The Melody of Memories

Remembering my Adult Son                                  

Was it too late for me now? Had I already waited too long, to become a father? My lifetime was spent avoiding parenthood and it's burden of endless responsibilities. And for a lot of reasons. I had almost become a father when I was twenty-one. The baby I had named Kevin, was stillborn. My memories of him were as a tiny baby boy in a large specimen jar filled with formaldehyde. The doctor wanted to keep Kevin to see if they could determine why he died, even before he was born. The year was 1957 and the entire process had been very harsh. There was little sympathy for parents who lost a child, due to being stillborn. Born dead! Had I really been a father?

My wife and I were given no the time to grieve. I had to board a plane back to Washington DC and my military base. At twenty one, I was in the US Navy, and having completed technical school, was being sent to Germany for a two year deployment. In some ways it was a blessing, being thousands of miles from home in a foreign land. It also seemed to distance the memory of a little boy in a bottle. The son we had had, that didn't survive.

After Kevin, I had always been very careful to not become a father. When my military service ended so did my marriage, for all intents and purposes. It did not survive the long separation, and I found time and distance erased many unpleasant memories. After military service, I joined the Portland Police Bureau in 1961. The occasional thoughts of parenthood came and then disappeared. My career in law enforcement was all consuming and very satisfying.

Being a cop was my baby. It fulfilled me.

But now, in my forties, (this being the early 1980's) and married to a beautiful black woman, who was nearing thirty, powerful instincts were at work. My purposeful attempts at avoiding fatherhood were under serious assault on two fronts.

I never thought about men having a “biological clock,” but now the whisperings that had been growing in my ears became shouts. My base instinct to procreate, to leave a trail of blood for posterity were drowning out my pragmatic reasons for committing to non parenthood.

The second unstoppable force was my wife's biological clock. She wanted a baby before she became thirty. It was more than a mere want, it became a demand, something she could not put off much longer. But still, there were months of consideration, and discussion, mulling over the endless common sense reasons why we should not be parents. The world was full of wars and economic uncertainty. Was it a good idea to bring a child into the world. Would it be fair? Would it be safe?

And then there was the other very obvious reason we had to consider. I was white and she was black. What would await a new child of mixed blood. Would they call our baby a “half-breed” or worse than that, would they call our child a “nigger?” We took many deep breaths and sighed, and wondered about the world our baby would be inheriting. And could we survive the pressures of an interracial marriage ourselves? A baby would be a lifetime commitment and how can you predict a lifetime ahead? So much uncertainty had to be sorted out.

Finally, what had become an irresistible force, seemingly had to prevail. Instincts we could not understand and were unable to withstand took control of us. We would have a baby, and I would be forty-five-years old when it was born. That in itself scared me. I would be nearly sixty when the child graduated from high school. Would I live to see the baby grow to adulthood, and graduate from college? Would I still be around to see any possible grandchildren?

I had never thought of life after reaching sixty five. My mind just didn't calculate that far ahead. It seemed so many years away. It terrified me often, to even think about being sixty and being responsible for a minor child.

But instinct lead to the joy of pregnancy and when I felt the first movement, at the four month mark, and felt the small feet kicking me in the back as my wife turned over in bed I was happy.

I knew my baby would be a girl. I had dreamed of a toddler, a little girl running ahead of me down the street, giggling and trying to move her little feet faster to get away from daddy. I heard her giggles, but she never turned around to look at me and I never saw her face, only the back of her head and her cute little girl neck, framed in glossy, dark ringlets. My baby girl would be named Jade, and she would be a beautiful chocolate brown with wavy hair and brown sparkling eyes, an irresistible smile and perfect white teeth. She would be a DuPay and she would be smart. Everything would be great and the world would somehow, be a better place because of it.

My son was born May 31st, 1982, at Kaiser Hospital here in Portland. I was there, when it happened. The nurses gave him to me when he came out, slippery, wet, with frog like legs, ten fingers, ten toes—and a penis. I was happy, yet confused. I had a son, I had no name for. What had happened to the little girl in my dream? What had happened to Jade? So for a few hours he was listed as baby DuPay while my wife and I scrambled to figure out a boy name.

I wanted something strong, masculine, a family name, not something that would identify his ethnicity. And he looked white, so white the nurses were astounded that a woman, my wife, of such color had a white baby. I was also surprised. He had blue eyes and wisps of blond hair. My wife insisted I follow the baby upstairs to be foot-printed and cleaned up.

