Bonnie Parsons

 It's reunion time! My high school 60th class reunion is in a few short weeks. It wouldn't be possible but for a few enthusiastic folks who do all the work—and the rest of us are grateful! Friends are flying and driving from near and far to Amherst, Massachusetts. "Am...erst." Please do not say the H. Yesterday at an appointment with my eye doctor, an Amherst College graduate, I asked if they pronunced the H when he was there. "Am...erst, no H," he quickly replied. Ah, the quirky memories we share.

 

Before we say goodbye to summer, or welcome fall, whichever you prefer, I have been focusing on special summer memories that take me back. Cottage life was a family tradition. My dad's family still owns a cottage purchased in 1923, north of Ottawa on Danford Lake in Kazabazua. Our cottage was on Curran's Lake in Quebec, known today as Lac Curran.  Saving memories in writing is also a family tradition. Dad inspired a book on cottage life at Danford Lake, filled with stories by family members of all ages.

 

So at my request, Dad also wrote about our cottage life at Curran's Lake. In my "Father's Day Blog" posted June 10, 2019 and in the sequel to my memoir, Send A Little Love, I included Dad's Curran's Lake memoir. In great detail, he described the purchase of the cottage, its location and terrain, birds and fish, neighbors, and challenges ... "Our drinking water we obtained (in glass gallon bottles) from a nearby woodland spring, reached by boat. The children enjoyed this little trip and gradually became responsible suppliers." I also recall the three of us walking through the woods until we found a pipe stuck in the rocks with fresh water gushing out. As the youngest and with a poor sense of direction (still!), I'm sure my brother and sister knew where to find the pipe. I recall being very careful with the glass bottles! 

 

Dad wasn't able to finish his memoir. He was in his eighties and Mom was not feeling well. I know he had more to say but the opportunity slipped away. I am also sure he would have included photos like the one of us in the pontoon boat. Here are a couple of my favorite memories that take me back.

 

"From 1952–1962, we drove to Curran's Lake as soon as school let out and returned Labor Day weekend. I was three years old during our first summer. When I was thirteen, my parents sold the cottage because we were moving south to Amherst, Massachusetts! But for those childhood years, summer meant going to the cottage on Curran's Lake. The drive to the cottage was not at all boring. We crossed the Ottawa River by car ferry and soon hit gravel roads. Our laneway was so overgrown, the trees surrounded the car. Excitement grew as we slowly made our way downhill, eagerly awaiting the first glimpse of the bright red roof of our cottage. And then we started pleading to go swimming. Planning and packing always included indoor games and library books, but all we really wanted to do was play outside and go swimming.

 

For the first couple of years, Dad installed chicken netting around the shallow water, fencing us in. Safety first! However, it didn't take long for the fence to be removed. I have no doubt, we would have all agreed, Dad's best cottage project was a white raft he built by himself. The wooden top rested on four steel drums and an anchor held it in place. He painted the steel ladder silver. It was a masterpiece and we loved it! But cottage life still had rules and routines—we swam an hour mid-morning and an hour in mid-afternoon. We were not allowed in the water until an adult was seated on shore, only a few feet from the water. In ten years, we never had a swimming accident.

 

Years later my parents owned two more cottages. In Johnson, Vermont, they built a cabin on the Lamoille River, perfect for fly fishing in chest waders! And then, north of Kingston, Ontario, they purchased a furnished cottage. It was their first cottage on a lake that allowed motorboats, perfect for a small pontoon boat. Paul and I loved it!"

 

It's been fun remember our cottage days in the woods. Dad and I shared a belief that our memoirs are legacies for future generations. Some things change—how lucky we are to have clean tap water. Other things are the same—our grandkids would be so excited to have a beautiful raft for diving and sunbathing! Ah, take me back anytime. It's worth remembering. And now, off to the reunion!

 

Please enjoy past blogs below and other sections of my website.

Comments are greatly appreciated.

The successful flight of Artemis ll gives me pause—a scientific, yet miraculous achievement. For astronaut Victor Glover, the view of Earth is "the greatest gift" of the mission. Are you stunned, as I am, by these views and the communication between Earth and the astronauts on this historic journey? There was a 'blackout' for about 40 minutes when they were on the farside of the moon and then a moment called Earthrise when the signals reappeared. These signals, or radio waves, carried the messages, including endearing chats with families that have left us speechless. I love to marvel at things that scientists can explain, but that also have a spiritual quality. This is the message of Earth Day!

