I think it was in 1882 that I decided to tell our children - they were then almost ten years old - about my early life. We were living in Seattle at the time - actually, in the same house we are living in now, and very close to where I have lived since about 1855. I hadn't told them earlier because the story is a little strange, and little complicated.
When I suggested the idea to them, they weren't as excited as I thought they should be.
"No, thanks, Pa."
"Maybe another time, Papa."
"Actually, it's an interesting story," I emphasized. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to hear it?"
It was pretty clear that they didn't want to hear it, but just then, their mother came in, and settled on the couch by us. "I'd like to hear it. It's been a while, and it's actually a rather sweet story."
So, despite a divided audience, I told the tale.
***
"I was born in 1852, on a wagon train crossing the Plains from Iowa to a new home in Oregon Territory. I don't know if my mother knew she was carrying me already when we left Iowa, but it became very clear as the year progressed. It was in the Blue Mountains, just before the wagon train descended to the shores of the mighty Columbia River, that I saw the first light of day. My sister arrived two days later."
"I didn't know you had a sister, Papa," said my daughter.
"I did, and I do."
"Where is she now, Pa?"
"Well, that's part of the story. We'll get to it.
"So, we still had almost three weeks before we reached Salem, Oregon, where the wagon train officially disbanded. Most of the people stayed around Salem, at least for a few years, and that's what my family did.
"I never think of Oregon as home because, after about two years, my father decided he wanted to work on steamships, and he moved us north to Seattle, the same place we now live. Well, not in this same house, but actually not far from that first place. As you two have discovered, Seattle is a pretty nice place for children to grow up. My sister and I had been too young to really have any ties to people in Oregon, so we just naturally grew up enjoying our first real home.
"I think it was harder on Mother because Pa was away a lot, we had no other family nearby, and Mother had no friends. She eventually got to know a woman who lived nearby, they became very close, and I think Mother became a lot happier. My sister and I were too young to really know how things were going, but Mother did seem a lot more cheerful most of the time.
"My sister and I had a wonderful childhood. School was interesting for both of us, and we made new friends, but we always remained very close - really, best friends. That became very important later because, at just about the age you two are now, Mother and Pa both got very sick with the influenza, and both died on the same day.
"That was heartbreaking, of course, but we were too young to understand the further potential life-changing complications for us. With no other kin, the usual procedure would have been for us to be put in the State orphanage, and probably would not have been kept together. We would have lost our parents and each other at the same time.
"Our neighbor - Mother's friend 'Aunt Maria' - of course, not really our 'aunt' - was not about to let that happen. She had come to love Mother like a sister, and that made us 'family' to her. She wrote letters to Iowa, trying to locate our grandparents, or aunts or uncles, while she and her husband fended off the State officials who wanted to take us away. She couldn't locate anyone who confessed to be our kin, or even to knowing our parents. Finally, she and 'Uncle Charlie' discussed the situation, and made one of the most important decisions of our lives: they officially adopted us.
"We were too young to realize the full import of that - and of course, the grief of losing our parents dominated our feelings at the time - but they kept us together, kept us in the same area we had grown up in, and - as time went on - it became clear that they had made a very happy home for us. We came to love them as much as we had our real parents. There was another sadness in store, though, when Uncle Charlie died unexpectedly of heart trouble. Thankfully, he had left Aunt Maria well provided for, which eased the stress that often accompanies the death of loved ones.
"People adapt - even to major, sad change - and my sister and I continued to have a very happy childhood. We remained best friends, but as we advanced into our teenage years, we became aware of 'the opposite sex' in a different light than brother and sister 'friends.' We liked each other's new friends, and often did things together.
"As we approached high school graduation, we went together to our Senior dance as two couples. We danced with many classmates that night, including with each other. We had never before danced together - I was not a very talented dancer, anyway..."
"You still aren't," my darling wife interjected. I made an appropriate face at her.
"Anyway, we knew each other so well - were so attuned to each other's movements - that I always remembered that night with a certain amount of amazement, and special pleasure.
