Finding Marigold
James Carbaugh
“Sorry, I can’t find any information about her,” the clerk said as she slowly and methodically lowered her glasses while at the same time raising her eyes toward me in an almost questioning manner, even with a slight tilt of her head. She stated the words emphatically, without emotion, as if she were describing the weather: “tomorrow will be as hot as today – don’t expect rain over the next few days.” Perhaps inquiries into the whereabouts of past residents were so routine that they were considered a nuisance, a detour from the more important tasks this clerk faced every day. I had been hopeful that she would be sympathetic to my request; but only the use of the word “sorry” gave me any sense of her humanity. The woman I was questioning did not have the slightest understanding of my state of mind, much less the emotional nature of my inquiry.
I knew that I had a sister named Marigold and that she and I had entered a place called The Welborn when I was six years old and she was four. The Welborn was the commonly-used, shortened version of the home’s real name, The Welborn School and Residence. Our home before The Welborn was inadequate by any standards of assessment. Even neighbors were concerned about our living conditions and had alerted the Department of Social Services. The Department sent a social worker out immediately to check on us. The truth was that we were cold, hungry, and wearing dirty clothes. Our mother was subsisting on vodka and was almost comatose at times, unable to take care of herself much less Marigold and me. We had no idea who our father was; he was never a part of our lives and our mother never mentioned him. She also claimed that we had no living grandparents, aunts and uncles, nor cousins. There was only the three of us.
Marigold and I were inseparable, relying on each other for love, attention, and all the necessities of life. No one would ever come between us. To survive, I burned twigs and trash in the fireplace when it was cold. I also stole food, even digging up sweet potatoes here and there as well as rummaging through neighbors’ trash late at night. We always saved a piece of bread or fruit given the potential that in the future we might experience even worse times. In many ways, we did not realize how treacherous our situation was – it was what we had experienced during our first years of life. Later, I questioned why we had no father, why we had an incapacitated mother, and why we never had any food in the house.
A lady wearing a uniform and looking very official knocked on the door and entered, stating very assertively to me: “Your mother is sick and we need to provide her with medical care – and we also need to find a placement for you and your sister. Who are the relatives that we can contact?” When we answered truthfully that there were none, the social worker stared in disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me that you have no known relatives?” Marigold and I just hugged each other tightly as we had done so many times before as we faced challenges. Once again we answered that we had each other, and our mother. We knew of no other family members. I wanted to cry but would never allow myself to do so because I thought it might send Marigold the message that her brother could not take care of her.
I didn’t realize that we would never see our mother again. The social worker told us a month later that she had died from pneumonia complicated by alcohol abuse. We did not even know where she was buried. Eventually we discovered that her remains lay unmarked in a pauper’s graveyard, somewhere in Abbeville, South Carolina.
The time after our mother’s death was such a blur that I wasn’t sure that the person we called “mother” had actually been our mother. I loved to hear her sing, but she had not done so for many months and I could not understand why. She taught us some beautiful songs. Our favorite was a short one with a simple but beautiful melody:
Oh who can make a flower?
I’m sure I can’t can you.
Oh who can make a flower?
That only God can do.
The song could last as long as we wanted as we substituted anything that came to mind for the word “flower.” I always substituted a “Marigold” – she always beamed with pride as she substituted my name. Sometimes we would be silly and add “a bunny rabbit,” “a turtle,” or, more seriously, a “rainbow.” Nature seemed to be the majority of our subjects. As our mother had become sicker, she always requested that we sing the “Oh, who can make . . . ” song to her. We weren’t overtly religious but we did believe that there was a God who looked over us and would listen to our prayers.
At The Welborn we were referred to as “wards of the state.” Several older children told us that the word “ward” meant that no one in our family could take care of us and that we were living in a state-sponsored shelter. We had a much more positive feeling about our situation because we were warm and had three meals a day. We wished that we were housed in the same cottage, but the residence separated boys and girls. We always ate meals together and especially liked Sunday dinners where we were exposed to the most food we had ever seen in our lives; and as we sat together we ate it as if we would never have such a meal ever again. As was our practice pre-Welborn, we stashed several items in our pockets in case of future hard times.
Every Sunday, students from nearby Erhart College came to teach Sunday School classes and to play the piano for church services. They seemed to really care about us and always played the songs that we requested. There was always a mention for one hymn in particular: Love Lifted Me. It closed every service and its chorus was like a consoling refrain for all of us at the school:
Love lifted me, love lifted me,
when nothing else could help,
Love . . . . lifted . . . me.
All of us always sang it with such joy and intense hope, especially the last three words. The pianist moved it up a key or two as we sang to give it a more dramatic effect. It was almost as if Marigold and I and all the residents sang it as our “anthem of hope.”
The school served Sunday dinner “family-style” with large bowls and platters full of rice and gravy, fried chicken, fried okra and squash, bread, and a dessert – sometimes strawberry shortcake! The college students ate with us and tried to teach us proper table manners. The most difficult lesson was how to eat fried chicken with a knife and a fork. When I asked about why we just couldn’t pick it up and eat it using our fingers, the students said: “We’re teaching you to be more refined.” They learned quickly, however, that we had a valuable lesson for them. They had better stick their fork into a piece of chicken while the preacher was giving what had to be the longest blessing in history, or they probably would be eating a neck, or at best, a wing. When Reverend Porter finally said “Amen,” there was an immediate vacating of the chicken platter, under fifteen seconds flat!