 

Before I delve further into communications, here are a couple of updates from my last blogpost. In November 2024, we drove up to the Eastern Townships in Quebec and then to Ottawa. Our visits with folks on both my maternal and paternal sides were delightful and helped to keep the flame alive. As an adoptee, living a distance from my birth relatives, it's important for me to make the effort to get to them—I am the outsider, still curious to learn about my heritage. 

 

A year ago, Paul and I moved from our beloved Buffalo, NY to Smithfield, RI to be near our children and their families. Emily lives in Cranston and Ron now lives in Philadelphia. It was difficult to leave dear friends, sell a beautiful home and find another, pack and unpack! Did I mention we have an EV (electric vehicle) and a Ragdoll kitty named Ernie? It was a long day, but we arrived safely and we are thrilled to be here. 

 

The dedication in my memoir, Young Love - An Adoptee's Memoir, says: Identity is sacred. Never give up. I am intrigued but not surprised that these are the same messages I hear today in various podcasts and YouTube stories. The only difference is the widespread use and reliance on DNA. The internet didn't exist when I began searching in 1983 and identified my birth mother five years later. It was coming on the scene as I continued my search for my birth father. A DNA match with my half-brother Yves solved the decades-long mystery in 2018.

 

Yearning for identity—where did I come from—is the driving force for adoptees who search. One's childhood may have been happy or difficult, but that is a separate issue. With DNA and much appreciated cooperative matches some searches are quick. However, many searches take months or years, and I hear the mantra I first heard 43 years ago, Never give up! The connections we feel aren't proven in a scientific world. They are not radio waves in space, but they do have a spiritual quality. 

 

"It's a small world." I will end with a story that has old-school style connections in today's internet world. During our visit to the Eastern Townships in Quebec two years ago, we visited my half-sister Maxime and her lovely family. I dropped off copies of my books at their favorite book store in Knowlton, Brome Lake Books. Fun fact: novelist Louise Penny's favorite bookstore, too!

 

A month ago, I was invited to be a guest on a bookclub chat about adoption called Adoption Chronicles led by Abby Jacobson. Each month Abby suggests a book for discussion. Emily joined me and it was delightful. A mom with an adopted daughter from Guatemala shared her story—she and her husband helped their daughter locate her birth family. She also shared that they live in northern Maine and frequently take trips to the Eastern Townships. One trip happened to be to Knowlton where she spotted my books in the window at Brome Lake Books and purchased them! As a faithful participant in Adoption Chronicles, she then recommended my memoir to Abby. I immediately wrote to Maxime and her parents—it's a small world!

 

Happy Earth Day, everyone!

 

 Marc Mercier and I are first cousins. Our birth fathers were brothers. Many people might say,

"And so what?—Your fathers were brothers and so you're first cousins."

For Marc and me, learning that our birth fathers were brothers was the breakthrough we needed to identify them—and to find our own identities. We became search angels for each other. In time, our search was successful.

 We also learned about our paternal families, past and present.  

In a few weeks, Paul and I are going to visit Marc in Ottawa.

We will also meet Carol, another first cousin!

 

Please enjoy this story about my dear first cousin and friend Marc, updated from my May 2019 blog.

 

The Ever-Important Attitude of Gratitude

 

 One wintry day in February 1960, an unmarried young woman named Rose gave birth to a healthy, handsome baby boy. She named him Louis. Rose and her family lived in Verdun, a borough of Montreal. Rose could not provide for her son. She had no choice but to relinquish her parental rights. The infant was adopted by a French-speaking couple who gave him the name Marc.  They raised Marc in a French-speaking community in Welland, Ontario. Welland is located on the Niagara Peninsula between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, barely 26 miles from Buffalo, New York.

 

Marc had a happy childhood. He lived with his parents and his brother and had a close extended family. In his career, he specialized in Information Technology (IT) and worked for a major company in Ottawa. Over time Marc's curiosity about his birth family grew and he decided to get his DNA tested. FamilyTreeDNA posted his results sometime around 2010, I believe. Unfortunately, he did not receive a high match for years and was therefore not checking his results regularly.

