OneMansCourage

I sat at my desk frozen in thought. I barely remember hanging up the
phone. Could this be possible? Was it deliberate? Could someone really
be this hateful?

More so, I thought, if I'm this taken aback, how shocked is Ed going
to be? Hence my quandary. How do you prepare anyone for this sort of
mind-boggling news?

I clamped my lips around this unfathomable family secret, took a deep
breath and walked out onto the front screened porch where my husband,
Ed, stood sipping his coffee while enjoying the calm that nature
provided.

A warm breeze blew through the screen while the hawks cawed in the
tenderness of the mid morning sun. In the distance, a pair of Sand
Hill Cranes called in unison. What a beautiful spring morning, I
thought.

"Ed," I said. "I just found out something interesting about your dad."

With eyebrows raised, Ed asked excitedly, "Did you find out where he
was buried?"

"Not exactly," I said before suggesting he sit down for a moment.

I had quite a story to tell my husband.

This was Florida. 1999.

Ed and I were married on New Year's Eve, 1994, and sometimes it feels
much longer. We live on five fenced in acres in rural north central
Florida. We built our house in 1996 high on a hill in the midst of
heavily wooded oak trees, way too much sand and just enough room for
our four rescued dogs to run and play.

Our property has seen its share of snakes, turtles, deer, rabbits,
osprey, egrets, and owls. Every so often, you might also see an
alligator, fox, and even an eagle. Some folks up here have horses,
buffalo, and cows in their pasture while others might have chickens,
roosters, goats, and pigs.

In the beginning, you could say this was somewhat of a culture shock.
As a sworn city girl, dogs and cats were my norm, and the only time I
saw cows, buffalo, owls, etcetera, was on the television's Animal
Planet.

Ed stands about five foot nine, is now in his early sixties, and is
fifteen years my senior. His hair is not silver, but a beautiful
whitish gray like his mother's, although pictures show he much
resembles his father.

I call Ed my "Crocodile Dundee." He is a survivalist. I'm not. In my
opinion, Ed is not afraid of anything. He says that his wartime duty
in Vietnam was the only time in his adult life that he was truly
frightened. Ed was a tunnel rat.

In the late 1970's, long before I knew him, Ed bought five wooded
acres, not the same five acres we live on now, and moved up to this
area of Florida. For the first few months, Ed literally, and by
choice, lived off the land, sleeping in a hammock and hunting hogs
with just his dog and a knife. He said he loved it. I say I think I'm
glad I didn't know him then because my idea of camping is at the
Holiday Inn, with running water, air conditioning and a nice soft,
bug-free place to lay my head.

I had always been curious as a child, wondered about everything, and
asked way too many questions. I had always been fascinated with my
family roots, too, and my passion to know who my ancestors were and
where they came from prompted me, in 1997, to begin my first genealogy
project.

In the beginning, I focused solely on my dad's side of the family. Dad
was Italian, and his grandparents came to the United States through
Ellis Island and made their new lives in Brooklyn, New York.

By 1998, I had collected every U.S. document that I knew existed on my
direct and indirect family line, and it was now time to turn my
research to Italy. Feeling unsure and still at the novice level of
genealogy know-how, I convinced myself it would be much easier to keep
my research in the United States than obtain records from Europe.

Nevertheless, this story isn't about my family. It's about how my
decision to find Ed's roots accidentally uncovered a forty-year,
unconscionable, well-kept family secret.

When I started to look at Ed's family, I was particularly drawn to his
paternal side, as it was difficult for me to understand how he knew
virtually nothing about his dad. Then again, knowing Ed was ten years
old when his parents divorced and perhaps fifteen years old when his
father died, made sense as to why Ed knew little about the man he
called Pop.

I remember a conversation Ed and I had about his dad a couple of years
after we were married. We were sitting on the porch having our morning
coffee when out of the blue Ed turned to me and said, "Kat, you know
what I would love to do before I die?"

"What's that"? I asked hesitantly, fully expecting him to say he'd
like to climb Mount Everest or bungee jump from the Empire State
building. Neither of which I'd be willing to agree to.

Instead, what Ed told me was so sincere it brought tears to my eyes.
It was almost as though fate had whetted my appetite with the work on
my own family research when Ed came to me with this heavy burden on
his heart.

"I'd like to find where my dad is buried. When Pop died, I never got
to tell him good-bye and that has always bothered me. I miss hearing
him call me, Eddie Don, my #1 son."

Nearly forty years had passed since his father's death and Ed's pain
was still evident, leaving me to think, perhaps he needs to pay his
respects and get closure in that chapter of his life. I pressed Ed
about our conversation, but he could offer little information. In any
case, it certainly aroused my Nancy Drew instincts.

Considering the number of cemeteries there are in the United States, I
knew the task of finding where Ed's father was buried wasn't going to
be easy. But I also knew how important this was to my husband and made
it my mission to find his dad, which meant this greenhorn had a huge
challenge ahead of her.

To get going on my new project I poured myself a cold glass of tea,
sat on my porch, and jotted down the facts.

The few facts that Ed knew, anyway.

Ed knew his father's name--Donald W. Schuman.

Ed knew his father was born in South Dakota, was a WWII veteran, and
that he had died of a heart attack in the early 1960's.

