Adoption Alaska-style

KidsTheseDays.org is pleased to present this weekly serial from writer, Shirley Kurth Schneider. Shirley and her husband moved to Alaska in 1962 and in 1965 they broke ground on a rustic two-story cabin, located off the grid just outside Fairbanks. It was the same year that they decided to adopt a baby. Adoption: Alaska-style is Shirley's story about becoming a mother in rural 1960's Alaska, excerpted from her memoir-in-progress and presented here in five parts. Read parts 1-4

My pulse echoed in my ears. My chest felt as though it were too tight for all the activity going on inside. Warm moisture dampened the palms of my hands, threatening to interfere with my grasp on the handle of my coffee cup.

If we received a negative answer, I was going to play the innocent, uninformed, repentant role. I intended to convince this person, who held my life in her hands, I had never heard of an adoption regulation in my lifetime. Ever! Surely, if we had made our decision to move into the basement based on lack of knowledge, in ignorance of the rules, the State had to give us an opportunity to correct that mistake. Didn’t they?

In an exaggerated, unhurried manner, the social worker leaned forward to set her dessert plate on the coffee table. Then she leaned back into her chair, holding her coffee cup.

“If this were any other state than Alaska, I would recommend denial of the right to adopt. However, I live in Alaska. I know people live by a different standard. Christopher appears to be a happy child. He shows every sign of meeting the social, physical, and psychological level one would expect to see in a child his age. Therefore, I am going to give my approval to adopt.”

My coffee cup began to shake on the saucer, and I lost control of my breathing pattern. I wanted to ask her to repeat herself. I wanted to hear it again, every syllable, every word, every sentence. The previous seventy-two hours of torment crashed down upon my shoulders. I felt as though I had labored for hours without pause. I could do little more than smile through my tears. I grasped Larry’s hand. Christopher leaned on the edge of the coffee table, and, tipping his head to the side, began to produce one of his affecting belly laughs. He grasped the coffee table and bobbed up and down, giggling at the three of us.

The SS lady continued. “I recommend you provide the child with his own bedroom as soon as possible.”

Before departing, she took the liberty of presenting the basic regulations covering State adoptions, just in case we decided to adopt again. Then she wished us a speedy completion of our dwelling. Someone offered her another cup of coffee. She declined. Someone retrieved her coat from the bedroom and walked her to the door. An offer to drive her back to the office was made and the door was closed behind her.

Larry’s voice was still audible from inside the garage as I began to remove cups and saucers from the living room. I placed the dessert dishes beneath the cover over the sinks, listening for silence. When I was certain they had climbed the crest of the driveway, I scooped Christopher into my arms. We hugged as the two of us danced around the table, across the cheap linoleum covering the cement kitchen floor, under the potholed insulation, onto the braided rug that lay over the army-blanket padding. In exhausted jubilation I tumbled down upon the floor, and we rolled around together.

“You are my son. My son, Christopher,” I said as my kisses messed the soft wave of dark curls covering his forehead. Christopher giggled and uttered indecipherable syllables as he hugged me in return.

That evening, noticing Larry had stretched out on the couch, I walked over and shoved his feet toward the edge, curling my legs beneath me as I sat.

I was feeling testy because I knew we could have saved ourselves the emotional trauma. Not having adopted before was no excuse, and I knew it. This afternoon had proven that although Alaska may not regulate the home-building process in the borough, they were pretty serious about adoptions.

“When we adopt a little girl,” I said in a most challenging manner, “the house needs to be finished. I am not going through this hell again.”

“Okay, Schneider, okay. It wasn’t much fun for me, either. We’ll finish the house before we get him a sister.”

Though I was legitimately angry with Larry, I was also upset with myself. When I had realized the house-building project wasn’t going to be completed in one summer, it would have been wise of me to check State regulations and follow up on them.

I knew Social Services’ probationary period was there to protect the child, possibly even allowing for slip-ups to be mended. I also knew that during that probationary period, a bond was created that could break hearts if severed.