 

I had tested only with AncestryDNA until a friend recommended I branch out and test with other companies, especially because AncestryDNA was not yet available in Canada. Having been born in Montreal, I realized she had a great point.

 

In 2016, I tested with FamilyTreeDNA, Marc's company. My results came back with our high DNA match!  I was elated, shocked and mystified—who is this person? While I waited for Marc's response to my email, I asked folks in Facebook's DNA Detectives and Free Canada Adoption/Family Search and Reunion about our match. Everyone agreed that Marc's birth father and my birth father were brothers—we were first cousins!

 

It was a Hallelujah moment! We were both very excited. We'd found the needle in the haystack—our shared DNA. While Marc lives in Ottawa, I was living on Long Island, New York and through DNA, we learned that our birth fathers grew up together in Verdun! It was magical. Marc speaks French and English which turned out to be invaluable as we searched for our birth fathers' identities in the Montreal area.

 

Adoption searches are completely unpredictable. It is best to limit one's expectations just in case the results are disappointing or worse, devastating. Marc's and my DNA match was the breakthrough we needed to find our birth families. However, my gratitude exceeds our DNA match—Marc is friendly and funny, down-to-earth, kind and smart. Everything that intimidated me in our search became a simple to-do task for Marc. I kept telling him we'd still be struggling if he hadn't followed the leads the way he did. We became partners in the search for our identities, determined to unlock the secrets in our closed adoption files. Today we message and text, FaceTime and talk on the phone for hours. He has visited us here and we got together in Montreal back in 2018 to meet our newly found biological family.  Together we did it! I am forever grateful.

 

 

 

 

 "Hi, Snoopy. I was just thinking about you. Thanks for calling.

Yes, I'll be sure to pick up milk-bones for you."

Snoopy and I are in sync. But what does that mean?

 

The article, What Is Brain Synchrony? explains: ". . . when we think, feel and act in response to others, patterns of activity in our brains align. Scientists call this phenomenon interbrain synchrony. The extent of synchrony indicates the strength of a relationship, with brainwave patterns matching particularly well between close friends or an effective teacher and his/her students." (Denworth 2023) Or pets and owners, of course.

 

Years ago, my children and I were on the thruway, driving to visit friends. Quite suddenly, I became overwhelmed, feeling something was happening and I had no idea what it was. I was distressed enough to pull over until I felt ok to drive. That evening, my parents called and told me that my Aunt Ellie had passed away that afternoon.

 

Another example of synchrony involves my birth mother. She was required to care for me for six weeks at the Catherine Booth Hospital in Montreal following my birth. I have no doubt that six weeks was amply time for our brainwave patterns to match particularly well. I began my search for her in May 1983. For the next couple of months, I read everything I could find about adoption and searching. All I could think about was my birth mother and finding her. And I wondered why I was so troubled by these feelings. In 1988, Paul and I found her obituary on microfilm at the Toronto Reference Library. She had died July 21, 1983.

 

Finally, on a positive note, I love it when I am in sync with my now-adult children.  Synchrony does not require proximity. It's a joy to be in sync, any time, any place.

 

Synchronicity is a broader phenomenon than synchrony, though the connections we experience in both are invisible. "Synchronicity . . . refers to meaningful coincidences that occur in our lives, events that seem to be connected in a way that goes beyond mere chance. These synchronistic events often leave us with a sense of awe and wonder, as if there is a deeper meaning or purpose behind them." (Yusim 2024)

 

An adoption caseworker in Montreal told me that they see highly meaningful coincidences frequently in searches and reunions. In fact, I only became familiar with synchronicity during my search for my birth parents.

 

In the Spring of 1988 at the Toronto Reference Library, I learned my birth mother's name, address, and phone number. The next day, I summoned all my courage and called the number.  John, my birth mother's brother, and I talked for about a half hour. John was calm and very kind. He explained that Joan died from breast cancer following years of surgeries and treatments. She was only 53. John told me that he was her caregiver throughout her illness. He was devoted to Joan and never expressed judgment or shame for her pregnancy or relinquishing her baby. That phone call was the first direct contact with my original family since infancy. I had actually talked to someone who knew Joan!