"It wasn't long after school ended, that something scary and unsettling began to happen to me. My sister was still my best friend, but I found myself thinking about her more like I thought about other girls - as someone I might like to kiss, or maybe even marry, some day. This was terrible, I knew, but I couldn't stop thinking that way.
"One night, we were sitting outside, watching the stars and talking, like we often did. We both became quiet, and I suddenly felt I couldn't stop myself from trying to kiss her. I leaned toward her, and found she was leaning toward me! Well, you can believe that we left one another rather abruptly, and went off to our rooms.
"We were both embarrassed the next morning, and she understood when I told her I was going to move away, and get a job. I didn't want to go far, or lose contact - we were still best friends, no matter what! - but I couldn't see any other alternative. She agreed. I broke the news to Aunt Maria, but obviously didn't tell her the real reason. I just said I felt like I was old enough to do something on my own."
"Why did you have to leave?" my daughter asked.
I found that pretty hard to explain to a ten-year-old daughter - particularly when I wasn't sure I understood it all, myself - but I gave it a try. "In our society, it's become a rule that we don't marry someone who is a close relative. That's especially true when the people are very closely related - like brother and sister - but people think it's almost as bad to marry a cousin - your uncle's or aunt's child. Some places, it is even against the law."
"That doesn't seem right," opined my son.
"Well, if that was all of it, I would agree with you. But there's something else involved, having to do with how people are made. I mean, our internal workings. I'm not very good at science, but I guess the scientists have proven this. You both know how babies are made, don't you?"
They both gave me a disgusted look. I'm not sure if that meant they did, or if they were just disgusted with me bringing up the subject. Whichever, I pressed on. "Okay. Well, this is going to be pretty lame, but if you know the basics... When a husband and a wife 'mate,' so to speak, the baby that results gets half of its body features from the man, and half from the woman. If the man and the woman are closely related - like brother and sister - they both give pretty much the same thing - ingredients - to the baby. For some reason, that's bad. The baby can be born weak and sick, or just 'not right.' That doesn't happen if the man and the woman are not from the same family."
"That seems backward, Pa," said my intelligent son. "It would seem like getting the same 'ingredients' would be better than getting ones that weren't the same."
He had me, there. "I guess I kind of agree with you, but maybe I'm not telling it - not understanding it - right. Anyway, that's the way it is."
My wife interrupted at that point. "Tommy, can I tell this next part. I remember the details, and I really love it. It is definitely my favorite part."
I smiled at her, and said okay.
"Well, your Pa went off," she began. "It was just to Tacoma, but away from home. His sister was very, very sad - heartbroken, really - even though she knew it had to be. Aunt Maria hadn't been fooled by your Pa's story - she remembered all about first loves - and soon got the truth out of his sister. It was sad, but she agreed that there wasn't any other choice.
"Later, Maria came to the sister's room, carrying a box - maybe a little bigger than a cigar box, but that kind of container. 'I found this while I was moving things around,' she said. 'I don't think I ever showed it to you. It must have got buried under something.
'It's clearly your mother's. It has some lovely photos of you and your brother, and of your parents. There are also some papers that have your mother's writing on them. You may not have ever seen some of these things, or at least not for a long while. Maybe they'll make you feel a little better.'
"Maria left the room, and a review of the contents of the box began. Maria was right; there were some wonderful early pictures, and some of them were ones that didn't look at all familiar. She saw there were also some letters in envelopes, that might prove interesting. Then, right at the bottom of the box, she found a leather-bound notebook. As she opened it, she immediately recognized her mother's handwriting. It was obviously a diary, or a journal of some sort. She started to read:
"Today, we started our grand adventure. I am excited, but also sad. We hadn't lived in New London very long, but it felt like we had finally found 'Home,' and I am sorry to leave it. But Oregon calls John, and I am not opposed to the trip - just needing to get myself entirely in the mood."
"What a treasure! she thought, because it was obviously the journal of the 1852 wagon train to Oregon, when she and her brother had been born. She knew she'd want to read the whole thing very carefully, but for now she just started skimming, reading passages here and there. A name caught her eye, and she had to read the passage several times before it started to make sense to her. She leafed ahead a few pages, and read what was written there. One more passage a few pages on, and suddenly she threw the book onto her bed, and raced yelling for Maria.
