I was born and raised in Los Angeles (a rarity, I realize), a talkative, happy child in a rather sad and quiet home. My Dad was an accountant who kept pretty much to himself, and who disappeared altogether for two months of every year during tax season. My first Mom (or so I thought...stay with me on this), what was very kind, though unfortunately she was sick most of the time and forced to spend a lot of time in bed. Grandma, who lived with us, was rather senile and prone to occasional angry outbursts in no particular language and for no apparent reason. Mom died just after my fourth birthday, and immediately after her death Dad destroyed all of her pictures and would not let me speak of her again (even at four I knew that was wrong). It wasn't until years later that I was given this, the only remaining picture of my first ( I thought) Mom, Bella. (The woman in the flowery dress is Bella, and that rather pudgy baby about to slip out of the man's lap next to her is me.)

But despite this drab, depressing, Dickensian beginning, I was a friendly little boy who loved stories and dressing up, and pretending I was one of those little people on television.

When I was five, Dad married who I thought briefly was my second Mom. Her name was Lillian Sacks, and she adopted me as her own. It was then that I learned that I had been adopted originally at birth, but as Mom (now three) explained, "That makes you even more special, because your parents chose you out of love." That made perfect sense to me, and I grew up not really wondering about my "real" parents, mainly because this Mom offered me all the love any child could ever need. She encouraged me in all my passions: piano lessons, writing, theatre.... I will always love my second Mom for her kindness, and for finding time for me despite her illness, but how lucky I am to have had someone as wonderful as Lillian to raise me. I was an only child and I got a lot of attention, which as a typical double Leo I craved constantly (not that I believe all that stuff!)….

When I was ten, my parents divorced and I went to live with Mom. Being adopted gave me the freedom to pick and choose my relatives. Some of Mom's friends were as loving as Aunts, while some of her blood relatives remained distant to me and were no more than adult acquaintances. But I thought that being adopted also gave me the right to make choices that would seem unthinkable if I were dealing with real relatives. One such choice happened right after my fourteenth birthday. Mom was very strict and I was rather wild (a bad, explosive mix). After one of many fights we had, usually about promptness, cleanliness or honesty (three traits I, not surprisingly, now treasure), I called my Dad, packed my stuff, and went to live with him, not talking to Mom for what turned into nine years. "So what if that hurt her?" I thought to myself, "She's not my ‘real’ Mom." I know now how very wrong I was, but I also know how young and confused I was at the time. Still, long after Lillian forgave me, I found it hard to fully forgive myself for how poorly I behaved.

It was during this period that my Dad told me the first details I had ever heard about my blood parents. He sat me down as if he had some horrible news to share with me and gently informed me that my biological mother wasn't Jewish (even though I was raised so), but a Christian woman from Ireland; not only that, but she and my biological father had never been married. He sat there, waiting for this news to sink in. He was not prepared for my reaction. "I'm an Irish Bastard?!" I shouted in glee. "Whee!!" I was ecstatic. All through Hebrew School, I had been told that I didn't look Jewish, and now at least I understood why. And Irish to boot! I had always had an affinity for all things British--all this time I had Irish blood and I never knew. To add to all of that, the idea that I was some kind of a "love child" was a very romantic notion to me. I was thrilled with the news, and began to love this unmarried Irish girl who gave birth to me and who made sure I ended up in a safe and secure home. But I saw that this joy on my part hurt my Dad, so I subconsciously decided right then not to ever bring up the subject with him again. Except for that one talk, Dad remained quiet and busy, so after high school I left home for a brief tour with a small circus (with the large name "Major Chumliegh's Amazing Traveling Circus and Combined Pandemonium Shadow Show"), traveling up and down the coast of California.

After a while I tired of touring (and having no money), so I ran away from the circus to go to college (California State University, Humboldt). I was really missing my Mom, but fear and pride kept me from seeing her, although I was sending her what I thought at the time were friendly, informative letters only to discover much later how frightened and lonely they sounded (of course, she kept them all).

When I was twenty-three, I felt man enough to face her again, and yet boy enough to admit to needing a Mom. I knew we could never get those nine years back, but if it were possible I wanted us to heal our relationship before the nine turned into ten and then forever. I called her up when I was in Los Angeles, and we set up a day to see each other again.

The first thing I noticed when she opened the door was how small she was; when I had last seen her she had been much taller than I. She also seemed to have aged much more than I thought possible in nine years. The separation had obviously been harder on her than I had imagined. But God bless her, she welcomed me back and after a good, long talk about guilt, responsibility, and regret, we agreed to try it again and to never bring up those lost nine years to each other. I vowed never to intentionally cause her any more pain, and had yet another reason not to go searching for my "real" parents. From that moment on, Mom and I became best friends, and remained so until her death on Christmas Eve in 1995. Dad had remarried a woman I could barely stand, so our relationship became distant yet civil, with very infrequent visits up until his death, also in 1995, four months before my Mom.

