Whatever happened to Leslie King, Jr?
He grew up to be president of the United States, but we know him as Gerald R. Ford, Jr. Mr. Ford’s mother left his father (who was said to be abusive) 16 days after little Leslie’s birth. Two years later, she married Gerald Ford, Sr. and though the future president was never formally adopted, he changed his name to reflect the shift in family.
I got to thinking about this when I saw a reference to Newton MacPherson, now known as Newt Gingrich. Mr. Gingrich’s mother wed at 16 just long enough to get pregnant, left her husband and married Robert Gingrich, who adopted Newt, a few years later.
Mr. Gingrich is trying to usher Barack Obama into unemployment. Mr. Obama, we all know, grew up a black kid in a white family, his African father leaving shortly after Mr. Obama’s birth. His name, including the middle name Hussain, stayed the same, but he later wrote of the pain and dislocation caused by the absence of Barack senior.
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The Christmas You Get
Last weekend I realized I’m heading into my 51st Christmas. Not that I don’t have 50 of every other day of the year under my belt, but we tend to remember holidays in ways the third Thursday of April can’t match.
As I began remembering Christmases, I wondered how many years could I pin to a specific memory, how many could I put in order. (Another thought: does it really matter?) I mentioned this to Adrienne and some friends and if nothing else, it’s a great conversation starter. “That was the Christmas that….”
I have no memory of my first Christmas, although there is a home movie of me, just up on wobbly legs, suddenly sitting down and crushing a model gas station my father painstakingly assembled the previous evening. (Even then, it seems, I had it in for oil companies.)
Nineteen sixty-six was the year I managed to remove a fingertip in a kindergarten accident. I remember staring through a window in the surgeon’s office at the image of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on top of Rochester General Hospital, trying not to cry as the dressing on the wound was changed. I do not associate Rudolph’s image with pain, which must be some sort of Christmas magic.
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