“I don't want anyone to steal our baby,” she whispered in my ear frantically. He looked cuter after they had cleaned the white milky vernix from his skin. A lot of nurses gathered around. This was the baby they all wanted to see. He looked Caucasian but his mother was African American. I didn't care how he looked, either Caucasian or African American. He was simply beautiful and pride was swelling inside me. Just look what I had helped to create.

By the next day, baby DuPay had become Lee Mason DuPay. Lee was my middle name and Mason was his great great grandfathers surname.

The name went on his birth certificate, and it was a fine name. Lee was a blessing, and as he grew and learned to walk, he would toddle ahead of me on our way to the Piggly Wiggly, our neighborhood grocery store. His little hand would hold onto my pinky finger as we walked, and I had nothing but patience as his tiny little body learned how to walk. He knew the gum-ball machine was just inside the front door and he'd stop with his little hand out waiting for the coin that magically delivered colored balls of sweet chewy gum.

At home, as he continued to grow, he was becoming acculturated slowly to family life. It took me a while to teach him to poop in the toilet instead of under the coffee table and to not chase the kitties tail. Once, our kitty, Footsie, had hissed at him and I still see the instant look of terror in his golden brown eyes as he ran to me for safety, tugging at my leg. Lesson learned.

Some of the many fears we harbored regarding the bi-racial issues that we worried about did in fact materialize. We were stared at on the street and at the grocery store. Folks were generally accustomed to seeing a black man with a white woman, but not a white man with a black woman. When we went grocery shopping together, the three of us seemed to surprise everyone.

The little boy must be my son, people presumed, but his mother was usually mistaken for some kind of nanny. She was too dark, so who else could she be?

We learned we were not welcome in the neighborhood we moved into in NE Portland, near Fremont Street, when eggs were thrown on our driveway, and a cross of sticks and rocks were arranged in our front yard. I built a fence around the front yard and began carrying a gun again. I installed a surveillance camera on the porch. We felt safer but still it was often uncomfortable. As a father and husband I kept them close when we were out in public, because of my growing concern.

Ultimately it was not the bi-racial issue that caused us to divorce. Or maybe it was for her. My wife had become unfaithful, something I only found out when she called me from Honolulu where she had ended up with another man, a black man. After the divorce she moved to Seattle, her hometown, and took Lee with her. Perhaps she couldn't endure the pressures of a bi-racial marriage. Lee was only about 20 months old.

I missed my son, and made monthly trips to Seattle to visit him. He was my baby boy and the separation gnawed at my soul. For the next several years, my relationship with Lee was limited to week end visits and phone calls at bed time. “Be sure and say your prayers, son,” I would tell him. Then when he was twelve, he told his mom he wanted to live with dad. He didn't like his mother's newest boyfriend. I lived in Tigard in a very nice neighborhood at that time, and I was happy to have him again in my life. I enrolled him in middle school and went to school with him everyday the first week. I didn't anticipate the problems that would arise. He was twelve and had suddenly become very much aware of girls. Too aware. I mean he was only twelve right?

An apartment he passed on his walks to school harbored a very pretty blond girl named Carla and Carla seemed to capture his entire attention while he was awake. 

They talked by phone incessantly until I had to limit the time to fifteen minute conversations, just so I could use the phone, myself. That made Lee mad and he told me he would find a way to see her and talk to her anyway.

He was in love now, that he was a man, and he would take care of her if anything happened. “Like what?” I asked him. “Well, dad, you know, if she had a baby or anything.” I just had to shake my head. He thought he was a grown up. He had a woman. His confidence and the natural way he thought about such things, they made me smile. There was trouble at school too. At least once a week I got a note from his teachers telling me he was disruptive in class and wouldn't listen.

It seemed that some of the black characteristics that he'd inherited from his mother and her side of the family, were now exploding to the surface, as well as his hormones. He wanted to wear a do-rag around his head when he went to school, like all the brothers did. He wanted to be black. He wanted all the other kids to know he was black too, and the rag would let them know.

I was surprised by what the school described as his “disruptiveness,” because to me, he seemed only spirited and fun loving, but it was one of the things I had worried about since before he was born. How would the world see my son? How would they view him? How would schools and teachers, if they were primarily white, view and perceive him? And now, it was also how did he see the world?

