The Upjohn's, forgotten no more...

Several months ago I was reading through some old Papillion Times newspapers when an advertisement caught my eye. It said, "Upjohn and Upjohn, physicians, Papillion." The name Upjohn is what caught my eye and I couldn't get to Google fast enough.

It took days of researching records at the Sarpy County Historical Society and historical records found online to confirm that indeed, William and Mary are members of the Upjohn Pharmaceutical family and were early medical pioneers of Papillion.

Who knew?

Who cares?

I do, and you might once you realize that...

Mary Hoagland Upjohn graduated from the Michigan University Medical School in 1877. William graduated in 1875.

Perhaps my feminist side is getting the best of me, but I'm impressed that a woman who graduated medical school came to Papillion, Nebraska which was little more than a wild west town at the time. (more about some of our wild west characters in blogs to come.) She graduated from medical school!

Happily, I've gotten a load of information from the University of Michigan and will be reading the thesis of both William and Mary. Mary wrote about maintaining health through good nutrition and William researched new methods in combating infections.

I've embarked on a mission to find photo's of these people to include in my pictorial history of the city of Papillion that is being published by Arcadia and will be released sometime in the winter of 2011 or spring of 2012. Today, I spent some time at the Douglas County Historical Society and imagine my joy when I found this in The History of Medicine in Nebraska:


Proof positive that William Cyrenes and Mary L. Hoagland Upjohn were members of the medical community in Papillion from 1877 to probably 1899 when they went to New York to complete graduate school then returned to the area making their home at 2411 Cumings in Omaha until about 1915 when they moved to California.

SADLY...I cannot use these photo's because they are of poor quality. HELP!!! I would love to find useable photo's so they can take their rightful place in Papillion's History.

By the way, my initial belief is that William Cyrenes is a first cousin to William Eurastas Upjohn, who founded the Upjohn Pharmaceutical company.

Where is my home?

I remember my reaction to the news that my family was moving from Arkansas to Nebraska. It wasn't good. We'd already moved from the place I considered home...a mountain in northwest Arkansas and a town so small that all of its commerce and government existed in one building.

The setting was beautiful enough to create a lifetime of mental images. My dad drove the mountain roads that took us upward and far from my urban understanding. We left the city full of excitement...a pending adventure mysteriously awaited our arrival, hiding in the thick of the trees that lured us with their woody tendrils, calling us to invade their space and make unto ourselves a world of our own...and we played.

For near three years we ran free on 65 acres of heaven, covered with trees and wild animals. We collected moths as large as our hands, and spied upon the secret love rituals of birds we'd never seen or heard. We lingered beneath the mimosa tree, it's sweet intoxicating fragrance inspiring us climb its fragile limbs and collect its soft, pink flowers that didn't press well in a book.

We walked the red dirt roads, our feet like bronzed leather to match the color of our sun-kissed skin. An hours walk down the mountain was the store which was a post office and a gas station and the place where the fire truck with the ancient bell sat parked beneath the lean-to on the side of the building. We saved our change and bought moon pies and bottles of soda.

We dangled our feet in the hard running stream across from the store and watch crawdads dart feverishly from stone to stone, careful not to upset a sleeping snake or snapping turtle. We'd left our concrete playground; the parking lot of the church where we wore the tires off our bikes and kicked cans until they turned into balls of jagged metal. No longer would the long chains of swings lift us into the air...now we climbed into trees and up hillsides. The dizzying twirl of merry-go-rounds were unnecessary to amuse a child that wadded a creek or swung from a vine that hung tightly to its host. Just when we'd mastered the mountain, we moved to the plains.

My early experiences in Nebraska were hard. The moment we left the trees of Skylight Mountain, my heart sank and for good reason. A teenaged girl with southern ways wasn't understood at the tender age of fifteen in the small town of Hebron. I missed the beauty of where we'd come from and the many beautiful people who opened their homes to us and gave us their best when it was obvious they had nothing to give.