If anyone asked me if I was curious about my real parents, I would always make light of the subject, pointing to every older homeless man and saying, "there's my real Dad." I did, however, have a secret fantasy that I was afraid to disprove: that I was actually the secret love child of Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. After all, I sort of looked like him. So what if she wasn't born in Ireland, she did have Irish blood, they were never married, and neither of them made a movie the year I was born. Coincidence? (Yes, I'm afraid so….)

But in May of 1988, I married my best friend at the time, Karen, and the question of my biological family came up in earnest. We were thinking about having children and knowing my family's medical history seemed important. (We never did have children, and after nine years of marriage, Karen admitted to me that she didn't really want them. Her admission was surprising and left me feeling suddenly sad and alone as I still desperately wanted to be a father, and soon after that we split up, still good friends, but that's another story.) After a few years of talk (and much stalling on my part) I finally decided I would try to find out who my real folks were. I sat down and had a long talk with Mom, assuring her that I loved her and always would, but it was time to find out the truth. She left the room and came back moments later with an old envelope, handing it to me. "I knew one day you'd want this."

In the envelope was my original birth certificate and the names of my blood parents: Margaret Shaw (from Ireland) and Morris Littman (from Philadelphia)! Mom had had this information since I was a child, and probably would have kept it from me until she died unless, of course, I asked her for it. Amazing. With this information in hand, I contacted an organization called Parenting Research (their number is 714-669-8100) and spoke with a very nice woman named Pat Sanders whose recent success in finding her own biological parents had inspired her to create this service. She explained to me that for a fee (it was $500 at the time and may be more now), her staff would research all records here and in Philadelphia and, without making any promises, would try to find the present location of my biological parents within four to six months. I told her all I knew and sent her a check. Four months later, she called back saying something I thought I'd never hear:

"Good news! We found your parents!"

My whole body went numb as she went on to explain that my mother had lived in San Diego and had died in 1979, and that my father was still very much alive and owned a bar not far from his home in the city of Orange (about thirty miles south of Los Angeles). Then she gave me his phone number. I wrote the number down, feeling part elation, part terror as she went on to prepare me not to expect anything to come of this. Many parents of adopted children want nothing more to do with them. It could all turn out fine, but I should be ready for him to refuse any further contact or, even worse, deny the whole thing. I heard her words, but all I could concentrate on was the piece of paper with my father’s phone number on it. She had one final instruction: "Make sure you speak only to him about this. If anyone else answers the phone, do not tell them why you are calling. This is very important." I promised her I would speak only to him, thanked her a thousand times, and hung up. My father! I stood over the phone for a good five minutes before I finally picked up the receiver, and slowly began to dial….

"Hello?" It was a woman's voice.

"Hello. Is Morris Littman there, please?"

"Who is this?"

"This is Sandey Grinn. May I speak with Morris Littman, please?"

"Not until you tell me what this is all about."

"Uh…it's really something I need to speak with him about. It's kind of personal. Is he there?" (By this time, Karen is yelling from the kitchen not to say anything to anyone.)

"Well, he may be here, but you're not going to speak to him until you tell me what you want with him."

Great. Now what, Pam? I decided I had no choice but to spill it all to this woman.

"Well, I'm adopted, and I recently hired an agency to locate my biological parents, and their information seems to suggest that Morris may actually be my real father." There. I had done it. I heard the phone drop and what followed was complete silence on the line for what seemed an eternity until finally the phone on that end was picked up and a man's voice spoke.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Morris Littman?"

The man laughed--a hearty, deep laugh. "No one calls me Morris any more! The name's Marty. Who am I speaking to?"

I told him who I was and the whole story, and asked if he remembered a Margaret Shaw. He said no, and it didn't seem like he was hiding anything. I believed him.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said.

"Well, would you mind horribly if my wife Karen and I came down to your bar one night, just to say hello? I mean, wouldn't it be a kick if we looked alike?"

He laughed again. I liked his laugh. "Yeah, that would be something. Sure, come on down, and you and your wife can have a couple of drinks on me."

"That'll be great, but...uh...l don't drink."

He thought this last bit of news was hysterical. "Then I know we're not related!" (What I didn't mention to him at the time was that I had been sober for seven years, and that before then I could have passed at least this particular paternal test with flying colors!)

We arranged to go down to his bar, MARTY'S COCKTAILS (in Orange) the following night. There was something about his voice, his humor, his willingness to see us--all of this made me very excited and optimistic, despite the fact that he didn't seem to remember my mother.

