The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  How do I celebrate that kind of event in my life? Definitely not with a movie. Since food seems to be a part of all important celebrations, going out to lunch or dinner might be appropriate. Especially if I try something new each year. Something I’ve never eaten before. Maybe a dish from my previously secret genetic heritage.

  What do I even call this sort of anniversary? DNA Discovery Day? Who’s Your Poppa Day? Hide-and-Go-Seek-the-Skeleton-in-Your-Closet Day? The last one has a nice ring to it, but I don’t see it being put on a greeting card anytime soon.

  My phone beeps with a text alert, interrupting the debate with myself.

  Joe texts, “Hey bro, how are you? Just thinking of you.”

  I text back, “Super busy. How are you and Tammy? I’ve been thinking of you as well.”

  Joe texts, “We are doing good. Every day we wake up is a good day.”

  A life lesson from my little brother. Not what I expected today.

  “Yes, it is.” I wait for a response, but that’s it from Joe.

  There are too many things going through my mind to write today. I slip the cell phone into my pants pocket and take the Bush Highway out to the desert. The Salt River runs to my left. I see a picnic ramada positioned next to the river and pull into the parking lot. This time of year, I have the area all to myself.

  I find a bare patch of ground along the bank and watch the river flow past me. Maybe my thoughts will drift away with the current. Then I can focus on something more important than whether I should celebrate the discovery of my other family.

  For fifty-seven years, I was safely cocooned within my limited view of what it meant to be a normal family. I knew of no family-destroying dramas like the ones depicted on television. I knew of no skeletons lurking in our family closet. Or, at least, none I was willing to admit existed. I had thought we were just the typical, nuclear family.

  Obviously, I was wrong.

  I’ve opened the Pandora’s Box of the DNA generation and cannot put back what I have personally let loose. Perhaps my problem was I held on too tightly to what I thought a family should be instead of realizing that it changes. Births, deaths, marriages, and adoptions all bring change to families, so why not DNA testing?

  During the last two years, I’ve talked with people who have had to deal with all kinds of life-changing surprises. It seems as if almost everyone has some sort of surprise happen to them, their family, or a friend. The more I talk to people about their experiences, the more amazing stories I hear about how these events brought them together to live as families. Good, functional families where a hole had existed in their lives before.

  I pick up a stone and skip it across the river. It travels halfway across before sinking into the water. I watch the ripples blend with the natural disturbance of the current.

  Even if I could undo the decision to test my DNA, I doubt I would. In exchange for several uncomfortable months where my emotions were smacked around like a handball, I put to rest a lifetime of self-doubt. I no longer feel like an outsider in my own family. Either one of them. I look and act like one set of siblings . . . and they love me. I look and act different from my other set of siblings . . . and they love me too.

  It took two years, but I’m finally at peace with the situation. I don’t have to choose one family over the other. I belong to both. And that makes me happy.

  With that final thought, my head clears.

  I could go back and write, but it’s my anniversary. That just doesn’t seem appropriate. A celebration like this calls for something family related. Something that embraces discovery. An activity that shows I am no longer afraid of any skeletons that might still be hiding in my closet. I can think of only one thing that fits all those criteria.

  Family history research.

  I take my time driving home, stopping at Dairy Queen for some ice cream. After all, it is supposed to be a celebration. I understand that most anniversaries don’t involve ice cream, but that’s just stupid.

  Once again, William “The Immigrant” taunts me. I can hear him say, “You’ll never find me, lad. We Lindsays are a clever bunch. Much too clever for the likes of you.”

  “I’ve got news for you, William,” I tell him . . . suddenly glad no one is in the house to hear me talking to myself. “You’ve met your match, because I’m going to find you.”

  A quick search of my usual genealogy sites doesn’t reveal that any new records have been added that would help me find William. My best bet still seems to be an out-of-print book about the Lindsays of Lisnacrieve. Published in 1885, it might contain some mention of William or the Crawford family he married into.

  I log in to Amazon. They still don’t have a hard copy of the book I can buy. I switch over to Google and conduct a search. It produces the same results from the last time I tried to find the book.