Ed's mother, Muriel, was still alive and sharp as a tack. In fact, she
had already given me quite a bit of information on her side of the
family for this project. I tried on numerous occasions to ask her
about Donald's burial, however, her response was usually, "I don't
know," or "It was too long ago to remember."

Muriel was born in 1920 and raised in Detroit, Michigan. She stood
5'4" or 5'5", had beautiful white, wavy hair that she always wore neck
length or shorter. Her skin was soft, and her nails were naturally
long and well manicured.

Muriel's father worked long, hard hours at the dairy and, according to
her; she grew up poor and uneducated during the Great Depression.

By age eleven, Muriel and her younger brother were sent to live with
relatives because their mother had become quite ill and unable to care
for them herself. At age thirteen, and in the eighth grade, Muriel had
no choice but to quit school and move back in with her parents to care
for her ailing mother, which she resented having to do.

Over the next few months, when I would chance to see Muriel or speak
to her over the phone, I would prompt discussion on the topics of Ed's
childhood and the Schuman family, staying optimistic with the hope of
jogging her memory. This I hoped would narrow my search and eventually
lead me to where Ed's dad was buried. However, that never happened.
Instead, Muriel would accuse, insinuate, and insult the father of her
children.

In early 1999, Muriel gave me a few documents she had found filed
away. This proved to be a genealogical gold mine. One document in
particular was her original marriage certificate to Ed's dad noting
Donald's age, which gave me an estimated birth year, referenced
Donald's occupation as a farmer, and gave William Schuman as his
father's name. The document also gave some military information on
Donald, which didn't seem to terribly important at the time.

While these documents provided for some nice additions to the family
tree, it wasn't enough to lead me to Donald's cemetery, or so I
thought.

As I scanned the document, Muriel walked into her bedroom for a
moment. When she returned, she handed me a picture.

"I met Donald in May 1943," she stated. "We were both in the Army and
stationed at Camp Polk, Louisiana. One night there was a dance at the
Community Hall, and our eyes met from across the room. Donald
approached me and asked me to dance."

"Was it love at first sight?" I asked.

"I don't remember if it was love at first sight, but eventually we
fell in love. He was my first true love. Then, I was sent to England,
and Donald went to France. Don't ask me how, but we managed to stay in
touch all that time through letters."

Muriel spoke openly and painlessly about her hatred for Donald. Even
now, nearly forty years after her ex-husband died, Muriel recalls
stories with a tone of disgust and anger that would send shivers down
anyone's spine.

"If you didn't want your children, why didn't you give them to their
father instead of placing them in an orphanage to be raised by
complete strangers?" I asked.

Muriel's reply was curt. "Why the hell should their father have them?
He's the one who left, not me."

These disparaging comments confused me.

"Well, then, why didn't you allow other family members to raise them
if you didn't want them?"

"They didn't want these kids. No one did!" Muriel stated harshly.

"Did you ask if anyone wanted your kids?"

"No I didn't. Why should I? He wanted all these damn kids, not me.
They were rotten kids, so why the hell would anyone else want them?"

It was disheartening to hear a mother speak of her children, her own
flesh and blood, in such a cold and unloving way. I suppose if these
children were to be found guilty of anything; their crimes would have
simply been that they were born and that they shared the same last
name of the man Muriel hated beyond her last breath.

Frankly, I could hardly believe that anyone in real life could be as
resentful and even hateful toward his or her own children as she was
toward her.

For Ed, Richard, and Bob, their mother was an enigma and not someone
they would have liked to associate with under any other circumstances.
Nonetheless, those conversations helped me understand why the three of
them felt the way they did about their mother.

On the morning of May 18, 1999, I was in my home office on the
telephone with the Department of Veterans Affair's Regional Office
working on Muriel's VA benefits. While the Veteran's Service
Representative (VSR) had me on hold, I picked up from a stack on my
desk the marriage certificate Muriel had given me months earlier. I
scanned the contents as I had many times before and again took notice
of the number written under Donald's military rank when my thoughts
were interrupted and, once again, I was speaking with the VSR.

As our conversation about Muriel's benefits ended, I asked the VSR if
he could provide me with specific burial information on a veteran if I
had his service number. He told me it was possible, but not probable,
and asked for the number.

Before reading it, I explained that I wasn't sure the number was in
fact a service number, let alone Donald's, and if there was a way to
find this WWII Veteran's burial information, I would appreciate all
his help.

My heart was beating out of my chest as I read the number from the
marriage certificate. While the VSR typed the information into the
computer, I was already trying to figure out how to surprise Ed with
the news. Of course, in a perfect world, the VSR tells me that Ed's
dad is buried in the National Cemetery just miles from our home. Now
that would be a perfect world and the perfect surprise.

My thoughts were again interrupted by the VSR.

"Ms. Schuman? Can I ask why you're looking for burial information on
this particular veteran?"

As briefly as I could, I explained my purpose and the importance of my
mission, and this kind soul told me the truth of the matter.

So it was that I stood there, looking at my husband as he sat,
listening expectantly.

"Ed," I said. "Your father isn't buried anywhere."

"What do you mean?"

I took a deep breath, all the while smiling."For almost forty years,
you believed Pop was dead. Ed, your father isn't dead. He's very much
alive!"