For years I fantasized about a place to call home. If it is where the heart is, then mine was far from my body and my family could feel it. My grandmother would say I was "out of sorts." Indeed. I longed for everything I couldn't have in terms of geography. My vision of home was a place, not a condition. I had three beautiful children, a loving husband and every reason to be happy, which for the most part I was. But like many others, I wanted what I couldn't have. I wanted to be where my the people before me had been, live in their neighborhood and do business at the places they had built. I couldn't have it. Then we found Papillion.

When I was moved to Nebraska, I thought I'd left my home behind, until I found another. My husband and I moved into Papillion seventeen years ago. It is the place where my children grew and played their games and made their lifelong friends. Though we've moved from one house to another, it is still the place where they will come and rest their heads and smell the food cooking in Mama's kitchen...the food of their youth, calling them back to the table we shared to remember life as we lived it then and talk about how we live it now. Papillion; a place where the people have come alongside us and reminded me that home is where you're loved and where you can love others and though the mountain of my childhood will always compete against the prairie of my present life, I am at peace. Beautiful Papillion has come into my heart and flutters gently against the hope that future generations will come and find our mark here. I am home.

Longfellow

When I was a child, my grandmother had a card game we loved to play called, "Authors." It highlighted a number of poets and authors of classical literature, mostly American authors like Poe, Hawthorne and Longfellow. She always told a joke when we slapped Longfellow on the table. "You are a poet, you didn't know it, but your feet show it, their Longfellows!" As an adult, I have grown to love these three authors as well as Dickens, who I recall was also in the deck. I can't remember if Thoreau was in it, but I think Emily Dickinson and Louisa Mae Alcott were. Hmmm...I'd like to get my hands on a deck.

My point is, I've had the pleasure of reading enough works by these authors to be able to say that I "get it." I particularly love the short stories of Hawthorne and Poe, and love the poetry of Longfellow. I've started reading Tennyson, but need more time to concentrate on his poetry before I can reasonably discuss his work. He's more complex than some of the others. But Longfellow...I get him. And I would like to share one of his poems that I remember reading when I was young. I might have been in high school at the time, but I'm pretty certain I found the poem in one of my dad's books. I remember the line, They cry from unknown grave, "we are the witnesses!" I did not yet know the history of the slave ships that carried the Africans to America. It has been as an adult that I have digested the message of the poem and it has deeper meaning every time I read it.

"We are the witnesses!" Longfellow made a bold statement here-that many others of his day could not agree with. This was written at a time when it was acceptable to place value on a man according to his color. That the Africans were allowed this proclamation validated them as human-a much debated issue of the day. This is about as political a poem as one can read and I hope that all who do, will stop and consider how very far we have come in regard to race. I paste it below.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

The Witnesses

In Ocean’s wide domains,
Half buried in the sands,
Lie skeletons in chains,
With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,
Deeper than plummet lies,
Float ships, with all their crews,
No more to sink nor rise.

There the black Slave-ship swims,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs
Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of Slaves;
They gleam from the abyss;
They cry, from yawning waves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

Within Earth’s wide domains
Are markets for men’s lives;
Their necks are galled with chains,
Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite
In deserts makes its prey;
Murders, that with affright
Scare school-boys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds;
Anger, and lust, and pride;
The foulest, rankest weeds,
That choke Life’s groaning tide!

These are the woes of Slaves;
They glare from the abyss;
They cry, from unknown graves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

Hallowed Ground

I pressed my foot into the loamy sand, lifted it and inspected the imprint my "chucks" made. The clear ridges and diamond patterns were clear in the slightly moist earth and a tear came to my eyes. I was impressed to the point that my words failed me. It was not the joy of making a perfect imprint that moved me...it was the earth itself...the place where I stood...and the enormous gratitude I suddenly felt for men I did not know, but who selflessly put their lives on the line for my freedom...our freedom...America's freedom. I looked through the trees at the York river, then set my eyes on the American flag that blew energetically in the wind at the point of the bay. "Thank you, God...thank you so much." Yes, I thanked God because many miraculous battles were won in those last days of the Revolution that sealed the fate of America...and yes, I am so very thankful.

