The little shopping cart

In 1996, I was a full-time stay-at-home Mom to our three young daughters, under age 6. I turned 31 years old that year. I was lucky to be able to stay home, but it was tough sometimes, especially because my husband worked 12-14 hour days at that time. It was a trade-off for everyone involved, including him. Fred and I were married in 1988 and bought a house in the same town he and I grew up in. We hadn’t planned it that way, but we just really loved this split-level house with a big backyard on a cul-de-sac where our girls could grow up.

I had a routine every morning of getting the girls up, fed, dressed, and starting our daily activities. But before the end of the day, I always read the newspaper from cover to back. It might be just a page at a time, but I always did it. It was a habit I enjoyed and learned as a journalism student when I attended Southern CT State University in New Haven. We were required to read at least one of the two major dailies we had in CT, The Hartford Courant or the New Haven Register. This was before the internet, and my mommy’s brain needed a daily connection to the outside world.

One afternoon, with one daughter in afternoon kindergarten, one in afternoon pre-school, and one upstairs napping, I sat down for a luxurious 45 minutes with a Diet Pepsi and my newspaper. I turned to the obituaries.

From the Hartford Courant that day:

*CALLAGHAN, Joseph J. Jr., 77 , a former grocer and town leader, beloved husband of Susan (Miller) Callaghan* died Tuesday, (October 8 1996) at his home.

I felt sad. I remembered his little market and how loving he was to me as a child. I immediately picked up the phone to call my mother, who lived in Massachusetts then. I was sure she would want to know. I, of course, had no idea he was my biological father at the time.

“Mom, guess who died?” I said. “Joe Callaghan.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. I remember that clearly because I was slightly annoyed she wasn’t responding to me. Looking back now, I realize my mother was probably shocked and saddened.

I said something to her like, “That’s too bad, isn’t it?” waiting for her response.
“Ohhhhhhhh” was all my mother said.

I hadn’t thought about him in many years, probably since I was a teenager. I asked Mom if she was still in touch with him and if she knew if he had been sick. At 77, he wasn’t really that old.

My mother still wasn’t saying much, but she replied that she had tried to call him a few days earlier and got no answer.

Feeling like I was getting nowhere in this conversation and hearing my youngest waking up from her nap, I asked her if she wanted me to clip out the obituary for her and bring it up when I saw her that coming weekend. She said simply, “Yes, please. I would like to see it.”

The obituary listed the many civic and business organizations Joe had participated in. He had been a long-time volunteer in the Windsor Fire Department, was involved in many different civic organizations, and was a respected businessman. He was also a Master Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps during World War II. The obituary mentioned he had marched in our local Memorial Day parade every year since he returned from WWII and frequently raised the flag on the Town Green. I remembered a photo of him on Memorial Day in one of our family photo albums, in fact. Which is wild, if you think about it. And it was also wild that I was Brownie, so we definitely marched in many of the same parades in our town. I can’t get over that fact.

More from the Hartford Courant obituary that I look at now and feel a pang I’m not sure how to describe:

This past June he and his wife celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. Besides his wife he leaves two sons and a daughter-in-law, a daughter, two sisters and a brother-in-law; two grandchildren and many nieces and nephews.

I learned a lot about him from his obituary. I remember him in my earliest memories, greeting my mother and me when we would go into the market. He would make a fuss about me, which, of course, I loved. I assumed he did that with all the kids who came in. And he probably did. He loved children and was very childlike and easygoing himself.

The best part about going into his market was the little metal shopping cart he had there. It was child-size, and I absolutely loved it. After a big hug from him, I would scamper away to begin my “shopping.” Being a small town market, there were only three aisles, and my mother would let me go off on my own to pick out the cat food cans for our cat Bootsy. Off I would go.

After I filled my shopping cart with Bootsy’s food, I would find my mother, and we would finish shopping together. I would go through the checkout first, taking each can out of my shopping cart and putting them on the counter. Mrs. Weston* was one of the nice ladies that worked there. She would make a big fuss about what a big girl I was to be shopping all by myself. My mother was right behind me, of course.

Many times, Joe would leave the butcher counter, walk us to our station wagon, and load the groceries into it for us. I would stand on the folded-down back hatchback and hug him goodbye. If I felt silly, I would hang around his neck, and he would swing me around. Then, he would give my mother a peck on the lips and say goodbye to us both. It’s incredible to me that I never really thought there was anything strange about that kiss.

It’s hard to describe, but I had forgotten I remembered all this. I don’t know if that even makes sense to say out loud. But it was like finding out he was my biological father unlocked all these memories.

Armed with these memories, DNA results, and my gut instincts, I was ready to talk with my mother. I knew it would be a difficult conversation to have.

*psuedonym

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This is my NPE story of discovering in 2015 that my Dad was not my biological Dad. If you’d like to follow along, I encourage you start at my first post of the series HERE.