Sunday was also visitation day so there were some children who looked forward to seeing parents or family members. They knew that such a visit was most likely a sign that they were leaving the Welborn as soon as a social worker validated their improved home situation. Some of us never had visitors. I refused to cry like many others; instead, I talked to the college students who always had interesting stories to tell us about their experiences at Erhart. Marigold was always by my side, also listening. As her big brother, I was not going to allow her to be sad or lonely — never. She would always have me to protect and take care of her. Several college students reminded me that Marigold and I, since we seemed to be so grounded, could also be kind and supportive of others who did not have visitors. We tried to keep that in mind every day, particularly when we saw what seemed like inconsolable tears from our friends and fellow Welborn classmates.
Marian, the piano player from the college decided that The Welborn was going to establish a choir, plan a Christmas program, and invite family, staff, neighbors, and anyone else who might want to enjoy what she termed a “holiday extravaganza.” Marigold and I signed up immediately. We convinced some of the visitor-less residents to join us in practices as they were held in the chapel immediately after Sunday dinner, the designated visitation time. Singing might replace the sorrow of not having a visitor. The choir director selected several Christmas carols including some solos for those who volunteered. She wanted a special song for the youngest children to sing and Marigold immediately provided it: “Oh, who can make a flower . . . ?”
All the young children loved the song. They immediately selected their substitution for the word “flower,” their one word solo – “a moonbeam,” “a star,” “a butterfly.” After hinting at something related to the holidays, they produced “a snowflake” and “an angel.” Marigold made the final selection: “Oh who can make a Marigold?” She explained that she was named for the beautiful orange flower, and that she would plant some in the spring so that everyone would always recognize them and think about her and the Christmas program. Two students learned to play the autoharp to accompany several carols and another one shook a set of bells when we sang “Jingle Bells.” An older boy who had a violin played “O little town of Bethlehem.” We wore choir robes that were borrowed from a nearby church. They even had red bows around the neck. We really looked like angels and hopefully sounded like them. Houseparents decorated the chapel with holly and hemlock branches and put real lighted candles in the windows. It was the most exciting visual display that most of us had ever experienced.
The Tuesday evening of the concert, we approached the choir loft slowly, walking two-by-two from the back of the church while singing “Silent Night.” The first two singers held candles which they placed on the altar. After we sang a few hymns, we asked the audience to sing “Jingle Bells” with us and there was a very joyous response. The program just seemed to get better and better. The soloists sang beautifully, especially with the improvised accompaniment from the pianist. The violinist did not miss a note, at least any that we could discern. And the grand finale of “Oh, who can make a flower . . . ?” was quite a hit, especially when my Marigold sang the last line.
Two housemothers made cookies and punch for everyone and served them in the cafeteria after the performance. None of us had ever participated in such an activity. We were told that it was the most beautiful program ever performed at The Welborn. Our choir director from Erhart took a picture of all of us and gave everyone a copy the following Sunday. It was the best Christmas present I had ever received — a photograph with my Marigold and me in it.
One week later Marigold was gone. I had heard of students just leaving without goodbyes, or just not being there all of a sudden, but I never gave any thought about it happening to Marigold and me. She had just disappeared. She did not show up for breakfast and I worried that she was sick. When I asked about her, the only reply given was that she had been “placed.” “Placed where?” I pleaded. “With a nice family where she will be happy and have all the benefits of a real home.”
“You can’t do this. What about me? I’m her brother. We do everything together. I take care of her. I am her family, her only family!”
“The family could only take one child and wanted a girl the age of your sister.”
I was completely confused, dumbfounded, and in a state of disbelief. How did this happen? Would I ever see Marigold again? Only I knew what she liked and what she didn’t. I always tied her shoes. How could she survive without me? She lost her mother first, and now me. Could I write to her? Could she communicate with me? How did I know that she was really receiving good care? I had hundreds of questions. For the first time at The Welborn, I cried. Actually, I sobbed uncontrollably for hours and hours. My houseparent tried unsuccessfully to calm me. My only consolation was the assurance that my sister was with “very good people” who would love her. What had begun as the best Christmas celebration ever with beautiful songs and my Marigold singing the last solo had become one of the worst days of my life. The one person I loved and who returned that love to me had vanished. I was lost, left only with memories; memories of our survival, our time at The Welborn, our love for each other -- and most significantly, one photograph with the two of us in it.
On numerous occasions over the years I was told: “Time heals everything.” It became the standard platitude when I questioned the administration about Marigold’s status. As the staff changed and other children moved in and out, the institutional memory of my sister at The Welborn faded away. I began to doubt that she was alive or that I would ever see her again. I wasn’t sure that she even had the same last name as mine. Had it been changed? Was she still called Marigold? Did she still have blondish-brown curls and blue eyes? Did she remember me? I planted marigolds at the entrance to the Welborn cafeteria every spring and I took care of them during the summer. They were beautiful just like my sister. Even when they faded in late fall, I refused to be sad, but instead, I picked the most beautiful blooms to save for seeds for the following year’s planting. Occasionally, I would tell some of the other boys and girls about the marigold garden and why it was so important to me. They seemed to understand, some of them tearfully.
My years at The Welborn passed quickly. I was never “placed.” My assumption was that no one wanted a boy my age. I became one of a few who spent most of their childhood at the residence. Because I knew the rules and regulations, I was given a quasi-counseling role, even conducting an orientation for the new students. The houseparents and social workers said I just had a knack for knowing what to say to help allay the fears of new children. The role was also a consoling experience for me as I thought about what I would say to my Marigold every time I introduced new arrivals.