I walked the grounds in reverence. Many men lost their lives here. Many men who were young and had not yet established families, or had left behind a new wife and young children. Old men, who had suffered previous wounds in battle, but who understood the threat that loomed if Britain had its way. General George Washington...who spent six years fighting and training the troops, planning and plotting and narrowly escaping death himself actually stood here...perhaps on the same spot because it would have been a good vantage point to determine the enemies position. I'm filled with awe.

A few yards to the east a ridge of earth was built up over three days by men who worked through the night, cutting down pine trees, stripping the limbs and weaving them into huge baskets they filled with earth and sand until they overflowed. The baskets were lined up next to each other and covered with sod to build fortifications that protected the Revolutionary soldiers. Mounds spanning hundreds of yards across the field have gone undisturbed for centuries and mark the exact locations where the inexperienced American forces fought their final battle. Oh, the French...though they provided necessary assistance, chortled and offered to lift the Americans of their burden, for surely they were more fit to succeed in battle at such an important point of the war. But Lafayette tempered his troops and insisted that the Americans could and SHOULD fight this final battle on their own...and only in the event that they require assistance would the French step in. At one point in the battle General Lafayette asked after defeating a brigade of British soldiers, "We are done with ours, do you need help with yours?" But the Americans refused and the final battle was won by the American men...the fathers and brothers, the sons and the husbands who left their fields in order to fight for liberty. They were not a professional army...they were like you and me. The ordinary. They fought ruggedly...they were brilliant in their bravery...they were determined to live by the amazing Constitution that promised a government for the people, by the people. They were the people...the ones who made it happen.

I walked the grounds in silence, holding my husbands hand. Emotions washed over me as I watched my feet imprint the earth. I bent and touched the ground. Who fell here? Who fell in the name of liberty? I felt good about my citizenry. Whoever fell here did not die in vein. Myself and others like me understand full well the enormity of the gift they fought for...and I live my life in respect of the freedom they won.

How is adoption working for us?

I was visiting with a friend recently and we got onto the topic of adoption. I've learned over the years to be patient with the comments and questions people have about something we poured our hearts into...the decision to adopt. So here are some of the things people have said or asked:

Why Korea? (Why not? But there is a more serious answer too...which I'll share in another post later.)

Will you tell Gabe he's adopted? (Hmmm...methinks he will notice someday!)

Are you okay? (I assume, a question about my health and ability to bear a child. Yes...I was okay. And so was Dan.)

What do you think your kids will think? (Let's see...probably the same thing as if I was biologically having a child. Probably.)

Will we have to teach the child to speak english? (It was a serious question. Umm...well, I taught my Bio kids english, so why not. It beats me having to learn and teach the family Korean.)

How much did he cost? (Not a question I ever liked. Especially when asked in a Wal Mart store where Amercian made is cheeper. Let's just say that some people spend more on a car they trade a couple of years later. It was a matter of setting priorities.)

He's a lucky baby. (No...I'm the one who is blessed. No luck involved...divine blessing alone.)

Do you think you will love him the same...or maybe more than the others? (Makes it sound like a litter of kittens vs. a litter of puppies. I adore them all...just love them and since I don't think I should have to validate how much I love each of my children I'll refrain from explaning or validating how much I love Gabe.)

Will you let him meet his mom? (We refer to her as the Angel. She is our biggest hero...and yes...I'm completely unthreatened and pray that someday, if our son wants to, he will meet his birth mother. She blessed him with life, and blessed us to guide it...and those are blessings that cannot be repaid with an earthly reward.)

Don't you think it's a blessing that he looks a little like Dan? (Honestly, I never really think about what he looks like or needing to have him look like us at all, for that matter. He is a beautiful human being who is amazing to talk with (if you can get him to talk...he thinks more than he talks). Our hearts, on the other hand...how our hearts knit together...now that's amazing.)