I saw a young man that was handsome, with even features, and light tea colored skin, a creamy tawny shade. He had shoulder length, Caucasian looking hair; straight but wavy. He was almost as tall as me, muscular and lean, smart and well-spoken. He didn't commonly use what they call Ebonics, or “black talk.” He could, however, smear ghetto talk all over you too, just as easily, but when he was with white people, he echoed their vocal intonations and nuances. His mother had taught him well, to fit into the dominant class. And wow, he was only twelve! I was so proud and so concerned for him, also. 

Lee was able to complete the school year and we both looked forward to a fun summer together. A distant relative gave Lee a pellet gun for his birthday at the end of May. I couldn't say no to his receiving this birthday present without looking like the worst sort of ogre father. It was just a pellet gun. It was safe. Wasn't it? So we accepted the gift with much admonishment to my son about gun safety and not being careless with it. The next day, we hurried to a nearby vacant lot where there was an abandoned house surrounded by lots of trash, and a stand of fir trees. It was probably a nice place thirty years ago. Now, in the summer, the neighbors dumped all their lawn clippings there. But it was perfect for our purpose.

The gun had come with 1,000 pellets, probably more then we could shoot up in one sitting. I made target rings on cardboard boxes with a sharpie, and scavenged a few tin cans, mostly beer and Mountain Dew cans, lining them up on an old tree stump. “Here's a bottle dad,” Lee said, pulling one from a pile of rubbish. “No glass son. We don't want to leave broken glass behind,” I told him patiently. The pellet gun was more powerful than I anticipated. The pellet could pierce an aluminum beverage can from a distance of ten feet. Clear through. My respect for the power of the little pellet gun jumped enormously, as did my concern. It was actually a deadly weapon at close range. But it was a hell of a lot of fun too, to shoot it with my son.

For the first time, we were doing the “man thing” together, killing the evil alien cans and dusting off threatening cardboard targets. Before we realized it, we were soon out of ammunition. A thousand pellets had been just enough to get the blood up and running. We looked at each other, and then at my wrist watch. I was as disappointed as Lee was. It was too late to buy more ammunition that evening, but I promised Lee, we would have more fun the following day.

I would buy more ammunition, and we would make better targets to practice on. Together, we would shoot up the evil lurking in the vacant lot.

That was pretty much the way the summer went. Lee and I would go out to the empty lot and practice target shooting with his new pellet gun. He couldn't seem to get enough of it. Pretty soon, it became an issue and I had to limit his time with it. If he misbehaved, I would tell him he couldn't use it. That represented the challenge. Eventually, I had to hide the pellet gun from Lee, but he always found it, like he could smell where I hid it. I would come home from work to find him laying prone on the living room floor with the sliding glass patio door open, shooting at any rodent or winged creature that came within range. Fortunately for the small animal population in the neighborhood, Lee wasn't a very good shot.

Toward the end of July, I was watching the evening news with both the front door and the sliding glass patio doors open to get a breeze. It was sultry and the air was still. The clouds were dark, and thick and threatening rain. Lee was out playing with other neighborhood kids, several blocks away when I heard a siren and saw flashing red lights.

A fire truck and ambulance were pulling to the curb just down the street, and I could see they had put someone on a stretcher and were loading the stretcher into the ambulance while the firemen looked on, talking to the other kids. Lee wandered in the open front door and stood with me observing the firetruck, the ambulance and the flashing lights.

                “What happened down there,?” I asked, pointing to the commotion down the street, 

                “You were playing with the kids, what happened?”

                “Some kid got shot,” he replied casually. “It was a drive-by.”

                “What do you mean, drive-by, who got shot?”

                “It was a drive-by dad. A boy got shot on the side of the head.”

By now I was beginning to feel the uncomfortable feeling I sometimes got when Lee was lying to me. He wouldn't look me in the eye and he would shuffle back and forth as he walked around the room, with his head down. This evening was no different, as he stopped for a minute to peer at the scene a block away. I took him gently by the shoulders and made him face me. I put my hand under his chin so he couldn't look away.

                “Tell me what happened,” I demanded, “And tell me the truth.”

The tears came rolling down his face as if the dam had burst. “It wasn't my fault, dad,” he cried, he turned his head at the wrong time. He wanted me to do it.”

                “Do what,” I demanded, “What did he want you to do?”