There was the usual turnover of Erhart students over the years as they graduated and moved on to further education, the military, and various occupations. They always had kind words and advice for me. When I was a high school senior, they recommended that I attend Erhart upon graduation. My grades were good because I was determined to continue my education, even though I had no financial resources and no none relatives besides Marigold. The piano player at the time arranged for me to see the Director of Admissions and the Financial Aid Officer. It seemed that several anonymous donors had come together to help me with the tuition. It was truly an act of kindness that completely overwhelmed me. They had even arranged for me to work in the college cafeteria to cover some of the cost of room and board. I could hear my favorite houseparent giving me her failsafe advice regarding a job: “Work in a place where there is food – that way you will always be able to eat.” Since I had experienced the opposite in my early years before The Welborn, I knew how practical the advice was. And, during the summers, I did everything from painting to landscaping to cleaning dormitories at Erhart to pay for my housing.
Sunday was a particularly busy day at the college because faculty members and their families, as well as members of the community ate in the cafeteria, so I wasn’t able to return to teach Sunday School; but, I kept the children in my heart and mind at all times. I think that my desire to remain close was because I felt that by doing so, I had at least a faint connection to my Marigold. I kept my now-worn Christmas photo of her in my wallet; and I looked at it often — wondering about her appearance now. Did she even remember that she had a brother named Jamie, who loved her, protected her, and provided for her during the first four years of her life?
Fellow students at Erhart thought of me as unusual because I never went “home;” I never mentioned any family; I didn’t have many close friends; I had a very limited wardrobe; and I never seemed to have any money. I was afraid that if I mentioned Marigold to anyone that I would break down and sob and come across as a big baby. Due to my jobs on campus, I took fewer courses than most students each semester, so that it took me six years to graduate, rather than the typical four. I met some wonderful people in those six years; I just wasn’t able to form any lasting attachments to them. While there, however, I learned a completely different manner of looking at the world. Hope, happiness, safety, and serenity seemed to be the norm. No students that I knew had worries about what they would do the next day, nor the next year. It was a refreshing difference, so positive and affirming, and I tried to adopt as much of that attitude as possible. However, when the college closed the dormitories and fellow students went home on the winter, spring, or summer breaks, I returned to The Welborn and served as a substitute houseparent. It provided me a place to stay as well as meals; and allowed me to reconnect with what had been my home for most of my life. I did experience a sense of safety and security there.
When I did graduate from Erhart, a former houseparent as well as a social worker from The Welborn came to the commencement to wish me well, along with three of the workers from the college kitchen. They had basically adopted me, even to the point that when studying late at night into the next morning, I could knock on the back door of the cafeteria and Morris, the chief cook, would prepare a monstrous breakfast for me. He always said: “I can’t have my scholar hungry when he takes his exams.” He would sit an enormous plate of eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits in front of me — followed by a carafe of strong coffee. Many times he joined me and offered his advice on any and all topics. He and his wife, Nefertiti, were proud of any of my achievements: a good grade on a test, a kind word from a teacher, a performance in the school chorus. I graduated cum laude with a double major, education and sociology. To my dismay and disbelief, one of my classmates who must have discerned my financial status, presented me with his car. His grandparents had given him a new one as a graduation present. It might have well been a Cadillac as far as I was concerned. After giving my gift a little bit of detailing, I had it looking great. Such an unexpected act of kindness reinforced my belief that most people are inherently good; and, that I should do like my benefactor did, and always “pay it forward.”
I received a fellowship to graduate school, with no tuition costs and a small stipend for room and board. Mindful of the advice I had received at The Welborn, I immediately sought a part-time job on campus, once again in one of the cafeterias. “Eating is good,” I reminded myself. My program in Social Work was manageable enough. I felt that aspects of my life were portrayed in some of the case studies mentioned in my textbooks. My professors commented on the insight and maturity that I possessed in dealing with certain issues. I never told them my story and three years later, I graduated with a Master’s degree. Jobs were not plentiful, but one of my professors made me aware of a temporary position that was coming open in a maternity home in Tennessee. A Social Worker would be taking a leave of absence after giving birth. The salary was low, something that came with the territory for social workers, especially unexperienced ones. I interviewed at the end of May and was offered the job, which would begin the first of September. This date gave me basically three months to resume my determined search for my sister Marigold.
After the clerk at The Welborn had told me with such a sense of finality that there was no information on “a Marigold,” I asked her to allow me to see for myself that there was no file with her name. Legally, she was unable to do so, but, she assured me that there was no one in the files with the same last name as mine. Regarding the first name, she surmised that it was a nickname, not my sister’s real first name, saying “your mother could have easily named her “Begonia” or “Nasturtium” if she wanted to.” I was taken aback and tried to determine if she was being nonchalant or flippant. She continued: “there is no way to find your sister if she was adopted. You would have to petition the Probate Court to unseal documents.” I pulled the worn photograph out of my wallet and showed her my sister and me, explaining that this photograph was the only one that I ever had of her — finally there was some emotion. She turned pale and I thought that she was going to cry. She suggested that I might be able to check birth records if I knew where Marigold was born. Was she born in Abbeville, South Carolina, like me? I actually had an official-looking birth certificate with my mother’s, but not my father’s name. It was a common practice to leave the father’s name blank if the mother was unwed, so that he would never have a claim on the child. But if she were born in Abbeville of the same mother, what name was she given?