  Hold on . . .

  One of the search results takes me to a web page that offers an electronic version of the book. I hadn’t wanted to take a risk on the site before, but it appears to be my only chance to read the information inside.

  I order the ebook.

  It takes a couple of days, but it finally arrives in my email. I pump my fist in the air and shout, “Yes! This could be it.”

  Then I open the file and read it. The book tells about the arrival of James Lindsay to the town of Derry, Ireland. In 1689, his four sons fought in the Siege of Derry. One of the sons was killed, but the oldest moved away and built Lisnacrieve. The records for the Lindsays in the area surrounding Fintona seem to be his descendants.

  However, the book mentions two other brothers by name and indicates the majority of their children moved to America between 1772 and 1810. If these are my Lindsays, then I’ve been looking for them in the wrong place. I need to look for them here, in America.

  I jot down some notes on the few names and places mentioned for the brothers Robert and David. Then I sit back and contemplate my next move. William seems further out of my grasp than ever before. The only way I can find any of his siblings in North America is to try and track them down through Dad’s DNA results.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  It isn’t going to be easy, but I can search through DNA matches to find Lindsays who are part of our family line. Search and compare. Search and compare. Do that enough times and I should be able to place more Lindsays onto our family tree. And they will lead me to William.

  The Great Lindsay Quest is on again.

  Chapter 23

  My Dad Is Still My Dad

  The holidays are finally over. I load the children in the van and drive over to see Dad. Only the three youngest children travel with me, Merlin is eighteen now, and visiting the grandparents no longer interests him. The others climb into the van with their headphones on and immediately stick their noses in their books. They don’t say a word all the way there. Whatever stories they are reading have them too absorbed to chat with me.

  At least they’re reading.

  The air is cold. Not Alaskan, freeze-your-face-solid kind of cold. Just the Arizona variety. Chilly enough to make me regret not wearing a jacket but not cold enough to make me go back inside the house and get one. The yard is still wet from recent rain, and the scent of woodsmoke drifts on the air from a nearby fireplace.

  I turn on the radio. Christmas music is blissfully absent from the channels. A month and a half of “Jingle Bells” is more than I can handle. I check one station after another for something peppy but don’t find anything that suits my mood. Instead, I let my thoughts drift on the waves of post-holiday remembrances.

  Dad missed celebrating Christmas with the rest of the family. My stepmother had a cold, and he isn’t steady enough to drive himself anymore. I’m sure one of the grandchildren could have driven out and brought him over, but he isn’t the kind of man to leave his wife alone on Christmas Day. At least that hasn’t changed.r />
  The last two years have brought a tidal wave of unwelcome change. Dad plays golf instead of competing at the local Friday-night rodeos. He uses a cane to walk. And I found out that he isn’t my biological father.

  None of which seems to bother Dad. In that regard, he remains the same bastion of strength he’s always been to me.

  I pull onto the dirt road on his property. The corrals are empty. The trees are bare, giving the place an abandoned look. A car is parked in the barn, but there’s no sign of a truck. It takes me a moment to remember that Dad doesn’t drive anymore. They don’t need a truck. They don’t need a corral either. They don’t even need a barn. The place doesn’t feel right to me. This is no longer the kind of horse property where Dad belongs. I don’t care how old he is, he deserves horses, and trucks, and a pack of barking dogs.

  The children and I march up to the glass door on his porch. I knock, but no one answers. I slide open the door and call out, “We’re here.”

  I can hear the television playing in the living room. Something about the invasion of Normandy. I hurry inside, wondering if Dad is all right. It isn’t like him to not answer the door. A pair of quick steps takes me into view of him. He is sleeping in his easy chair. So is his dog.

  “Hey, Dad,” I call out loudly.

  Dad jerks awake. He recognizes me right away and then struggles to rise from his chair. Once he reaches his feet, he stumbles forward. Fortunately, I’m there to catch him. I wrap my arms around him and give him a big squeeze. Not the kind that breaks ribs or crushes the breath out of a person, but a hug that is meant to tell the man just how much I love him.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” he says. “There’s Popsicles in the fridge on the porch. I think they are banana-and-fudge flavor. Help yourself.”

