Earth Day and someone special at 50 or thereabouts

Colin with his birthday present from his mom--a Leatherman

I'm afraid he gave his son that haircut, and I may have to chastise him soundly

Hard to believe that only fifty years ago paying attention to the environment was such a new and innovative idea. Sad to say we haven’t made a lot of progress in those fifty years at being stewards of the earth, especially not with recent rollbacks of regulations meant to protect our world. I do find it remarkably interesting that social distancing, which has kept people at home across the globe, has resulted in dramatic cleansing of our air and water. We have fewer cars on the road, planes in the air, factories spewing out garbage—and the world is responding. I love that nature has come back in the form of wildlife to our national parks and even to some urban areas, as well as cleaner air and purer water. Clear proof that man is the polluter.

But I always celebrate Earth Day for a different reason. If that holiday is fifty years old, my oldest son is fifty-one today—he was just a year ahead of time. Of course I didn’t meet Colin David Alter until eight days later when the adoption agency called to ask if we minded that he might have red hair. Mind? We were ecstatic. Of course, his hair was never red, but he was perfect in every other way and has brought me so much joy over the years. He is also the one I rely on to keep my world in order—from my finances to my family relationships. He is truly the oldest child who will be the patriarch of the family and acts in that capacity already, keeping us all in line and in love with each other.

Colin has the unique ability to calm me and set me straight when I’m headed in the wrong direction. He is ever peaceful and patient. I remember once getting so frustrated at a driver who cut him off, and he said, “Look at you. Why are you getting so upset.” Other times, he has said to me, “Mom, I don’t know how I drive a car when you’re not there to help me.” I love that boy so much.

April 22 is another bittersweet memory. It is the birthday of my younger sister, born in 1942 and dead at the age of six months. I was always told she died of a heart defect, but I sometimes wonder if it was not SIDS that was just not recognized. I remember little about Isabel Jean MacBain, but I vividly remember the day she was brought home from the hospital. My brother John and I quarreled over who would get to pull the blanket off her face—I got the face, and John got the feet end of the bassinet. I also remember sitting on the couch, very still, so I could hold her (I was four at the time). But I remember nothing of her death, nor does my brother. I do remember my mom took to her bed one day a year with a migraine and it had to do with Jeannie, but I don’t know if it was the anniversary of her birth or her death.

Watching my two daughters now, I sometimes long for the sister I almost had. When they were in high school, my girls were geat enemies, but they are the closest of friends ow, and I am so grateful for that relationship for them. But a bit of me wishes I too had it. Would Jeannie and I have been good friends? I am quite confident we woud.

Happy Hour from Jay's perspective

We thought Earth Day was going to show us the power of Mother Nature today, with strong storms and possible tornadoes predicted. Nothing happened. We had a bright, sunny day, with pleasant temperatures. We sat outside in the evening and had a socially distanced happy hour with neighbor Jay, whom we have come to call “the man behind the screen.” The breeze was gentle and wonderful.

Also had a near-catastrophe tonight. The screws holding the seat on my walker to the frame came apart. I thought It moved a little a couple of times today but wasn’t alarmed—until it nearly dumped me on the floor. I’m not sure if it was plain instinct or I saw her coming out of the corner of my eye, but I yelled, “Jordan!” She, bless her, came running and did her best to fix it, but she has neither the tools nor the skill. I have asked neighbor Jay if he can look at it tomorrow. Meantime I am being very careful and only sitting in it when absolutely necessary. Jordan has long been after me to walk more and scoot less, but there are simply a lot of things I cannot do without rolling around on the seat—like all

Jordan repairing my walker

the cooking I do.

Sweet dreams, everyone. W need them, we need all the joy we can find in life.

A grandson grows, and my father is found

My favorite picture of Kegan--guess why? 

The long hair is so he can have a man-bun when he plays soccer

Happy Birthday to Kegan David Alter, who turned eleven today. He’s a real star on the soccer field and told me by phone that he won’t celebrate tonight because he has a soccer game. Celebration will come this weekend. Jacob couldn’t believe that his cousin hadn’t opened his presents yet.

As I wrote a few days ago, I’ve been searching for my father’s gravesite and, coincidentally, that of my younger sister who died at the age of six months, because I knew if I found one I’d find both of them. I’d always thought they were in a cemetery in Oakville, Ontario, where my grandparents lived, but there are multiple cemeteries there. I followed various leads—I found a record of my sister’s grave at Oak Woods, an old Victorian cemetery not too far from our Chicago home. Dad was a proud MacBain, and I am a registered member of the clan, so I called the office and they set their genealogist on it. She found a record in a cemetery at Peterborough, Ontario where I’m quite sure he lived at one time, but the associated names and dates were quite right.

Dad was president of the Chicago College of Osteopathic Medicine and administrator of the associate Chicago Osteopathic Hospital, now part of Midwestern University in the Chicago area (not the one in Wichita Falls). On a gamble, I called them and was referred to Dan Grooms, archivist. He’s my hero who solved the mystery.

McBain/Elliott plot

I have no idea who the Elliotts were

My father’s cremains and my sister’s body (I’m presuming in 1942 as an infant she was not cremated) are in St. Jude’s Anglican Cemetery in Oakville, Ontario. According to my new friend, Dan, the graves are in some disrepair, something I’ll look into when I’m in Toronto late next summer. In my childhood Oakville was a small town some twenty or thirty miles from Toronto; today it is part of the urban sprawl of the city. My grandfather was a minister, and this may solve another mystery—I’ve never been sure if he was affiliated with the Methodist church (as my dad was when I grew up) or the Anglican church, which would have been more logical. I’ll call tomorrow and get more information.

I have only vague memories of my sister, Jean Isabelle. She was born April 22 (also my oldest son’s birthday), 1942, and died that fall. My fleeting memories, as a four-year-old, include the day she came home from the hospital and the times I was allowed to sit—way back—on the couch and hold her. I remember nothing of her death, and neither does my older brother. We were told it was a cardiac problem, but I have long wondered about SIDS.

I was on such a discovery kick last night that I uncovered my brother’s father’s gravesite (he is really my half-brother; our fathers were colleagues and roommates at one point; both served in WWI and John’s father died in 1934 of war wounds). Found him at Mound Grove Gardens in Kankakee, Illinois—our mother’s hometown.

I’ve even found my grandparents’ house in Oakville on Google Maps—it was white clapboard and now looks to be brown shingle, but it’s the same house.

Who knows? I may have a new career in genealogical research—except I’d have to have Dan Grooms as my cohort.