My search started but progressed to nowhere — no county records confirming her birth. I surmised that whoever had taken her from The Welborn had changed her name and started an entirely different life with her, maybe even creating a new birth certificate, if, in fact, she had ever had one. Some of the children at The Welborn had been born at home and had no official documentation. Their local health department, or probate office, created the certificates from as much information that could be gleaned from wherever, sometimes a school, a family Bible, a neighbor, or even a newspaper announcement. I swore that I would continue searching regardless of any setbacks I encountered.
The maternity home was actually an old hospital/clinic that had been converted into a place for young girls and women who were pregnant, and for the most part were unable to keep their babies. They received help in placing them and, for the few who did not place, they received childcare education. I wondered at times if I had been brought into the world in a similar situation.
My six months there passed quickly and there were several cases which remain fixed in my memory. The saddest one involved an older mentally challenged woman named Phoebe. After having her baby taken from her at the hospital, she was placed into a group home for adult women. It barely met minimal standards and the night that Phoebe arrived, it became engulfed in fire and burned to the ground; all of the residents perished. The women and girls at the home had seen the story on the morning news and when I arrived at work, all of them were crying, some were wailing. We moved to the parlor and I asked for volunteers to share their favorite memory or thoughts about Phoebe. There were many tearful statements and attempts at coming to grips with such a horror. Everyone had “adopted” Phoebe and were particularly protective of her. After several hours and some sense of reconciliation, we concluded our remembrances by singing the “anthem” from The Welborn, “Love lifted me.” The consoling power of this hymn was equally as amazing at the maternity home as it was at The Welborn.
On the bulletin board in the dining room was a picture of Jennifer, the social worker I had replaced. She was holding her baby, Julie Anne, who was wearing a head band with a big pink flower on it. Jennifer wrote: “I’ve been missing y’all. See you in two weeks.” I spent those two weeks taking care of some final details. My director was satisfied with my work and had written a very good recommendation. I was hired by the State Department of Social Services for a position as a liaison with the local school district. I was pleased as I had decided to stay in Tennessee and try to establish some sort of fulfilling life for myself. As I entered the home on my last day, I heard a song that I hadn’t heard for years. “Oh who can make a flower, I’m sure I can’t, can you . . . ?” Some of the girls were singing along with the pianist.
“Hello, I’m James -- It’s nice to meet you -- I haven’t heard those beautiful words in years.”
“Well, nice to meet you. I’m Jennifer. This song and I go back many years. It has been one of my favorites since I was a child and I don’t even remember learning it. It is one of the first songs I taught myself somewhere from my memory when I was learning to play the piano.”
“Well Julie Anne surely seems to like it. She’s smiling like a ray of sunshine.”
“Oh she does. She always lights up when she hears it. Forget about “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” or “Ole MacDonald had a farm. She likes for me to point to the sun, or the moon, or whatever we’re singing about. And, I don’t call her by her given name – she’s “Marigold,” like the flower. There are so many of them growing outside. I pointed them out to her this morning as we came in. Who planted them?”
I was stunned beyond belief – and unable to speak a word for what seemed like forever. “Did you say Marigold,” and I repeated it, “Marigold?” As I stared at her, I slowly opened my wallet and pulled out my one and only family photo and showed it to her. She was more stunned than I, slowly opening her pocketbook to show me an identical photograph. On the back of hers was the handwriting of a child, my handwriting: “Marigold, I will always love you, Jamie.” On the photograph itself, “Jamie” was written above where I was standing and “Marigold” was written above her likeness at the end of the first row. Jennifer sat down with Julie Anne in a state of confusion and disbelief.
I was barely capable of speaking: “I am your brother — you are my sister! I took care of you for the first four years of your life.” I was holding back tears.
She looked dumbfounded. “I never could understand why the photograph said Marigold. And over time, the memory of whoever Jamie was just disappeared. When I asked my mother and father about the photo, they explained it as just a school picture from years past – during a time when some of my classmates called me Marigold. There must have been something that I knew, or felt, however, for me to carry it in my wallet all of these years and to give Julie Anne the nickname of Marigold.”
“Let me explain. As far as I know, we lived with our mother until she became ill and you and I were taken to a group home named The Welborn, where you stayed for about three months and I stayed for twelve-plus years. I have been searching for you since I was six years old. I think the photographs verify a small part of our earlier life . . . . you are my sister! my Marigold! You are the reason for all of the marigolds surrounding the back door. I have planted marigold memory gardens in your honor over the years in many places.”
Jennifer seemed to be trying to understand. We hugged each other; both of us cried. There had to be divine providence in this reunion — my job at the same place where my lost sister was working — both of us employed as social workers.
Although we both were full of love for each other, we really didn’t know anything about each other’s past. In the next days, Jennifer showed me scrapbooks of a life much different than mine, many pictures of vacations, birthday parties, and doting parents, now both deceased. I told her about our Sunday dinners and the one Christmas program where she sang and we were photographed.
Jennifer had a brief period of adjustment acknowledging and affirming my existence. I had to constantly remind myself to call her Jennifer, not Marigold. During Christmas, I celebrated with little Marigold, Jennifer, and her husband, a kind, soft-spoken man and now my brother-in-law. He had two brothers and a sister, all married with children. It was as if all of a sudden and out of nowhere, I had a home and was now a part of a real family, surrounded by love and affection. My Marigold had returned to me with an extended family of others to love.
As a new year approached, I took time to think about all of the events of the previous months. I was grateful for my new family, my new job, my new existence. However, most importantly, after many years, I was thankful that I had finally found my Marigold.