 

The story continues: "I know this is silly, but didn't Joan work for the phone company? That call never appeared on my bill! Oh, how I wanted to see that phone call on my bill. It would be the written proof that I had talked to Joan's family. I was dying to see it and pay it! I even called the phone company. They had no record of the call. John told me that Joan worked for Northern Electric for thirty-four years. She was a hard worker, well respected, and active in the Northern Electric service organization, the Pioneers Club." 

 

This part of my story and similar synchronistic events are described in Chapter 7 of Young Love - An Adoptee's Memoir. I was in awe, wondering about the deeper meaning. 

 

"Synchronicity is a phenomenon in which people interpret two separate—and seemingly unrelated—experiences as being meaningfully intertwined, even though there is no evidence that one led to the other or that the two events are linked in any other causal way." (Weitzman 2024) I called Joan's home. John and I chatted for about a half hour. I never received the bill for the long-distance phone call. Joan worked for the telephone company her entire career. Clearly, there was synchrony between John and Joan, and Joan and me. However, I'm left wondering how I wasn't charged for the phone call! 

 

Synchrony and synchronicity highlight the connections we have to each other. They are often called magical. They make us pause and appreciate our close ties with family and friends.

 

I think I'll call Snoopy and tell him I have the milk-bones.

Oh, here he is already! How did he know?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nana's Diaries

Diaries, photo albums, recipes, and antiques are all precious family heirlooms.

 

Young Love — An Adoptee's Memoir

Highlights from Chapter 2, including

"the cornerstone of my life as an adoptee."

 

My parents were not overly sentimental. I loved my grandfather's photography slide collection and his stamp books. Sadly, I suspect they were thrown out. But I wouldn't let Nana's diaries get away!

 

"You really want them?" my mom asked.

 

Fortunately, it wasn't too late. I've treasured them for over fifty years. The diaries cover the late 1930s through 1969.

 

My father pooh-poohed the diaries as superficial accounts of hair appointments, friends' aches and pains, and the weather! He was right, but he missed all the other descriptions of events, both worldly and close to home. The diaries weave the story of life during and following WWII and its impact on families. Over the years, I've searched Nana's diaries for accounts of family holidays, birthdays, and summer vacations at our summer cottage. All families have stories to tell. How lucky I am that my nana wrote them down.

 

The most compelling diary entries describe our immediate family events and challenges. In the previous chapter, I wrote about my father's disability after WWII and my parents' subsequent decision to adopt my sister and me. 

 

At some point, as I was trying to recall the sequence of events regarding Dad's disability from the mid-1940s to the mid-1950s, I turned to Nana's diaries. 

 

The circumstances and Nana's accounts of them are the cornerstone of my life as an adoptee in this family. Dad may have disparaged them, but Nana's diaries chronicled the story of his suffering and a family's love.

 

. . .  August 1957, something went terribly wrong. Dad was back in the VA hospital in Montreal. Family started arriving and friends took care of the three of us. Dad was on antibiotics, and everyone was hoping they would not need to operate. Nana described what happened next.

 

September 6, 1957 excerpt:
Home all day waiting for call from Mary about Don. It came about one. Don is very ill after a major operation . . .
They have special nurses on with him. They think he will make a rapid recovery as he will soon be able to take food orally . . . Dr. Gardner told Mary he had never seen anything to compare with the condition he found and he wishes he had operated sooner. We are concerned about Don but hope and pray he can weather this ordeal for a couple of days until he can take nourishment.

September 7, 1957 excerpt:
Left early for Ste. Annes.
Mary was very tired. She had such a hectic day in the hospital yesterday when Don was so very ill—He just about slipped away before they got the intravenous feeding going in his jugular vein. Poor fellow, what an ordeal he has been through. Mary so tired and worried.

Mom told us a couple of remarkable details that I've never forgotten. With his scientific background, Dad understood his illness and conferred with his doctor. In one situation, the doctor disagreed with Dad. As Mom told us, she took the doctor out in the hall and gave him a piece of her mind. The doctor took Dad's advice, and the treatment was successful.