"As she was trying to catch her breath, she asked Maria what was the quickest way to get an urgent message to her brother. 'I need him right away,' she declared. Maria sat her down, and got her to tell what was so urgent. When she heard, she agreed that time was of the essence.
'A telegram would be quickest. He'll get that yet today.'
'Good. Please send it. I don't want to scare him, thinking that one of us might be sick or dying or anything, but I want it to sound really urgent. Maybe something like, everything okay, but very exciting news.'
"When your Pa received the wire, he didn't even wait to respond, but started for home. He arrived about midnight, but both women were still awake. When she saw her brother, his sister ran to him immediately, and held him in a tight embrace. Under the circumstances, your Pa didn't think it was very wise, but he'd missed her terribly, so he returned the embrace with feeling.
"When they separated, he asked for an explanation of the 'exciting news.' She showed him the notebook, and explained what it was. 'We'll both want to read the whole thing, I'm sure,' she began, 'But right now I need to read you a few passages from it.'
"She did. This was the first: 'Poor Tom Kenyon died today, the most recent of our group to go from the influenza..."
"Tom Kenyon has your name!" my son, interrupted.
"And yours," I reminded him.
'Why do we all have the same name?"
"Let me keep reading," his mother said. 'It is doubly sad because Mrs. Kenyon is about to have a baby, a child who will never know its father.' "A few days later, she wrote: 'Today, John and I are the proud parents of a darling little baby girl. She is truly a wonderful gift. The only thing that tempers my joy a bit is Mrs. Kenyon. Her baby boy was born two days ago, and seems robust and healthy, but Mrs. Kenyon seems to be getting progressively weaker. I wonder if she will have milk for her boy, or even if she will live.'
"Then, a few days later, Mother wrote: 'Mrs. K. has joined her husband. They seem to have had no relatives, or even close friends on the wagon train, so I don't know what will become of little Tommy. For now, I have milk enough for both mine and hers, so they will share me for the time being. Despite the sad circumstances, it feels wonderful to have the two of them clinging to me, in such harmony of purpose.'
"And one more, several weeks later, in Salem, Oregon: 'We have checked again with everyone from the wagon train, but no one knows anything about the Kenyons. We have written to the Iowa newspapers, enquiring about them. We didn't live in New London long enough to know many people there. Tommy could have a whole tribe of relatives. It would probably be best for him to grow up in that kind of a clan, if they are a loving, caring bunch. Still, I think I will be both heartbroken and jealous if that comes to pass. I love my two darlings, and would love to keep them together. If we can't find Tommy's family, John and I have decided to adopt him."
"Your Pa had been taking all this in, as his sister read. He was silent for a bit after she finished, then: 'So, I was born Tom Kenyon. My parents died, and our parents - well, your parents - adopted me. So, that means that we are not brother and sister.'
'Not in a family, biological sense, no.'
'That changes things quite a bit, doesn't it?'
'I believe it does.'
"So, your Pa moved back to Seattle, and the three of them reestablished their happy home relationship. Some time later, when all at settled down, your Pa and I married, and eventually you two darling little creatures arrived.
"I said it was a nice story, didn't I?"
Clearly, Tommy Jr. had followed the story, and understood all that had happened. His sister was still a little tangled up in the various plot twists. "So, Pa, what happened to your sister who wasn't really your sister?"
Tommy turned to me. "Can I tell her, Pa?" he asked, eagerly.
I looked at his mother, who nodded in agreement. Tommy turned to his sister.
"What would you think if I told you that Pa's sister was named Helen, but everybody called her Lena?"
"But those are my names!" she exclaimed.
"And mine, too," my wife said, with a happy smile.
The younger Lena finally understood. "So, you're his wife, and our mother, but you're also the sister who wasn't his sister."
The older Lena smiled at that. "That's almost right. We're not twins, like we thought we were. But we'll always be sister and brother. We'll always be best friends. We've just added a few more things to the recipe, to add some extra spice to the results."
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