  The kids each take a turn giving Dad a hug and then head for the goodies. Then they return and sit on the visitors’ couch.

  “How are the kids doing?” Dad asks.

  I give a report on the four still living at home. Each comment I make triggers at least one story from Dad. It takes the most of an hour to update him on how the children are doing, but I don’t mind. I love his stories. I always have.

  A smile spreads across my face as I sit and listen to him. He masterfully weaves nuggets of wisdom into the tales of his personal experience and seasons them with a bit of humor. The skills I’ve learned as an author allow me to appreciate his stories on a whole different level from when I was a child sitting at his knee. I literally could sit here all day and listen to his stories.

  “Dad,” I say, “why don’t you record all the stories you tell me?”

  “A couple of people have suggested the same thing,” he says, “but I told them no.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Who wants to hear an old man talk about his life? I haven’t done anything important. I’m sure as hell not interesting.”

  They may be his words, but it’s my voice I hear speaking them. My life is boring. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read about what I’ve done, but Dad is a character and has led an incredible life. All right, maybe I’m biased—a little. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though. I know what makes for a good story, and Dad’s life is full of rich, entertaining moments I could weave into an impressive tale.

  “I want to write your story as my next project,” I tell him.

  “You promised me you were going to finish book four,” he says.

  “Okay. I’ll finish that book first.”

  “What kind of pizza do you guys like?” Dad asks.

  The children respond with, “Pepperoni.”

  “Do you like thin crust?” Dad asks.

  The children shrug, obviously not enthused with the suggestion. All right. So they’re not the most adventurous eaters in the world. Regular crust. Pepperoni. Extra cheese is acceptable, but that’s as far as they are willing to go on their culinary adventure.

  I convince the children to go with their grandmother and help her with the pizza. That leaves Dad and me alone. He launches into storytelling mode. One of the stories, I’ve never heard before. He tells me about a vision he had when I was a child and how it has served as a symbol of faith ever since. I wonder how many more wonderful tales remain unheard inside his head.

  He talks about ships and being overseas. I can tell from his comments that there is more to his tale than what he is sharing with me. Stories that are, perhaps, too personal for even family. Or too painful. I can’t tell which.

  All I know is that I want to hear his stories. I would love to tell them to the world. This is where I belong—the son of a storyteller. It can be no mistake that this man raised me.

  Blood doesn’t define family. My experiences over the last two years have taught me that. It’s about accepting the people who are in my life, despite their faults. Not just accepting them but loving them as well. Embracing my siblings, half-siblings, marriage siblings, children, stepchildren, and adopted children regardless of how much or how little they look like me. To find joy in the ways we are alike and marvel in the diversity of our differences.

  It doesn’t matter how it happens. People make mistakes. All of us have flaws. What matters is that we are family . . . and family rocks.

  It is the love we share that makes us family.

  About the Author

  Randy Lindsay is a native of Arizona. He lives in Mesa with his wife, five of his nine children, a dog, a cat, and a hyperactive imagination. His wife calls him the “Story Man” because he sees everything as material for a story. Randy has researched his family history for fourteen years, incorporating more than 5,000 family members in his family tree and has helped many others in their ancestral quests.

  To contact the author,

  visit MilkmansSonBook.com

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Ghosts of Family Past

  Where’s William?

  The DNA Results

  I’m Not in Egypt, So This Can’t Be Denial

  Forget the Duke; Meet My Dad

  Oh, Brother

  The Milkman’s Family

  DNA Test Round Two: Like Father, Like Son

  Another Skeleton in the Closet

  The Joke’s on Me

  Stalking the Family

  Florida

  Hello, Joe

  Tammy’s Story

  Dad, I’m Home

  Not Enough Time

  Post-Family Depression

  Family Feud

  The Dreaded Call

  Returning Home

  Shelly’s Story

  Surprise, Surprise

  My Dad Is Still My Dad

  About the Author

  Landmarks

  Cover

  Table of Contents