 

Early on the morning of April 5, 2001, my sister and sister-in-law and I were by Dad's side until he died peacefully. He was 85 years old. At one point near the end, he remarked, "There's Mary, and the others." Dad would have pooh-poohed that, much as he pooh-poohed Nana's diaries.

 

The spirit of love is pretty powerful, Dad. With Nana's diaries, we have an account of your decades-long, heart-wrenching battle to stay alive, and the determination of Mom and the family to be there for you.

It's a true love story.

 

Welcome back to my adoption world.

Since I began writing my memoir, my goal was to support people impacted by adoption. I wanted to use my story to verify key issues and say, "It's ok to search for your birth family. You will have happy moments and crushing moments. But, if it is what you need to do, work hard and never give up." 

 

Young Love - An Adoptee's Memoir tells my story. It was published four years ago—I can't believe it! My plan is to revisit a few of the conundrums I faced and connections that became so important to me as the story unraveled. Many of these conundrums and connections continue to challenge me today. 

 

It is important to recognize that the lives of adoptees vary as much as the lives of children who live with their biological parents. It is also important to recognize how our culture and laws and technology have changed over the decades since I was a child.

 

I speak from my experiences. But I read a lot and I understand the underlying feelings adoptees share, regardless of their circumstances. Finally, I hope my story encourages discussion about adoption issues and provides support for fellow adoptees.

 

Identity

We develop a sense of who we are at a young age. Adopted or not, our early experiences form our identity. Mom and dad were my parents. Simple as that. They knew all about needing and wanting to adopt, and that my brother was their biological child. But in my world, they were my parents, we were a family. I didn't need another set of parents and I loved my family. 

 

"But who is your real mother?" Then, the agency referred to mom and dad as my adoptive parents. What? I want people to know that my mom and dad were my only parents. I stress this because it defines a real adoption issue. We were relinquished as infants and raised in the only family we knew. Our identity formed in childhood is who we are, even after searching. Real parents, birth parents, adoptive parents are meaningless terms to young children.

 

Now, in the adoption world, I have searched and I know who my birth parents were. I have connected with half siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins. I have a biological family tree. I love my newly found family. I've learned about my inherited traits, medical history, and shared interests. We continue to get acquainted and visit each other. Of course, they know and I know that I'm still that little girl who grew up in Ste. Anne de Bellevue, on the west end of Montreal Island with parents who adopted me.

 

This is an adoption conundrum—I grew up happily without my biological family. I had my parents and brother and sister. Later as a young mom, I felt a need to find my birth family. That need and the joy in finding my biological family doesn't change the identity I formed with my parents and family. In fact, my identity is enhanced by everything I have learned. And I am grateful for the support I received in my search.

 

 

 

 

Earth Day 2022

Two years ago, I posted this blog about the 50th anniversary of Earth Day. Earth Day holds meaning for me for many reasons. Please join me in this trip down memory lane and our responsibility to 'remember the future.' 

 

Earth Day 2020

Earth Day is 50 years old today–first celebrated on April 22, 1970. Two weeks prior to the first Earth Day, I turned 21. Paul and I were married in January 1970, and, yes, I was only 20 years old when we got married! It was the middle of the last semester of our senior year at UMass Amherst. Amherst was a politically active town during the Vietnam War.

 

As stated by The Resistance Center—

"In winter, 1966, Amherst, Massachusetts became the first town in the United States to form a weekly vigil protesting the Vietnam War. Standing at the northwest corner of the town common on Sundays from 12 to 1 p.m., participants sought to publicly record their political and moral objections to government policies. The vigil continued until the war's end in 1973." www.theresistancecenter.org

 

But on April 22, 1970, folks gathered to celebrate the first Earth Day. I was walking into town for some reason, up Main Street toward North Pleasant–the main intersection in our small town! Suddenly, I heard the excitement of the Earth Day festivities. Every April 22nd since then, I recall the scene--it is a favorite memory from a very busy year!