The next afternoon, sitting on the couch with Christopher’s baby-book, I passed my hand over the plastic nametag from the hospital, a copy of his birth announcement, cards extending congratulations, and the record of his baptism. Then I found what I was seeking. I read aloud a portion of the poem I’d clipped from a magazine shortly after we brought him home.

It said: Not of my womb, but of my heart.

KidsTheseDays.org is pleased to present this weekly serial from writer, Shirley Kurth Schneider. Shirley and her husband moved to Alaska in 1962 and in 1965 they broke ground on a rustic two-story cabin, located off the grid just outside Fairbanks. It was the same year that they decided to adopt a baby. Adoption: Alaska-style is Shirley's story about becoming a mother in rural 1960's Alaska, excerpted from her memoir-in-progress and presented here in five parts. Read parts 1, 2 & 3

Somehow, I made it through the afternoon and early evening. When it was time to retrieve Larry from work, I dressed Christopher in his snowsuit and, hugging him tightly, climbed the 16-percent-grade driveway to the car.

Pulling up in front of the building where Larry worked, I waited for him to appear in the doorway. When he slid into the passenger’s seat I shoved the letter at him, scarcely allowing him time to close the door before I began to weep.

“Hush, Shirley. Calm down. Give me time to read this,” he said in a soft, admonishing tone.

But I couldn’t calm down.

“They’re going to want him to have his own bedroom,” I sputtered. “Larry we have to scrub the walls.”

“Don’t worry, Shirley, we will,” Larry said, holding the letter in his hand as he stared out the windshield.

There wasn’t anything else to say. Except for the sound of my sobbing, we rode home in silence. Christopher sat quietly in his car seat between us. Occasionally, he reached out, tugging on one of our parkas, but there was none of his usual baby talk or laughter.

After dinner, Larry and I attempted to clean the walls in the kitchen. We may as well have saved ourselves the effort. It was still too cold to open the windows and therefore unsafe to use a stronger, more toxic cleaning solution, but the Spic and Span cleaner again proved worthless. Hours of scrubbing did little to change the walls’ appearance.

The next day, with my heart in my throat and Christopher in my arms, I arrived at Myrnie’s house. A barrage of words and a stream of tears followed my step over the threshold. She listened patiently as I described our dilemma. Then she encouraged me to use her phone to place a call to the Department of Social Services and schedule a family interview. I took her advice, figuring nothing could be worse than not knowing. I arranged with Social Services to meet their representative at the office and bring her out to our home three days later.

Although it wasn’t worth my effort, I continued to scrub the logs. Keeping myself busy saved me from jumping out of my skin. There was nothing Larry could say to ease my worry. In appeasement, he often joined me at the wall.

Finally, the day arrived. I was relieved when Larry left to collect our guest. However, he hadn’t been gone five minutes before I felt deserted and more afraid. I moved restlessly about the house.

Coffee cups sat on saucers next to the silver tea and coffee service. Damask napkins lay ready and waiting on the kitchen counter, beside a cake piled high with seven-minute frosting. My silver cake server and the forks from the silver chest lay next to the dessert plates. The scene was set.

I dressed Christopher in a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of black velvet knee-length pants with flower-embroidered shoulder straps. We played “This little piggy went to market” on his toes before I slipped on a pair of white knee socks and his first pair of ankle-high shoes.

When the dogs alerted me to Larry’s return, I grabbed Christopher up into my arms and waited for the two of them to enter the house. With pretended composure, I invited the SS woman to join us in the living room. I put Christopher down to take her coat. Guardedly, while Larry engaged her in conversation, I watched her eyeballs move about in their sockets, giving the place a once-over. After offering her cake and coffee, I joined Larry on the couch.

While she and Larry ate, I watched as Christopher, with broad smile and dark eyes flashing, crawled up to the coffee table. From the moment she walked through the door, he had begun to flirt with her. Now he pulled himself upright and, leaning toward our visitor, laughed in beguiling manner before withdrawing to the security of my embrace.

Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Larry asked.

“Well, what do you think? Are you going to recommend granting permanent adoption?”