James Carbaugh
“Sorry, I can’t find any information about her,” the clerk said as she slowly and methodically lowered her glasses while at the same time raising her eyes toward me in an almost questioning manner, even with a slight tilt of her head. She stated the words emphatically, without emotion, as if she were describing the weather: “tomorrow will be as hot as today – don’t expect rain over the next few days.” Perhaps inquiries into the whereabouts of past residents were so routine that they were considered a nuisance, a detour from the more important tasks this clerk faced every day. I had been hopeful that she would be sympathetic to my request; but only the use of the word “sorry” gave me any sense of her humanity. The woman I was questioning did not have the slightest understanding of my state of mind, much less the emotional nature of my inquiry.
I knew that I had a sister named Marigold and that she and I had entered a place called The Welborn when I was six years old and she was four. The Welborn was the commonly-used, shortened version of the home’s real name, The Welborn School and Residence. Our home before The Welborn was inadequate by any standards of assessment. Even neighbors were concerned about our living conditions and had alerted the Department of Social Services. The Department sent a social worker out immediately to check on us. The truth was that we were cold, hungry, and wearing dirty clothes. Our mother was subsisting on vodka and was almost comatose at times, unable to take care of herself much less Marigold and me. We had no idea who our father was; he was never a part of our lives and our mother never mentioned him. She also claimed that we had no living grandparents, aunts and uncles, nor cousins. There was only the three of us.
Marigold and I were inseparable, relying on each other for love, attention, and all the necessities of life. No one would ever come between us. To survive, I burned twigs and trash in the fireplace when it was cold. I also stole food, even digging up sweet potatoes here and there as well as rummaging through neighbors’ trash late at night. We always saved a piece of bread or fruit given the potential that in the future we might experience even worse times. In many ways, we did not realize how treacherous our situation was – it was what we had experienced during our first years of life. Later, I questioned why we had no father, why we had an incapacitated mother, and why we never had any food in the house.
A lady wearing a uniform and looking very official knocked on the door and entered, stating very assertively to me: “Your mother is sick and we need to provide her with medical care – and we also need to find a placement for you and your sister. Who are the relatives that we can contact?” When we answered truthfully that there were none, the social worker stared in disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me that you have no known relatives?” Marigold and I just hugged each other tightly as we had done so many times before as we faced challenges. Once again we answered that we had each other, and our mother. We knew of no other family members. I wanted to cry but would never allow myself to do so because I thought it might send Marigold the message that her brother could not take care of her.
I didn’t realize that we would never see our mother again. The social worker told us a month later that she had died from pneumonia complicated by alcohol abuse. We did not even know where she was buried. Eventually we discovered that her remains lay unmarked in a pauper’s graveyard, somewhere in Abbeville, South Carolina.
The time after our mother’s death was such a blur that I wasn’t sure that the person we called “mother” had actually been our mother. I loved to hear her sing, but she had not done so for many months and I could not understand why. She taught us some beautiful songs. Our favorite was a short one with a simple but beautiful melody:
Oh who can make a flower?
I’m sure I can’t can you.
Oh who can make a flower?
That only God can do.
The song could last as long as we wanted as we substituted anything that came to mind for the word “flower.” I always substituted a “Marigold” – she always beamed with pride as she substituted my name. Sometimes we would be silly and add “a bunny rabbit,” “a turtle,” or, more seriously, a “rainbow.” Nature seemed to be the majority of our subjects. As our mother had become sicker, she always requested that we sing the “Oh, who can make . . . ” song to her. We weren’t overtly religious but we did believe that there was a God who looked over us and would listen to our prayers.
At The Welborn we were referred to as “wards of the state.” Several older children told us that the word “ward” meant that no one in our family could take care of us and that we were living in a state-sponsored shelter. We had a much more positive feeling about our situation because we were warm and had three meals a day. We wished that we were housed in the same cottage, but the residence separated boys and girls. We always ate meals together and especially liked Sunday dinners where we were exposed to the most food we had ever seen in our lives; and as we sat together we ate it as if we would never have such a meal ever again. As was our practice pre-Welborn, we stashed several items in our pockets in case of future hard times.
Every Sunday, students from nearby Erhart College came to teach Sunday School classes and to play the piano for church services. They seemed to really care about us and always played the songs that we requested. There was always a mention for one hymn in particular: Love Lifted Me. It closed every service and its chorus was like a consoling refrain for all of us at the school:
Love lifted me, love lifted me,
when nothing else could help,
Love . . . . lifted . . . me.
All of us always sang it with such joy and intense hope, especially the last three words. The pianist moved it up a key or two as we sang to give it a more dramatic effect. It was almost as if Marigold and I and all the residents sang it as our “anthem of hope.”
The school served Sunday dinner “family-style” with large bowls and platters full of rice and gravy, fried chicken, fried okra and squash, bread, and a dessert – sometimes strawberry shortcake! The college students ate with us and tried to teach us proper table manners. The most difficult lesson was how to eat fried chicken with a knife and a fork. When I asked about why we just couldn’t pick it up and eat it using our fingers, the students said: “We’re teaching you to be more refined.” They learned quickly, however, that we had a valuable lesson for them. They had better stick their fork into a piece of chicken while the preacher was giving what had to be the longest blessing in history, or they probably would be eating a neck, or at best, a wing. When Reverend Porter finally said “Amen,” there was an immediate vacating of the chicken platter, under fifteen seconds flat!
