People ask me when I found out I was adopted. The first actual clear memory I have about that takes place on a Saturday morning in warm weather, probably around June. We had an old blanket chest in the front room of the house and in one of the drawers in the bottom was all kids of stuff crammed in there willy nilly. One of the things in there was an envelope that contained some reproductions of confderate money from days of the civil war. I was very much into the civil war and had read a few books about it when I was in second grade and I used to discuss it with my second grade teacher’s husband because he was a civil war buff. So this would have been when I was around eight years old. At any rate, I was rummaging around in that drawer looking for the confederate money to smell it because it had this very unusual old paper smell. The sun was coming in the window that faced Mrs. Westland’s field and it was streaming onto the bare wooden floor and I was sitting there on the floor looking into this drawer and I found some other papers and decided to look at them. They were papers from probate court about my adoption. The part I remember most was how the papers referred to me over and over as a minor child. I thought that meant "lesser" or "insignificant" like a minor event. That’s all I remember about it now.