Read the final installment - Part 5: The Decision

KidsTheseDays.org is pleased to present this weekly serial from writer, Shirley Kurth Schneider. Shirley and her husband moved to Alaska in 1962 and in 1965 they broke ground on a rustic two-story cabin, located off the grid just outside Fairbanks. It was the same year that they decided to adopt a baby. Adoption: Alaska-style is Shirley's story about becoming a mother in rural 1960's Alaska, excerpted from her memoir-in-progress and presented here in five parts. Read Part 1, Read Part 2

On October 31, 1965, we moved into a 25-by-30-foot empty log enclosure. I had done everything possible to create a safe home for Christopher. Although we had no plumbing, a one-seater outhouse served as our toilet, and friends offered use of their bathing facilities. Christopher had his potty chair and portable plastic bathtub.

Heat was provided by a very efficient double-barrel wood stove, constructed from two fifty-gallon oil drums and backed up by an oil space heater.
Everything in our home was secondhand. Because we lacked electricity, the refrigerator served as a storage unit for my cook wear and numerous other items I could not find room for. The top of our small china cupboard held our dishes and glassware, the drawer held our everyday silverware and other cooking appliances, and the bottom shelf kept our dry goods behind closed doors, safe from shrews that occasionally found a way in.

Two sinks on the kitchen were covered with a removable panel, so I could use the top to prepare food. A propane lantern hung above the large kitchen table covered with oilcloth.

In one corner, the frame Larry had built for Christopher’s bassinette now held the water pail and hand-washing pan. A layer of black roofing paper covered with layers of army blankets and a braided rug defined Christopher’s play area. Christopher’s crib, our dresser, and the bed designated our bedroom area. The ceiling was covered with bright, tinfoil-backed strips of Owens Corning insulation stapled onto the supporting two-by-tens. The rocky surface of the kitchen floor was covered with linoleum. The rest of the floor was naked cement.

Although humble, it was our home, and there was much in my world that was satisfying. Christopher and I were awakened in the morning by sunlight shining through the big window in the kitchen rather than the jarring sound of an alarm clock. The smell of dinner permeating the house in the evening didn’t have to compete with noxious odors of a city subdivision.

Because the driveway was often too difficult for the station wagon to maneuver, we parked the car on Steele Creek Road and carried our son, groceries, our ten-gallon-a-day water supply, laundry, the hundred-pound propane tank, and oil for the space heater to the house on a trail through the woods. It was grueling, but I grew to love this walk. Frost-covered trees and a heaven full of gently flowing northern lights could erase the annoyance of a misstep that sent one tumbling or grocery bags that broke halfway up the trail.

Evenings accented our tranquility as Larry and I each hugged an end of the couch, leaning forward as we read by lamplight, the assuring click, click, click of the fire pot warming up in the space.

Thanksgiving was approaching, and I was preparing to travel to Wisconsin to introduce Larry’s folks and my mother to their new grandson. I’d spent the morning running errands in Fairbanks in preparation for the trip, stopping at the post office to retrieve a registered letter. Christopher and I had eaten lunch at home, and while he took his afternoon nap, I settled myself on the couch to go through the mail. When signing for the letter, I hadn’t examined the address. Now, I saw it had been sent by State Social Services.

As I read through the sentences, shivers of fear swept down my spine. Social Services had been trying to contact us. Unable to find a current telephone listing, they had sent the registered letter. We were to contact the local Social Service office as soon as possible. A State social worker had to inspect Christopher’s living environment and his development. Only after receiving that report would the court be able to rule on permanent adoption.

Looking around the 25-by-30-foot rectangle, my handiwork lost a lot of its appeal. Now I wished I had cleaned the walls. Really cleaned them, not just removed the surface dirt with a Spic and Span solution. Above me, the purposely inflicted holes in the foil-covered padding, made to keep pockets of snowmelt from tearing the sheets of insulation, seemed to have multiplied. The linoleum looked dirty, although I scrubbed it daily.

There was no doubt in my mind our living conditions could have a negative effect on the adoption. I could not face the possibility of losing Christopher. I would die if they took this child away from me, my son, whom I had mothered for nearly eight months.