Sunday was also visitation day so there were some children who looked forward to seeing parents or family members. They knew that such a visit was most likely a sign that they were leaving the Welborn as soon as a social worker validated their improved home situation. Some of us never had visitors. I refused to cry like many others; instead, I talked to the college students who always had interesting stories to tell us about their experiences at Erhart. Marigold was always by my side, also listening. As her big brother, I was not going to allow her to be sad or lonely — never. She would always have me to protect and take care of her. Several college students reminded me that Marigold and I, since we seemed to be so grounded, could also be kind and supportive of others who did not have visitors. We tried to keep that in mind every day, particularly when we saw what seemed like inconsolable tears from our friends and fellow Welborn classmates.
Marian, the piano player from the college decided that The Welborn was going to establish a choir, plan a Christmas program, and invite family, staff, neighbors, and anyone else who might want to enjoy what she termed a “holiday extravaganza.” Marigold and I signed up immediately. We convinced some of the visitor-less residents to join us in practices as they were held in the chapel immediately after Sunday dinner, the designated visitation time. Singing might replace the sorrow of not having a visitor. The choir director selected several Christmas carols including some solos for those who volunteered. She wanted a special song for the youngest children to sing and Marigold immediately provided it: “Oh, who can make a flower . . . ?”
All the young children loved the song. They immediately selected their substitution for the word “flower,” their one word solo – “a moonbeam,” “a star,” “a butterfly.” After hinting at something related to the holidays, they produced “a snowflake” and “an angel.” Marigold made the final selection: “Oh who can make a Marigold?” She explained that she was named for the beautiful orange flower, and that she would plant some in the spring so that everyone would always recognize them and think about her and the Christmas program. Two students learned to play the autoharp to accompany several carols and another one shook a set of bells when we sang “Jingle Bells.” An older boy who had a violin played “O little town of Bethlehem.” We wore choir robes that were borrowed from a nearby church. They even had red bows around the neck. We really looked like angels and hopefully sounded like them. Houseparents decorated the chapel with holly and hemlock branches and put real lighted candles in the windows. It was the most exciting visual display that most of us had ever experienced.
The Tuesday evening of the concert, we approached the choir loft slowly, walking two-by-two from the back of the church while singing “Silent Night.” The first two singers held candles which they placed on the altar. After we sang a few hymns, we asked the audience to sing “Jingle Bells” with us and there was a very joyous response. The program just seemed to get better and better. The soloists sang beautifully, especially with the improvised accompaniment from the pianist. The violinist did not miss a note, at least any that we could discern. And the grand finale of “Oh, who can make a flower . . . ?” was quite a hit, especially when my Marigold sang the last line.
Two housemothers made cookies and punch for everyone and served them in the cafeteria after the performance. None of us had ever participated in such an activity. We were told that it was the most beautiful program ever performed at The Welborn. Our choir director from Erhart took a picture of all of us and gave everyone a copy the following Sunday. It was the best Christmas present I had ever received — a photograph with my Marigold and me in it.
One week later Marigold was gone. I had heard of students just leaving without goodbyes, or just not being there all of a sudden, but I never gave any thought about it happening to Marigold and me. She had just disappeared. She did not show up for breakfast and I worried that she was sick. When I asked about her, the only reply given was that she had been “placed.” “Placed where?” I pleaded. “With a nice family where she will be happy and have all the benefits of a real home.”
“You can’t do this. What about me? I’m her brother. We do everything together. I take care of her. I am her family, her only family!”
“The family could only take one child and wanted a girl the age of your sister.”
I was completely confused, dumbfounded, and in a state of disbelief. How did this happen? Would I ever see Marigold again? Only I knew what she liked and what she didn’t. I always tied her shoes. How could she survive without me? She lost her mother first, and now me. Could I write to her? Could she communicate with me? How did I know that she was really receiving good care? I had hundreds of questions. For the first time at The Welborn, I cried. Actually, I sobbed uncontrollably for hours and hours. My houseparent tried unsuccessfully to calm me. My only consolation was the assurance that my sister was with “very good people” who would love her. What had begun as the best Christmas celebration ever with beautiful songs and my Marigold singing the last solo had become one of the worst days of my life. The one person I loved and who returned that love to me had vanished. I was lost, left only with memories; memories of our survival, our time at The Welborn, our love for each other -- and most significantly, one photograph with the two of us in it.
On numerous occasions over the years I was told: “Time heals everything.” It became the standard platitude when I questioned the administration about Marigold’s status. As the staff changed and other children moved in and out, the institutional memory of my sister at The Welborn faded away. I began to doubt that she was alive or that I would ever see her again. I wasn’t sure that she even had the same last name as mine. Had it been changed? Was she still called Marigold? Did she still have blondish-brown curls and blue eyes? Did she remember me? I planted marigolds at the entrance to the Welborn cafeteria every spring and I took care of them during the summer. They were beautiful just like my sister. Even when they faded in late fall, I refused to be sad, but instead, I picked the most beautiful blooms to save for seeds for the following year’s planting. Occasionally, I would tell some of the other boys and girls about the marigold garden and why it was so important to me. They seemed to understand, some of them tearfully.
My years at The Welborn passed quickly. I was never “placed.” My assumption was that no one wanted a boy my age. I became one of a few who spent most of their childhood at the residence. Because I knew the rules and regulations, I was given a quasi-counseling role, even conducting an orientation for the new students. The houseparents and social workers said I just had a knack for knowing what to say to help allay the fears of new children. The role was also a consoling experience for me as I thought about what I would say to my Marigold every time I introduced new arrivals.