“He-was-riding-his-bike-and-had-his-bike-helmet-on-and-he-said-shoot-me-in-the-helmet- 'cause-it-won't-go-through. So-I-did-but-he-turned-his-head-at-the-last-minute-and-he-got-hit-in-the- temple!” 

Lee pointed to his right temple showing me where the boy got hit. “It was his fault dad, I didn't mean to hurt him. It was his fault!” Now the sobs were uncontrollable, the tears were streaming and his nose was dripping. I put my arms around him and held him close until the sobs went away, then took him in the bathroom and washed his face. “Where's the pellet gun now?” I asked. “I threw it in the bushes behind the apartment. Do ya want me to git it?” he asked. “No. I'll take care of it later, son.”

The ambulance and firetruck had disappeared from down the street and I walked over and closed the front door quietly. We sat in the front room as he dabbed at a few remaining tears with a wad of toilet paper. “The boy who got shot?” Lee started to say, then he hesitated before blurting out, “His-dad-is-a-Tigard-police-officer!”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as I sagged into my easy chair. What was done was done, I knew that. The injured boy had been taken to the hospital, I knew that too. I also knew that it wouldn't be long before the cops would be knocking at my front door wanting to arrest Lee for what had been a simple childhood accident. My son did not deliberately shoot a boy in the head, but I knew how to protect him. 

I made a phone call to his mother in Seattle, explaining the serious situation Lee was in. I told her the truth too, that the only black kid in the neighborhood had shot a white policeman's son. Nothing good could come of him remaining in Tigard with me.

His mother agreed with that and the next day Lee was on the eight thirty am Greyhound bus to Seattle. I hugged and kissed him goodbye, and told him what happened was an accident, and back home in Washington nothing could happen to him. “Call me when you get to your mothers,” I said as he walked up the steps and handed the driver his ticket. He turned and looked at me and I could tell he was sad to be going. He was afraid too, but he knew he had to go.

When the bus pulled away, I knew Lee would be safely out of state in about twenty minutes and away from the reach of the law. I cherished the last sight of my son entering the bus because we can never be certain when we might see a loved one again. He was growing up, yes, but he was still only a little twelve-year-old boy who needed his dads protection.

Now it was my turn to cry. I missed him already. He had been with me for only 11 months but living together had been fun and easy, up until then. Now all I had to do was go home and stiff-arm the police when they came looking for him. But that would be easy. I'd been a cop and knew how to work it. Having heard through the neighborhood kids that the boy who'd been shot was okay, and would not suffer any permanent damage, I felt the relief that any father would feel, knowing their son was going to be alright.

When I arrived home from taking Lee to the bus, a uniformed Tigard police officer was waiting for me. I nodded, and opened my front door, turning to face the officer. “What can I do for you officer?” I inquired, with a feigned air of cooperation.

                “I'd like to come in and talk to you about your son Lee.”

                “You can't come in. We can talk here.” I replied.

                “Where is Lee?” asked the officer.

                “I don't know.” I said, beginning to let my feigned air of cooperation dissipate. “Why?”

                “He deliberately shot a young boy in the head with a pellet gun. I have to arrest him. Where is he?

                “I don't know,” I answered again firmly.

                “Well where's the pellet gun,” the officer said, turning up his stern, don't-play-with-me tone of voice.

                “What pellet gun?”

                “You know darned well what I'm talking about Mr. DuPay. Where is Lee and where is the pellet gun?

                “I don't know what you're talking about.” I repeated as I turned to close the door on him.

“Well, I could have arrested him yesterday,” said the officer, seeing he was getting no where fast. “Coulda-woulda-shoulda,” I retorted, closing and locking the door, making sure that the officer heard the dead bolt click.

I watched the officer get into his black and white police car, secure in the knowledge that I had done the right thing. There was no legal case against Lee and now he was safe from any persecution because of a simple accident or because of the color or his skin. And I never did find the pellet gun in the bushes. Good riddance I guess. It was not a thoughtful gift, I finally concluded, to give to a 12-year-old boy, but merely a dangerous toy.  

The next few years were again punctuated with monthly visits with my son. I would visit him in Seattle, and his mother and I made sure he attended high school and kept up his grades. Even though Lee lived in another state, I determined that I would not be an absentee father. Rolling along I-5 back and forth between Portland and Seattle became routine, even boring. But my son was always waiting for me at the end of the trip and happy to see me.