So...these are only a few questions or comments I've gotten. Some have been outragious, like the man in Wal Mart...I had taken Gabriel to get his first picture taken about three days after we had held him for the first time. I was so proud of our baby boy. I took him to the Wal Mart studio and then picked up a few things in the store. Gabriel was in his carrier in the basket when I went through the line and an old man got in behind us. He looked down in my cart and caught a glimpse of Gabe and said, "Well...that one ain't American made!" I was speechless, trying to figure out if he was being insulting or trying to be funny. I smiled and said, "isn't he beautiful?" The man just smiled and said nothing more. There was another Wal Mart incident a couple of years later, when my babysitter took her daughter and Gabe who were the same age, and someone asked if they were twins. Well...she was very white with blond hair and Gabe was very Asian with black hair, so no. Not twins. But my sitter was very offended and actually dropped our son from her daycare because she was embarassed and didn't know how handled all the stupid questions. "You owe them nothing," I tried to assure her. But she couldn't handle it...which seemed very irrational to me.

The other day, I had a close friend ask if I was happy we adopted. How was it working out for us? Hmmm...have I ever asked someone if they were happy they decided to have children? Have I ever asked, "so...are those sleepless nights interfering with your ability to love that little baby, eh?" Unthinkable and substantially weak line of questions, isn't it? Would it even dawn on me to wonder such a thing? Honestly, no. But as we walked, I tried to hear the real question...I think she was asking if it was worth the risk?

You know, I just don't consider Gabriel and his place in our family as different from the rest of us. The subject of adoption has never been celebrated as a specific topic in our home, any more than the process of giving birth. It was a way to get to Gabe...just like there was a way to get to Zach and Miriah. It's a natural process...it just wasn't a biological one. I had to apply for Gabe, I had to pay funds in order to get him into my arms, I had to wait just like a pregnant mommy for him to be born, but then I had to wait for him to be officially assigned to me, and then I had to do what most biological moms don't; pray like crazy because he was halfway around the world in an area of Korea that was experiencing border wars. This caused the process of transporting the babies to America to be disrupted and we were anxious not only for his safety, but to raise him which was being done by a foster parent because the wars prevented him from being able to fly home to us. It was a spiritually challenging time. Trusting in God took on a whole new look for me as I gazed at the picture of my beautiful son and had to let God be his provider because my hands were so far away from him. My body was in America, my heart was in Korea.

I cried and cried, and called and called the agency. My...how sick of my voice they must have been. How much longer? When, when, when? Everyday they lovingly said, soon, soon, soon. Soon became a placating word but the only hope I really had. Soon, was certainly a better word than others. I had bad dreams of my baby crying for me and I was tied in a chair and couldn't reach out to him, I had a dream that someone in the airport picked up my baby in his carrier and left me wandering around trying to find him, I had a dream that the Korean woman who carried him off the plane decided I wasn't fit to be his mother and refused to hand him to me. All my fears became nightmares, and all my prayers became sob-fests of begging and pleading for my little boy to be brought quickly to me.

I remember being pregnant with my two older children. Glorious. Wonderful. But I had many of the same fears, and prior to each of their births I began to question my ability to raise them properly...and once they were here I was amazed at their beauty and their individual personalities, but so afraid I would somehow ruin them. Raising them well was my biggest challenge...but in each case the most wonderful adventure. Ironically, not one time did someone ask me if I was happy with my choice to have them. They treated me like a natural mom. But I have to say, that adopting my son was every bit as natural...and those natural connections didn't have to be intentionally made, they just were. When he came off the plane, he was smiling. I was crying like I had been spanked by the doctor! I reached for him, and he was mine. We cuddled, I put a bottle in his mouth, I changed him into clothes I had bought for him right in the airport. That baby was mine and he was going home in his new outfit just like the other two. We all huddled around him...and when we got to the hotel, he slept between his daddy and me and we stayed up early into the morning, counting fingers and toes, laughing, crying...thanking God. What a beautiful, natural thing to adopt our baby.

