My parents moved to a sliver of farmland in Indiana in 1974. I was four. They were 27.
Within three years, when I was seven, they had crafted a greenhouse business in the middle of nowhere, from an improbable notion, and an incomprehensible amount of something I can only describe as gusto and a stubborn refusal to quit.
The greenhouses in 1977 – the metal roofed barn in the foreground would burn down shortly after this photo
My parents would soon begin the process of remodeling the house that lurked behind the trees between the greenhouse and the barn. Within two years, they will have adopted my brothers. Before they turned 32, they would have three children between the ages of 6 and 9. They will have the business, all the needy plants, employees, and customers within it, a crumbling house to repair, a multitude of critters to care for (both known and stowawayed), not to mention their own mental and spiritual health to attend.
By the age of 32, I had mostly steady employment, a recent husband, three living cats, and a flexible living situation. And I was in regular therapy.
Now, at 48, my eldest son has turned 13, and my youngest son has turned seven. He is roughly the same age that I would have been when the adoption conversation was beginning. When my parents were considering taking on additional challenges.
The situations are incomparable; yet I marvel that my parents managed so much with so little when I have a surplus of assistance and theoretical maturity, and yet I am ragged by a desk job and self-sufficient children. I lift my hat to them.