 

"The First Earth Day
We only have one earth, so we need to take care of her. That's what Senator Gaylord Nelson of Wisconsin believed. He was disturbed that an issue as important as our environment was not addressed in politics or by the media, so he created the first Earth Day, on April 22, 1970. An estimated 20 million people nationwide attended festivities that day. It was a truly astonishing grassroots explosion, leading eventually to national legislation such as the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act." http://www.americaslibrary.gov

 

April 22nd is special to me for another couple of reasons. My birthmother, Joan, was born on April 22, 1929. Twenty years later in 1949, I was three weeks old and in her care on her 20th birthday. Four years later, April 22, 1953, on her 24th birthday, she gave birth to her second child, a baby boy. (Eventually, she relinquished four babies.)

 

Joan was required to care for her son and me for our first six weeks of life. Today, I wish him a Happy Birthday and hope we meet some day. We were both relinquished into closed adoptions. After years of searching for understanding how she was able to make these decisions, I have developed a deep empathy for Joan. I listened to other birthmothers in books and blogs and support groups. Relinquishing us was painfully traumatic. Relinquishing caused grief and suffering, illness and death too soon. Empathy is the key to understanding and forgiveness.

 

Young Love ~ An Adoptee's Memoir takes you through my search for my birthparents, for my identity, and for an understanding of the heartbreak experienced by unwed women forced to lose their infants into closed adoptions.

 

Completing the Triangle
"It became clear that my birthmother's only option for me was adoption. There were no alternatives. I believe that without support from her family and community, she did her best. Eventually, I understood her decision."

 

Original Birth Certificate, Please
"Once I knew my birthmother's name, I decided to ask for my original birth certificate. It was a tricky process, but thankfully, I succeeded. What a joy to hold that simple document, a lawful and legitimate record of my illegitimate birth!"

 

Was My Curiosity Wrong?

"Why did I want to know who gave birth to me? My mom and I shared a strong mother-daughter bond. I never wanted to hurt her. I never wanted her to think she wasn't my one and only mom."

 

Revisiting my Mother's Day blog post from two years ago -- My search angel at the Batshaw Youth and Family Centres in Montreal asked me if they could keep my blog… "I want to thank you for sharing your blog. Part of you stays with us now as your Mother's Day post will be used for sensitization training for future adoptive parents."

 

Sunday is Mother's Day

If I can ever write purely from my heart, I pray it is today. My thoughts are on motherhood. After all, this Sunday is Mother's Day. I am the mother of two children, a son and a daughter. My son's wife, Kim, is the mother to our three amazing grandkids. My daughter, Emily, has two beautiful baby daughters (updated from 2019!). We will all celebrate this weekend and wish each other, Happy Mother's Day! My family will not be surprised when I admit that I am already a bit teary-eyed. Ahhh, family!

 

My mom was a wonderful mom. For many reasons, life was not smooth-sailing for her. But when I was almost eight months old, I became her daughter and we were very close. I have many memories of her creative project ideas. I was about seven when she suggested my friend and I could go door to door in our little neighborhood and ask for old, empty perfume bottles.  We stirred up a lavender/water  concoction and refilled the bottles. That's all I remember—I sure hope we didn't charge anything for our eau de lavender! Mom taught me how to sew—another activity I loved, as much as playing the piano. Close to the end of her life, she continued to do crossword puzzles. Mom died from breast cancer at the age of eighty. I know she is still with me. 

 

The adoption triangle consists of the baby, adoptive parents, and the birthmother. Without the birthmother, there would be no infant, no triangle. Unwed women in our culture, especially in the last century, were shamed by their families and communities, sent away to give birth without support, told to get on with their lives, and to forget about their child, and never search—"You gave up your parental rights!"  As you can imagine, this is not possible for most women who carry a child for nine months and give birth. The trauma stays with them. Many think about their baby and grieve for years.

 

An unexpected pregnancy created serious difficulty when my birthmother was pregnant with me. Her parents and siblings were victims, in a way, of her condition. I have had years to search for peace and understanding about my birthmother and my adoption. She was successful at work, generous, and alway lent a helping hand to her family. I refuse to judge her and think ill of her! Over time, I came to believe that she did her best at nineteen in overwhelmingly difficult circumstances with no support. 

And so, I open my heart to women who lose a baby to adoption. Let's not forget that an adoption triangle starts with them. This Sunday, I will think of all the wonderful mothers in my life, including my birth mother.