There was the usual turnover of Erhart students over the years as they graduated and moved on to further education, the military, and various occupations. They always had kind words and advice for me. When I was a high school senior, they recommended that I attend Erhart upon graduation. My grades were good because I was determined to continue my education, even though I had no financial resources and no none relatives besides Marigold. The piano player at the time arranged for me to see the Director of Admissions and the Financial Aid Officer. It seemed that several anonymous donors had come together to help me with the tuition. It was truly an act of kindness that completely overwhelmed me. They had even arranged for me to work in the college cafeteria to cover some of the cost of room and board. I could hear my favorite houseparent giving me her failsafe advice regarding a job: “Work in a place where there is food – that way you will always be able to eat.” Since I had experienced the opposite in my early years before The Welborn, I knew how practical the advice was. And, during the summers, I did everything from painting to landscaping to cleaning dormitories at Erhart to pay for my housing.
Sunday was a particularly busy day at the college because faculty members and their families, as well as members of the community ate in the cafeteria, so I wasn’t able to return to teach Sunday School; but, I kept the children in my heart and mind at all times. I think that my desire to remain close was because I felt that by doing so, I had at least a faint connection to my Marigold. I kept my now-worn Christmas photo of her in my wallet; and I looked at it often — wondering about her appearance now. Did she even remember that she had a brother named Jamie, who loved her, protected her, and provided for her during the first four years of her life?
Fellow students at Erhart thought of me as unusual because I never went “home;” I never mentioned any family; I didn’t have many close friends; I had a very limited wardrobe; and I never seemed to have any money. I was afraid that if I mentioned Marigold to anyone that I would break down and sob and come across as a big baby. Due to my jobs on campus, I took fewer courses than most students each semester, so that it took me six years to graduate, rather than the typical four. I met some wonderful people in those six years; I just wasn’t able to form any lasting attachments to them. While there, however, I learned a completely different manner of looking at the world. Hope, happiness, safety, and serenity seemed to be the norm. No students that I knew had worries about what they would do the next day, nor the next year. It was a refreshing difference, so positive and affirming, and I tried to adopt as much of that attitude as possible. However, when the college closed the dormitories and fellow students went home on the winter, spring, or summer breaks, I returned to The Welborn and served as a substitute houseparent. It provided me a place to stay as well as meals; and allowed me to reconnect with what had been my home for most of my life. I did experience a sense of safety and security there.
When I did graduate from Erhart, a former houseparent as well as a social worker from The Welborn came to the commencement to wish me well, along with three of the workers from the college kitchen. They had basically adopted me, even to the point that when studying late at night into the next morning, I could knock on the back door of the cafeteria and Morris, the chief cook, would prepare a monstrous breakfast for me. He always said: “I can’t have my scholar hungry when he takes his exams.” He would sit an enormous plate of eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits in front of me — followed by a carafe of strong coffee. Many times he joined me and offered his advice on any and all topics. He and his wife, Nefertiti, were proud of any of my achievements: a good grade on a test, a kind word from a teacher, a performance in the school chorus. I graduated cum laude with a double major, education and sociology. To my dismay and disbelief, one of my classmates who must have discerned my financial status, presented me with his car. His grandparents had given him a new one as a graduation present. It might have well been a Cadillac as far as I was concerned. After giving my gift a little bit of detailing, I had it looking great. Such an unexpected act of kindness reinforced my belief that most people are inherently good; and, that I should do like my benefactor did, and always “pay it forward.”
I received a fellowship to graduate school, with no tuition costs and a small stipend for room and board. Mindful of the advice I had received at The Welborn, I immediately sought a part-time job on campus, once again in one of the cafeterias. “Eating is good,” I reminded myself. My program in Social Work was manageable enough. I felt that aspects of my life were portrayed in some of the case studies mentioned in my textbooks. My professors commented on the insight and maturity that I possessed in dealing with certain issues. I never told them my story and three years later, I graduated with a Master’s degree. Jobs were not plentiful, but one of my professors made me aware of a temporary position that was coming open in a maternity home in Tennessee. A Social Worker would be taking a leave of absence after giving birth. The salary was low, something that came with the territory for social workers, especially unexperienced ones. I interviewed at the end of May and was offered the job, which would begin the first of September. This date gave me basically three months to resume my determined search for my sister Marigold.
After the clerk at The Welborn had told me with such a sense of finality that there was no information on “a Marigold,” I asked her to allow me to see for myself that there was no file with her name. Legally, she was unable to do so, but, she assured me that there was no one in the files with the same last name as mine. Regarding the first name, she surmised that it was a nickname, not my sister’s real first name, saying “your mother could have easily named her “Begonia” or “Nasturtium” if she wanted to.” I was taken aback and tried to determine if she was being nonchalant or flippant. She continued: “there is no way to find your sister if she was adopted. You would have to petition the Probate Court to unseal documents.” I pulled the worn photograph out of my wallet and showed her my sister and me, explaining that this photograph was the only one that I ever had of her — finally there was some emotion. She turned pale and I thought that she was going to cry. She suggested that I might be able to check birth records if I knew where Marigold was born. Was she born in Abbeville, South Carolina, like me? I actually had an official-looking birth certificate with my mother’s, but not my father’s name. It was a common practice to leave the father’s name blank if the mother was unwed, so that he would never have a claim on the child. But if she were born in Abbeville of the same mother, what name was she given?