Rising from the couch, I walked over to his crib. I picked up my slumbering son and cuddled him to my chest. I situated him carefully upon the bed and reached down for the folded blanket. Huddled beneath its warmth, Christopher, unaware of my terror, slept in my arms as I listened to his peaceful breathing. His sweet baby bouquet filled my nostrils.

Though we did not meet the minimal standards set down in that pamphlet tucked inside that church bulletin, I did not believe our outmoded living conditions negatively affected Christopher. According to my Dr. Spock advice manual, he met the measured stages of infant development. He was adored, at home and by our friends. He was a healthy child, escaping the ear infections and colds so typical of many small children. He hadn’t suffered a major illness since the case of measles he had contracted when we lived in town under modern conditions. But Social Services wouldn’t give a damn about that. They cared about separate bedrooms, a domestic water supply, flushing toilets, and electricity. All the physical trappings of civilization Larry thought we had time to acquire.

Read Part 4: The Interview

KidsTheseDays.org is pleased to present this weekly serial from writer, Shirley Kurth Schneider. Shirley and her husband moved to Alaska in 1962 and in 1965 they broke ground on a rustic two-story cabin, located off the grid just outside Fairbanks. It was the same year that they decided to adopt a baby. Adoption: Alaska-style is Shirley's story about becoming a mother in rural 1960's Alaska, excerpted from her memoir-in-progress and presented here in five parts. Read Part 1: Placing the Order

March arrived. One evening, Larry invited me along for a ride in the country to take our dogs for a run. He steered the station wagon onto the Steese Highway up a dirt road. A couple of hills and a few curves later, having reached a level spot, he pulled the wagon over, announcing as he did so the purchase of the tree-covered property, as well as his intention to self-build our home.

Although we hadn’t discussed it specifically, I’d presumed we would purchase a home in one of the subdivisions once we had built up our savings. Now, on the verge of an adoption, both of us working full time, he wanted to self-build a home on land void of electricity, in a country where spring arrived in late April and temperatures began to steadily drop by August to lows in the negative forties midwinter. I was more than a little upset.

“No!” I said, “I won’t live out here. No, no, no!” Tears flowed down my cheeks and angry words rushed from my lips.

“We can do it, Schneider,” he insisted. “Lots of people in Alaska build their own homes.”

Although I felt strongly that my willingness to return to Alaska hadn’t included an invitation for my husband to locate us out in the middle of the tundra, Larry had already bought the land and made the decision. To reverse that decision, I would have had to take a stand I was not ready to take, possibly risking divorce. My heart said no, but eventually I acquiesced. We would continue to live in our apartment until our new home was complete enough for us to move in.

In April, the phone finally rang. I had prepared for this moment. The nursery was ready. Stacks of washed flannel diapers, sleepers, blankets, and numerous baby clothes filled the dresser drawers. Baby-care items were assembled on its top, next to a copy of Dr. Spock’s manual. Brightly decorated birds dangled at the end of their strings on a mobile suspended over the crib. Downstairs in the tiny kitchen, one counter had been designated for the baby’s use only, the surface covered with sterilized bottles, formula, and assorted baby paraphernalia.

The blue wool suit I would welcome our son home in hung in my closet, sales tags still attached.

We went to the hospital to meet our baby. Peering through the window of the nursery, I watched as the nurse dropped the blankets from around the infant to reveal a pair of skinny legs and arms. As if to reassure us, she laid his thin fingers over one of her own and placed his feet at a viewable angle. All toes and fingers accounted for. I noticed a small scratch over his left eyebrow and eyelid. At that moment, I took emotional possession of my son, sending a silent message toward him. Hi Christopher, I said. I am your mother!

In the first days, I responded to his tearful demands with rapid heartbeat, uncertain of my ability to identify the reason for his discomfort. However, as the days turned into months, my self-assurance increased on par with my adoration. There was no task related to the baby’s care I did not either welcome or gracefully accept. I tolerated 3:00 a.m. feedings and unexpected spit-ups on dry-clean-only apparel, even the rinsing of extremely messy diapers. And, although I’d arranged to continue working after the adoption, I decided I didn’t want a hired babysitter to raise my child.