I'm not offended by the questions, but I do analyze them. I've found that people don't ask what they really want to know and that's probably because they feel odd even engaging in the conversation their curiosity forced them into. The best conversations I've had about our son has been with people who admit their curiosity and then we can delve into the reality of the experience and abandon the "topic". Those conversations are deep and aren't about the process as much as they are about the people. Those conversations end with me realize how much love God has for me and our family. How could he bless me with such a wonderful husband and three beautiful children without thinking I'm just amazing and deserve the best? I have it, so He must be thinking something about me that I can't comprehend. I don't know what I did to find His favor...but I pray it on others. My life is amazing because of the variety of powerful experiences I've had. I answer the question "Is adoption working out for us?" with a question. My question is, "did my adoption as a child of God bring about this wonderful gift?" Which I empatically answer, Yes!

Neat and Tidy...Groan...

I took a walk to get a cup of coffee at Casey’s this morning. I love living in a neighborhood where I can get out and walk to a business; any business…doesn’t matter. I care less and less for suburbia every day. I want people…all kinds. I want to pass them and wonder why they won’t look at me, or talk to them and walk away trying to figure out what the heck they just said, or joy upon joys…find something in common with someone that doesn’t look like me or live the way I live.

I love my new house. It’s warm and inviting and nicely situated in a good neighborhood with tons of friends for the kids and for us. But it’s still suburbia. I won’t go so far as to say that it isn’t reality…it’s real enough, it’s just so planned and neat and tidy. It makes me wonder what’s hidden. Hmmm…the squirrels in the back yard have taken a chunk of bird food coagulated in peanut butter and placed it in my pond. I’m almost excited, and wondering how strange I must be? My neat and tidy was just disrupted by a squirrel. Perhaps they were a gang who rivals the birds? The furs and the feathers fighting and disrespecting each others turf…and food. Now they’ve upset the goldfish in my pond so the war is spreading. Fish don’t like their water murked up by furs…I predict a large “scale” effort of retaliation is coming. It could get dangerous.

For as disruptive as the furs, feathers and fins are, the human condition in my neighborhood is neat and tidy and mostly good. Oh, people have their problems, no doubt, but they keep them safely stored inside pretty houses surrounded by manicured lawns, decorated by floribunda of every kind. It makes it so palatable. Life. Life is more palatable if it is frosted like a cupcake with sprinkles and a cherry on top. That’s my neighborhood. The streets are clean, the people drive pretty cars (yellow seems to be the color of choice here), and the people talk about one thing…their jobs. What do you do? What does your wife or husband do? What do I do? I’m cynically bored. I admit it. It Doesn’t matter who they are, they want to talk about what they do to make money. Even the kids—what does your dad do, what does your mom do? Groan and humph.

Why am I not satisfied? Why can’t I just accept this wonderful gift of calm and be happy with it? Around the world people are fighting to keep what they have, little as it might be. They fight to keep their children—in Kenya little boys are being abducted and forced to join militant groups. In other places, little girls are taken to serve as sex slaves. I should be grateful. But me…no…I walk in my bare feet when others wear shoes just to feel different. “I’m not like you…I’m an implant…just wanna make sure you know…by my feet…that I don’t belong here!” I wonder how they would react to seeing my dirty naked feet…when the street is so clean. “Hmm…how did her feet get that dirty in our neighborhood?”

How I would adore talking to someone who was as bored with neat and tidy as I am. Bobbles and trinkets mean nothing to me. I kinda feel sick looking at all my pretty things…I would rather look at people’s eyes. Try to figure out what is going on inside of them…I want to talk to people who want to talk about something other than how to make money. I want to hear about life; it’s realities from perspectives other than what I know so well. I want to learn to love all kinds of people for all kinds of reasons…see down into their souls and hear the echo of life from their wellspring. I want to be in touch with what is going on outside of my world. I’m just so worn from neat and tidy.