A Look Farther Back

A child is not a child alone.  One must consider the branches that brought the child into existence and perhaps even further down the roots.

The story of my mother and father is nothing short of interesting.  My mother and father had a whirlwind courtship that took many by surprise.  My mother was young and my father had been around the world, literally.  It seems that my grand parents were not big fans of this relationship and yet the relationship went on.  I suppose that my grandparents were always protective of their little girls who were nothing short of a miracle.

My mother was a twin, who never should have lived at her tiny birth weight.  She and her twin weighed just 2.5 pounds each, fitting in to a shoe box as their shared crib.  They were born in the 1930s and many families did not have an automobile at that time and I suppose most babies came without a doctor's attention at all.  However, in this case, the doctor was called and luckily he had an automobile.

The twins arrived in the small town of Cope, Colorado, far from the big city of Denver.  Once they arrived, no one expected them to live.  The doctor packed them up in a shoe box and whisked them away to Denver in his automobile.  By today's standards the trip would take an hour and 55 minutes; I can't imagine how long it took way back then.

When the doctor took off with the tiny twins it would be the last time my grandmother saw her babies for six months.  As she explained to me, it was a very long time before they got a letter from the hospital in Denver with news of the babies.  What a miracle that they both had lived!  The babies were whisked away so quickly to receive the life saving medical care that they needed that not a single thought was given to naming them.

These tiny babies grew to know the care givers that worked with them day after day, but the care givers only knew them as baby one and baby two.  The nurses decided that they had to call the babies something and so began to call them Mary and Margie.  The first time that Grandma saw them she intended to give them the names she had chosen.  However, she could see that they responded to the names the nurses gave them and felt it would be too confusing for them if she changed their names.  And so it was that Margie and Mary got their miraculous start in life.

Grandma and Grandpa Packer, parents of Mary and Margie

Margie and Mary as little girls

All grown up...

It Begins

I was born during an unexpected spring blizzard, at least that is how my dad always told the story.  I have never in my 46 years seen it snow on my birthday, but my dad had a way with telling stories.

My beginning, was the ending of children coming along to our large family.  Yes, I was the last of five children for my mother and seven for my father.  There are many strange things about my entry into this earth.  My father always said that my mother was very concerned about me right from the start and protected her pregnancy with me in such a way that it was worth remark.  Why, has been the lingering, yet unanswered question all these years.

Perhaps it was because mother had a sense that it was her last pregnancy and, being a woman, she had a keen awareness of something coming to an end.  Or could it be that she had other children in the five years between me and my next oldest that she has not carried to term.  Maybe it was because she was 29 and thought her age made it a more delicate pregnancy.  It could even be that she nearly lost me as the result of a beating or untimely fall down the stairs.  Speculation is all we have at this point.  There is no one left from that era that can provide any insight.

Over the years I have done my own speculating.  At one point I was convinced that the reason my mother so protected her pregnancy with me is because I was the offspring of her secret lover.  Indeed, I had someone in mind and a few hints, or convenient coincidences, that hinted at the truth of my speculation.  Nothing ever materialized and I just went on to chalk it all up to one of dad's fanciful stories.

At any rate, I was the youngest of a long line of children and strange circumstances did surround my beginnings into the first several months.  My mother was supposed to have wanted me very much, and yet, I have felt a distant sense of being somewhat lost all my life.

After the spring blizzard that led to my birth, there was the issue of naming me.  On my original birth certificate (I have actually seen it) it said Jeannie Carolyn in the blanks assigned for my name.  Then, those were scratched out and left blank.  I left the hospital only as baby girl Gardner.  In modern times they would never let you out of the hospital without a name for a baby, but in those days it was apparently inconsequential.

The second lore of my legendary beginnings commences at the moment Jeannie Carolyn was scratched out.  The question weighing on most everyone's minds was what to name the baby.  A grand story surrounds the journey, adventure if you will, to finding a name for the baby.  At this point it is important to know that my father was an alcoholic that practiced his craft in such a way that left many spectacular stories to tell.  As you might have guessed, this tale is not exception.

I am told that for three weeks there was a nightly ritual meant to discover the proper name for this nameless baby girl.  After dinner each night the family went around the table naming off potential names in the hopes that a suitable one would be found.  I can almost picture it now, a seasoned mother with four elementary age children around the table and a baby in her arms and a proud father beaming at his robust family.  I picture a sturdy oak table with six chairs crowded around the oblong dinner table in a well light room with a low din of noise and activity.

The picture I have in my mind may well be true, with one exception.  The proud, beaming father was actually the intoxicated father that fancied himself quite humorous.  As the story goes, and again I can only report the legend and the lore, my father had a memorable contribution.  "Herman," he would say when his turn arrived, "let's name her Herman."  It is reported that this happened every night for three weeks.

I have been thankful all my life that "Herman" did not win out in the quest to name the baby.  On the last night of the naming ritual it all came together.  My sister Marie came up with the name Lynne and my mother then added Amy.  It was decided then that baby girl would become Amy Lynne, and so I finally had a suitable name.  And that is how it all began.  Or at least that is the story I have been told about how it all began.

I am told that this is a picture of me as a baby

there is no conclusive evidence that this true...