to sign. I wasn't told what was about to happen.

There on the table was my birth certificate with the name ANGELA NEAL.

I found out in that daunting moment that my last name was never legally “Cheney,” my parent's last name. Charles and Roberta Cheney, my adopted parents and Great Aunt and Uncle.

How devastating! It was here in a stoic attorney’s office that my identity and future were ripped away from me by just a signature. 

MY SIGNATURE! The lawyer asked me was I happy where I was? The thought of living away from my dad was not a comfortable feeling.

A tempting thought to get away from my great-grandmother and Mother Roberta.

No one asked me how I felt about all this before signing and if someone had asked, I don’t recall having any feelings. I did feel displaced and abandoned. Who were my birth parents?

When I found out that my parents were not my real parents, I felt like I was dangling at the end of a rope hoping to be rescued.

The adoption signing dismantled my beautiful, country-side farm life. 

Who were these people? Who was this woman I called Granny the first thirteen years of my life? I had developed fear and hatred toward her and my mother anyway, and now I didn't belong? Where did I come from, and how did I get here? So many unanswered questions.

I was heartbroken, deceived, and dismayed. No one cared how I felt. I wished that this story was still a secret.