Over the years, I’ve known a handful of people who grew up in an orphanage. Not foster care, but 365 days a year, living with other children in a dorm-like setting. I met the first two orphans when I was a child. Because of some of the circumstances of my childhood, I somehow related to them.
My parents married and divorced twice before I turned 10. In between the divorces, there were umpteen “trial separations.” My two younger brothers and I were constantly shuffled back and forth to my grandmother’s house. I attended 11 schools in 12 school years. Seemed like I was always one parent short.
Still, I had my grandmother, Miz Lena. She was my rock. My stability. She proved her love to me over and over. It was important to her that I did things right. If I didn’t catch on right away, there was the other way she showed how much she cared about me. More than a few times, I was sent out to find a small branch for her to demonstrate her determination and love for me. I ended up paying close attention to her every word.
The first I ever heard the word “orphan” was from Miz Lena. I was once again living under her roof and getting ready for my first day of a new school in Columbia, Tennessee. I was halfway through the second grade. I was anxious. I hoped that I would be accepted by the new kids I was about to meet. I walked into the kitchen for Grand Mom’s daily inspection. I’ve said it before: She could have been a great Marine.
Elizabeth, Grand Mom’s longtime housekeeper, an Aunt Jemima look-alike, turned back from the sink and said, “Oh my, look comin’ here. What a handsome boy you is. He sho’ do look mighty smart dis mownin’, Miz Lena.”