“Let's go camping,” I suggested to Lee in the July between his Junior and Senior years. I had a stand up, 12 x 12 tent I has only used once before and it was time to spend a little father and son time together. His mother was glad to “unload” him for a minute and agreed to let me take him home to Portland with me. “Don't let anybody mess with my stuff mom,” he shouted back at her as we pulled away from their house in Seattle. She waved and blew him a kiss.

“What stuff you worried about?” I asked, rolling down the car window and letting in the fresh air. “Just stuff dad, you know, all my stuff in my room.” I remembered back when I was his age and was trying to keep my two sisters out of my stuff. I knew what he meant.

I had camped once before at a camping park along the Wilson River, near Tillamook. There was a small store for snacks and dry firewood available for the fire pit located at each site. The wonderful sound of a rushing river, was just a few yards away too. So, when we arrived there for our adventure in the early evening, we stopped at the store to check in and load up on goodies. We paid for a site right on the river and as far away from other campers as possible. It looked great. A wide flat spot for the tent, bushes in back to pee in and the Wilson river in front of us. But as often happens at the coast, the weather changed in only a few minutes from a sunny summer evening to a cloudburst. We were not ready for rain. Digging the tent out of the canvas bag was easy. Putting it together was big problem.

First, one big raindrop hit me on the head and then another splashed on my glasses making it hard to see between the rivulets beginning to run down my lenses. Then the rain let loose. In a few minutes Lee and I were both soaked to the skin and water was dripping off our clothes. Neither one of us could see slot “A” in the tent, which was supposed to match up with pole “A.” Or was it pole “B?” Soon we had the poles sticking in what must have been the wrong slots, because the tent wouldn't stand up. The increasing wind didn't help either, because it seemed determined to blow our canvas tent into the river. Now, hopelessly wet, and surrounded by uncooperative tent poles and glasses I couldn't see through, I began to laugh at our situation. Lee looked at me crazy for a minute, before he saw the humor in our dilemma. Then he began to giggle, which made me laugh even more and we were soon in hysterics. We pulled the canvas up over our heads and sat there laughing at each other. “I thought you said you'd put up this tent before,” said Lee between giggles which had now turned to hiccups too. “I did, but it wasn't raining, and it seemed simpler before.”

The deluge ended as quickly as it began, but now the sun was down and it was getting cold, and too dark to see how to put up the tent. We fashioned the tent into a sort of lean-to, dried ourselves off as best we could and sat the rest of the evening eating potato chips, and pork and beans out of the can, illuminated by a flashlight. By the time the batteries on the flashlight died, we had finished giggling and were asleep in our sleeping bags which had remained dry in the car.

Morning came with a blinding sun which brightened our makeshift lean-to tent with vibrant light. The rain had washed everything clean, and left a fresh smell. We could hear the river rushing over the rocks, adding the sound of nature to the fresh scents and sunlight. Our clothes smelled damp and a little moldy. An hour later we found ourselves in the campground showers, with our clothes spinning in a clothes dryer. The warm soapy water felt like heaven after the cold deluge that had soaked us the night before. Putting on warm dry clothes was a luxury too.

They smelled good because of the lilac dryer sheet we had tossed in with them. I looked at my seventeen year old son, fresh out of the shower, clean clothes and wet curly jet black hair. He had become a man. My little boy, the one that years ago waited for the gum ball machine to deliver his treat, the boy that had chased the kitty's tail, had somehow morphed into a handsome and muscular young man. I hugged him without speaking. He hugged me back. Words were unnecessary.

                                ****

Although I am now still in good health, tugging at my memory are the long ago fears that I wouldn't live to see Lee graduate from high school. So, when the formal announcement of his graduation from Kent Lake high school arrived in my mail box, I stared at it. I held it in my hands, turning it over and over feeling the paper and smelling it. It smelled expensive, and felt textured, with delicately frayed edges. It was the kind of paper important things were printed on. I savored the moment, opening the envelope slowly, wanting to see what it said inside, but my hands were shaking and I could feel my heart beating. Rubbing my eyes to clear the tears that were beginning to form, I read the announcement. It invited me to be present at the graduating ceremony of Kent Lake high school, class of 2000, held in the Tacoma Dome, where Lee Mason DuPay would receive his high school diploma.

I cried. It was such a huge moment. The baby I hesitated to have, for fear of not being in his future was now graduating. Having a child had been the right decision. I felt relieved that it had all worked out perfectly. This was the future I'd worried about and yet, I was still alive!