My search started but progressed to nowhere — no county records confirming her birth. I surmised that whoever had taken her from The Welborn had changed her name and started an entirely different life with her, maybe even creating a new birth certificate, if, in fact, she had ever had one. Some of the children at The Welborn had been born at home and had no official documentation. Their local health department, or probate office, created the certificates from as much information that could be gleaned from wherever, sometimes a school, a family Bible, a neighbor, or even a newspaper announcement. I swore that I would continue searching regardless of any setbacks I encountered.
The maternity home was actually an old hospital/clinic that had been converted into a place for young girls and women who were pregnant, and for the most part were unable to keep their babies. They received help in placing them and, for the few who did not place, they received childcare education. I wondered at times if I had been brought into the world in a similar situation.
My six months there passed quickly and there were several cases which remain fixed in my memory. The saddest one involved an older mentally challenged woman named Phoebe. After having her baby taken from her at the hospital, she was placed into a group home for adult women. It barely met minimal standards and the night that Phoebe arrived, it became engulfed in fire and burned to the ground; all of the residents perished. The women and girls at the home had seen the story on the morning news and when I arrived at work, all of them were crying, some were wailing. We moved to the parlor and I asked for volunteers to share their favorite memory or thoughts about Phoebe. There were many tearful statements and attempts at coming to grips with such a horror. Everyone had “adopted” Phoebe and were particularly protective of her. After several hours and some sense of reconciliation, we concluded our remembrances by singing the “anthem” from The Welborn, “Love lifted me.” The consoling power of this hymn was equally as amazing at the maternity home as it was at The Welborn.
On the bulletin board in the dining room was a picture of Jennifer, the social worker I had replaced. She was holding her baby, Julie Anne, who was wearing a head band with a big pink flower on it. Jennifer wrote: “I’ve been missing y’all. See you in two weeks.” I spent those two weeks taking care of some final details. My director was satisfied with my work and had written a very good recommendation. I was hired by the State Department of Social Services for a position as a liaison with the local school district. I was pleased as I had decided to stay in Tennessee and try to establish some sort of fulfilling life for myself. As I entered the home on my last day, I heard a song that I hadn’t heard for years. “Oh who can make a flower, I’m sure I can’t, can you . . . ?” Some of the girls were singing along with the pianist.
“Hello, I’m James -- It’s nice to meet you -- I haven’t heard those beautiful words in years.”
“Well, nice to meet you. I’m Jennifer. This song and I go back many years. It has been one of my favorites since I was a child and I don’t even remember learning it. It is one of the first songs I taught myself somewhere from my memory when I was learning to play the piano.”
“Well Julie Anne surely seems to like it. She’s smiling like a ray of sunshine.”
“Oh she does. She always lights up when she hears it. Forget about “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” or “Ole MacDonald had a farm. She likes for me to point to the sun, or the moon, or whatever we’re singing about. And, I don’t call her by her given name – she’s “Marigold,” like the flower. There are so many of them growing outside. I pointed them out to her this morning as we came in. Who planted them?”
I was stunned beyond belief – and unable to speak a word for what seemed like forever. “Did you say Marigold,” and I repeated it, “Marigold?” As I stared at her, I slowly opened my wallet and pulled out my one and only family photo and showed it to her. She was more stunned than I, slowly opening her pocketbook to show me an identical photograph. On the back of hers was the handwriting of a child, my handwriting: “Marigold, I will always love you, Jamie.” On the photograph itself, “Jamie” was written above where I was standing and “Marigold” was written above her likeness at the end of the first row. Jennifer sat down with Julie Anne in a state of confusion and disbelief.
I was barely capable of speaking: “I am your brother — you are my sister! I took care of you for the first four years of your life.” I was holding back tears.
She looked dumbfounded. “I never could understand why the photograph said Marigold. And over time, the memory of whoever Jamie was just disappeared. When I asked my mother and father about the photo, they explained it as just a school picture from years past – during a time when some of my classmates called me Marigold. There must have been something that I knew, or felt, however, for me to carry it in my wallet all of these years and to give Julie Anne the nickname of Marigold.”
“Let me explain. As far as I know, we lived with our mother until she became ill and you and I were taken to a group home named The Welborn, where you stayed for about three months and I stayed for twelve-plus years. I have been searching for you since I was six years old. I think the photographs verify a small part of our earlier life . . . . you are my sister! my Marigold! You are the reason for all of the marigolds surrounding the back door. I have planted marigold memory gardens in your honor over the years in many places.”
Jennifer seemed to be trying to understand. We hugged each other; both of us cried. There had to be divine providence in this reunion — my job at the same place where my lost sister was working — both of us employed as social workers.
Although we both were full of love for each other, we really didn’t know anything about each other’s past. In the next days, Jennifer showed me scrapbooks of a life much different than mine, many pictures of vacations, birthday parties, and doting parents, now both deceased. I told her about our Sunday dinners and the one Christmas program where she sang and we were photographed.
Jennifer had a brief period of adjustment acknowledging and affirming my existence. I had to constantly remind myself to call her Jennifer, not Marigold. During Christmas, I celebrated with little Marigold, Jennifer, and her husband, a kind, soft-spoken man and now my brother-in-law. He had two brothers and a sister, all married with children. It was as if all of a sudden and out of nowhere, I had a home and was now a part of a real family, surrounded by love and affection. My Marigold had returned to me with an extended family of others to love.
As a new year approached, I took time to think about all of the events of the previous months. I was grateful for my new family, my new job, my new existence. However, most importantly, after many years, I was thankful that I had finally found my Marigold.