The only time I spent away from Christopher was the time I spent with my husband, building our log home. During those times, he spent the day with my best friend, Myrnie, whose daughter, Cindy, helped babysit.

Self-building was a massive undertaking leaving no time for play, trips to the movies, or dinners out. Because we could not afford to build and to continue renting, we had to make the house livable before winter. From late May, when the bulldozer cut through the virgin soil to clear the home site, to October 25, when we covered the last inches of the basement roof with black roofing paper, we worked, elbow to elbow, toward the moment of occupancy.

Read Part 3: Moving In & The Dreaded Letter

KidsTheseDays.org is pleased to present a new, weekly serial from writer, Shirley Kurth Schneider. Shirley and her husband moved to Alaska in 1962 and in 1965 they broke ground on a rustic two-story cabin, located off the grid just outside Fairbanks. It was the same year that they decided to adopt a baby. Adoption: Alaska-style is Shirley's story about becoming a mother in rural 1960's Alaska, excerpted from her memoir-in-progress and presented here in five parts.

I knew how adoptions were handled in the lower forty-eight because when my husband and I lived in Illinois a Sunday church bulletin had included an informational pamphlet. Hopeful parents faced a long, scrutinizing process, including the provision that children be provided with their own bedroom.

As an Alaskan resident, I became aware of how our state initiated adoptions during a dinner, at the invitation of the Laiders, a couple my husband and I had known for years, to introduce us to the latest member of their family, an adopted baby girl named Carol.

As expected, the conversation that evening centered on adoption, Alaska style. According to Mary and Jim, the process was pretty cut and dried.

“There’s no long waiting period, no lengthy interviews, and they don’t care how old you are or whether you own a home,” Mary said.

I gazed around their rented apartment. They lived in the heart of downtown Fairbanks, in the tallest apartment complex, situated over commercial shops known as the Ice Castle because, during the winter, the building was surrounded by the ice fog that lay heavy over the city. Since our last visit, their apartment had become a suite after Mary convinced the building’s super to remove a wall separating the empty apartment next door. The remodel had doubled their space, providing room for a generous-sized nursery for little Carol as well as a private bedroom, with bath, for their teenage daughter, Debra. All rooms were tastefully furnished.

We were renting a furnished two-bedroom house in a family-oriented subdivision. The house was indistinguishable from the others with the exception of our backyard holding a doghouse rather than a swing set. A pair of sheer, bright white Priscilla curtains crisscrossing the bay window in the living area helped soften the room’s dark paneling, dull brown carpeting, and bland furnishings.

“It’s easy, amazingly easy,” Mary said. She and Jim chortled as they fidgeted and cooed over the drowsy infant in Mary’s arms. “You simply must do it.”

I had endured three miscarriages by this time. But, even though they were physically painful, I wasn’t especially baby-hungry, and as such, they disheartened my husband more than me. For Larry, fatherhood validated his manhood. For me, motherhood held a different significance. I had experienced the humbling pleasure of a child’s trust under my care, the touch of a child’s slumbering breath kissing the nape of my neck. I simply wanted to feel that with my own child.

We placed the order. My only request was that the infant be healthy. Sex, race, and family characteristics were a non-issue.

As we waited for the phone call announcing our baby’s birth, I spent my days working as office manager for a grocery wholesaler. My desire to complete my teaching certification had been put on hold because Larry, who wanted a stay-at-home wife, viewed my present job as temporary, a way to boost our savings account, which had taken quite a hit because of our move to Alaska.

During the weekends, I toured the infant departments of local shops. In most cases, it was the first time I’d entered these shops, and my frequent presence there was the only tangible proof of our decision to adopt. As I sorted through the tiny garments on the racks and tables, I chuckled, wondering, How would this clerk respond if I were to announce my impending motherhood? Would she ask, as one of my coworkers had, where I was hiding it?

Evenings, I washed and folded diapers and baby apparel. I hand-sewed a skirt for the bassinette. The house didn’t feel as dull and empty now that the spare bedroom was being shaped into a nursery. In the meantime, Larry was doing a bit of touring himself, examining available home sites for sale in the borough...

Read Part 2: Building and Baby