A Family Secret

I am not a child. At least not chronologically. I was born during the JFK administration. You do the math. And, just recently, I found out that I am not the person I thought I was my entire life. You see, I found out that the man listed on my Birth Certificate may not actually be my father.

This discovery came about during an investigation into a different family mystery. I had grown my entire childhood under the impression that I had only one surviving grandparent, my Me mere. It wasn't until two years ago I learned her husband, my pep ere, didn't pass until I was six.

Six was a strange year for me. It was the first time I met my father. I'll call him "E" in this blog. It was the last time I saw the man who was around our house while I was growing up. I'll call him "F". My Mom brought me to my Me mere's house, where my dad lived. My six year-old brain couldn't grasp this concept. Anyhow, I digress.

Upon the discovery that Pep ere was alive until I was six, I wondered why I wasn't allowed to know him. By this time, everyone I could think of to ask was gone...except my older brother. And he wasn't saying. Fast forward.

It was during a conversation with another relative I had not seen in a long time that I was told the reason I was never introduced to my pep ere. He would have told me that "E', his son, was not my father. My father was "F".

I was stunned. So was the relative. They were under the impression I had known already. This gave me many questions to answer.

I did some research on the internet. "F" had passed away in 2006. 76 Years-old...the same age as my mom when she passed. "F" had two daughters...whoa! I have two half-sisters? And then it hit me...my big brother is just my half-brother! I was overwhelmed at this thought. You see, in my eyes my big brother (13 years older) was my father figure. He was the one who bought me my first glove. He was the one who bought me my first ten-speed bike. He was the one who took me deep-sea fishing. He took me everywhere, and treated me like gold. I've always said I hit the brother Jackpot with him. And now I find he might only be my half-brother? I had an OMG moment....did he KNOW?

I finally got the nerve to ask him. He said he didn't know anything about it. He asked me what I thought. I said its "E"'s name on my birth certificate. I'll go with that. Then a couple days ago I found an old picture of "F". It is more than obvious that "F" was my dad, not "E". I started thinking about things that might change because of this knowledge. There are many questions:

• Did my brother really know?
• Did "F"'s daughters know about me?
• Why didn't my mom ever tell me the truth?
• Did "F" have medical history I should know about?
• What nationality am I?
• Are my sisters alive?
• If so, where are they?
• Would they want to meet me?

Then I asked myself one last question.

Does this change my relationship with my big brother?

One of my Facebook friends posted a picture. The timing couldn't have been better.

"Family is not about blood. It's about who is willing to hold your hand when you need it most." The words struck me like a sledgehammer in my chest. You see, it doesn't matter if "E" or "F" is my father...neither one was there for me at anytime in my life. Sure one of them is my biological dad, but the man who has gone above and beyond the call for over and over again, the man who cheered me on when I performed onstage, who brought to and from the hospitals when I had no one, the man who has always, and I mean ALWAYS been the stabilizing influence in my life, the one person was, and still is, "...willing to hold your hand when you need it most" is my brother. I am tremendously blessed to have him in my life. To have him...in my family.

Take care my friends.

The Experiment

When I was a very young child, I was surrounded by music. My Mom would listen incessantly to her album collection. Her choice of music was clearly delineated: Elvis and Country Western. The pictures on the album covers always stuck in my mind. Men wore bedazzled suits and often had decorated guitars, women wore frilly dresses and had big hair. The music had that whiny country twang, and even the instruments sounded like they were crying.

My babysitters would bring their 45 record collections to the house when sitting me. It was on these occasions I would hear The Beatles, Chuck Berry, and all the bands of the British Invasion period. My babysitter and her sister would dance frantically while I cowered in horror under the coffee table. Ah, the memories.

I had a teen-aged cousin who had an electric guitar...you had to say it that way so people knew you were cool. He would sit in my living room and play for hours. It was then I decided that one day, I too would play electric guitar, and be cool.

I probably started my songwriting at this point also. Because I didn't play any instruments yet, I would find instrumental versions of popular songs, or even just instrumental songs, like "Green Onion" by Booker T and the MGs, and write lyrics for them. As I got a little older, I would make up a melody in my head. Sometimes I would commit them to cassette, other times I'd just write them down. Most of the time, they were just forgotten.

As I got older I learned to play instruments. First was bass guitar, then piano and then guitar. Now I could create a whole song from scratch, and I did. Eventually, I decided to record my own 45, which I did in 1984. The two songs can be heard and/or purchased for download on several sites. I spent most of the next thirty years playing in clubs and at functions. And now, I am moving on to the next phase of my music life.

Now, so many years later, I have pretty much retired from playing live onstage, and have gotten back to my roots as a songwriter. On a whim, I decided to enter one of my songs into a songwriting competition. Let me say this...in Nashville, the mecca for songwriters, there are specific rules for writing hit songs. Knowing this, I submitted a song that broke many of the traditional rules. Why? I had heard that most songwriting contests are scams of one type or another. Oh sure, the prizes they promised were often legitimate, but the premise of the contest was usually fraudulent. I wanted to experience it on my own. So I intentionally sent in a song I knew shouldn't win.

Shortly after my entry, I got a letter with a ribbon in it...I had won the "Director's Award", which is only given to those who show the ability to be professional songwriters. Oh boy! I put the ribbon on my refrigerator. A week or so later, I got another letter offering me a "Songwriter Contract". Before I read the contract, I decided I would would try to anticipate what it would say. I figured there would be a length of time involved...maybe a year or two. I thought they would promise me to promote my songs to record companies and artists, in return for granting them exclusive license to my songs, of course with a percentage of earnings going directly to them. This is what I anticipated. Here is what I got, paraphrased: We will send you a newsletter every month for a year, and allow you to have us record your song for only $xxx for a guitar/vocal demo.

So this whole songwriting contest was just a ploy to get aspiring songwriters to use the sponsor's recording services. Oh, and the special price? Well nearly EVERY studio in Nashville charges the same price. The bottom line is this company will do nothing for me I can't do on my own. Except for the cool ribbon...

Caveat emptor, and Take care my friends.