The Prodigal Father

I began an active search for my father today. Well, that is, if you consider an internet people search to be proactive. I certainly do. I have precious little to go on; only his name and that he lived in New Orleans in 1963. Boy, that really narrows it down!

Larry Wilkerson. That'’s almost all I know of my biological father. Actually, I know a few other things; he was a short order cook, lived in Baton Rouge as well as New Orleans, liked to sing with the band but was not WITH the band; he was just another drunk in the crowd making an ass of himself.

I have a picture of him. If I cover his long chin with one finger, and his big, long forehead with the other, it'’s like looking in a mirror. I have noticed that I am needing to cover up less of his forehead lately. I can'’t say for sure, but I believe that his eyes were all I got from him. My mother is a highly intelligent woman, though she hides it well and I believe the genius-level IQ came from her people. They were simple country farmers, but they were well educated.

This afternoon I called about twenty people. I spoke to many of them and left several messages, none of which have been returned at this point. One guy cursed and slammed the phone down; knowing my luck, that was the guy. Oddly, most of them seemed genuinely interested and one lady even gave me a short-but-not-short-enough history of her husband's family, which she seemed to be quite the expert on.

I have no idea what will happen when I find him. I haven't scripted questions, or really even thought about that much, I just know that I need to find him, and I will, sooner or later. My one hope is that when I do, he's more than a cold granite marker.

Call it closure if you like.


-b