I laughed too as I remembered how much I had wanted a little girl. Now that seemed unimportant. I had a son. He would carry on the DuPay family name. Unconsciously I began humming that song they play at graduation, “Pomp and Circumstance.” I hadn't heard it since my own graduation from high school, but I would be hearing it again soon.

A few days later, I was sitting with my ex-wife Merrilee, in the huge Tacoma Dome, waiting for the ceremonies to begin. It seemed like I was watching myself in a movie. There were two middle aged people, one black woman and one white man, still the odd couple, come together to celebrate an event neither of them had been sure would ever happen. Any acrimony between us disappeared long ago and we were friends now. We held hands, comfortably, looking at each other and smiling. 

She had gray wisps of short hair which sometimes appeared when her long haired wig wasn't adjusted exactly right, but her brown eyes were still bright, the lids covered with pale green eye shadow. She wore no lipstick, yet her full lips were shiny, as she would still smooth petroleum jelly on her mouth, a habit she hadn't lost, from the old days when we were together. She looked like the middle aged mother she was, mature, confident and still pretty. We stared at each other, not speaking, knowing that years ago we had been lovers, been husband and wife, and had had a son together. So many years ago now. So many years.

Our mutual reverie was interrupted by the music. Six Seattle area high schools were graduating on this day, and all six school bands were trying to play "Pomp and Circumstance" in unison. It was the disjointed cacophony of young musicians playing instruments they had not yet mastered, complete with squawks and squeaks, from missed clarinet notes, and tuba grunts. It was pretty awful, but all the parents smiled, seeming not to notice all the missed notes, and stared down, looking for their own little horn players and cymbal bangers.

With so many children graduating, the procession to the stage seemed never ending. We peered, struggling to see against the bright stage lights, waiting for the Kent Lake high school kids to appear. So many marched by, some smiling, some with tears in their eyes, looking up into the seats trying to spot their parents. Proud moms stood up waving handkerchiefs, hoping to be seen and proud father's waved. Then we saw Lee, striding in unison with his class mates, a somber look on his face, his graduation gown to narrow for his broad shoulders.

His wavy black hair had grown and was now hanging to his shoulders. He didn't seem to notice us waving at him. He was engrossed in the moment. Even the combined bands were beginning to sound better, the long procession giving them time to find a common cord and better timing. 

Finally, mercifully, the procession was over, the music was over, and all graduates were on stage waiting for their names to be called. I tuned out as the roll was read, looking away for a moment, reflecting on the reality that I had lived to see this procession of young Americans. These kids were our future and I was proud my son was among them. When the principal called out “Lee Mason DuPay,” he stood up and strode confidently to the podium and received his diploma. He mumbled “Thank you sir,” and then looked up finding us with his eyes. He waved the precious piece of paper at us with a smug and happy expression on his face. We watched his walk change from the marching stride that took him to the stage to a playful, shoulder moving, hip-swaying strut. Lee was happy with himself, he had attitude and he wanted everyone to know it.

With the last diploma handed out, his mother and I rushed down to meet him near the stage. All the parents were doing the same thing, kissing and hugging and back patting their precious children. We gathered Lee in our arms and crushed him between us. For just a moment we were a family again, not black or white or mixed race, just a family and our little son was lovingly between us. He was our beautiful child. 

    POST SCRIPT: 

For many years I often wondered what happened to Jade, the little girl I so vividly saw in my dreams, that I believed would be my child. What had happened to her? Had she been a figment of my imagination, a face-less symbol of impending parent hood? What did the notion of Jade mean?

The answer came many years later in May of 2009. My son and his pretty partner produced a baby girl. I have been lucky enough to be near that little girl to watch her grow into a beautiful child. 

It is the same little girl I saw in my dream. With the same little girl neck and the same beautiful ringlets, running ahead of me and giggling happily. I didn't get to be her daddy, but I got to be her grandpa instead. She was "Jade" alright when she finally came down to Earth, but they named her "Heaven" instead. It fits her too, because that's where she came from.  

By Don DuPay

ABSOLUTELY NO PORTION OF THIS PERSONAL ESSAY MAY BE REPRODUCED OR DISSEMINATED WITHOUT EXPRESS PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR, DONALD LEE DUPAY, UNDER PENALTY OF COPYRIGHT LAWS!!