We walked into the bar, a smoky, neighborhood place with a pool table, dart boards and neon beer ads on every wall. I walked up to the bar and made contact with the bartender--a rather large, brunette woman. Even though we looked nothing alike, I felt for the first time in my life (for reasons I didn’t understand at the moment) that I very possibly was looking into the eyes of a blood relative…and, as I found out later, I was. It was my half-sister, Jill.

"Hi, I'm Sandey Grinn. Is Marty here?"

"Oh. Hi, I'm Jill, the one on the phone. No one calls him Morris any more."

"I know. He told me."

"He told me to call him when you got here. Don't worry. We live real close."

We sat and waited. A few men entered, but I knew they weren't him. Then a large, bald, barrel-chested man strolled in, and began hugging and/or patting everyone in the bar. "See? He's a hugger, just like me," I whispered to Karen, and before she could warn me again about getting my hopes up, he turned and faced us. I swear I was looking at myself at seventy. "You must be Karen," he said warmly. Then he looked at me. "And obviously you are Sandey."

"It's nice to meet you, Marty." We shook hands and stood there a moment, two sets of the same blue eyes staring at each other.

He laughed and put his arm around my shoulder. "We should talk." He walked us into the bar's back room, where his wife was going over some papers. We introduced ourselves and then he asked to hear the story again. As I repeated what I had told him on the phone, I couldn't help but notice that he and I were sitting in exactly the same position. I think he might have noticed it too; he shifted. When he was finished, he leaned back and smiled. "You know, I did know a girl named Peggy around that time, but I never knew her last name."

I sensed that, while in that back room, both Karen and Marty's wife Barbara were staring at the two of us as we spoke, each trying to decide for themselves if this was indeed a possibility. He and Barbara had been married for over twenty-five years, and I could tell that she was not welcoming this potential ghost of her husband’s wild past. She seemed even more surprised when he went on to say that he had some pictures of Peggy at the house and invited us back there to see them.

We followed them to their house where he took out an old photo album, opened it to about the middle and removed two old snapshots, handing them to me. "This is your mother."

My God! What a feeling, looking at these old snapshots of a pretty young girl I had never known, and trying to accept the possibility that this stranger was indeed my mother. My mind fought it. This isn't my mother! Lillian is my mother! And yet, I could see me in her face, and part of me knew that yes, this was she.

He told us about Peggy. He had been married, living in Philadelphia with his wife and young son (I have an older brother!?). The marriage had long since turned ugly, and he had finally asked for a divorce. He had planned to settle the breakup as quickly as possible, and then to drive across the country, eventually to end up in Los Angeles where he would start his life anew. While in Philly, he had met a "fun girl" named Peggy, and when he had told her his plans, she had asked to come along. For six months, they had driven around the country, usually in a westward direction, drinking and playing as they went.

He stopped his story, pulled out a matchbook from the album and handed it to me. There was a photo on the matchbook that had been taken in Las Vegas—it was the only picture of the two of them together. (I made copies, enlarged it, and returned the matchbook to him. If this was the only picture of my parents, I was not going to trust it to a single copy!)

"So, what happened after Vegas?"

"Nothing. We came to Los Angeles, and pretty much went our separate ways." What Marty didn't realize was that Peggy had become pregnant during their travels, and when the baby was born (me), she wrote down Marty’s name as the father. So he really hadn't been denying any of this on the phone--he honestly hadn’t known.

He suggested that we take a DNA test to find out for sure. We got together the following week, gave blood, and a week after that I got a call from him. "Well, Sandey, I just got the test results back."

"Is it good news or bad news?" I asked.

"Well, I guess that depends on your point of view...SON."

...I thought it was very good news indeed.

(If the results of the test show a probability of anything over 97%, we would be considered legally related. Our test came back showing a probability of 99.6%, proving that we could legally be considered the same person!)

I told my adoptive Dad the news. He told me he understood how I might be curious, and then obviously didn't want to speak of it any more. I realized then (or came to accept something I had always known) that we had never really talked about anything, and part of me was looking to find a real father who would treat me like a real son, whatever that might mean.

Mom took the news harder. Of course she was happy for me, for us, but she told me that she was worried that she was now going to be replaced by my "real" family. Still, I had discovered (or had always known) that LOVE can prove thicker than blood. She was my Mom, and always would be. I made sure to invite her when next we went to visit my bio-clan, and that proved valuable to us all. They got to meet the parent who had raised me, and saw how close we were, and she got to see a group of good people who weren't out to take over her role as Mom.

On this visit, aside from seeing my sister Jill again, I got to meet my "baby" sister, Terri (who towers over me!). Although both Terri and Barbara had always been very nice to me, both had seemed rather uncomfortable with the whole situation. Pop (as I came to call him, since I had known someone else as Dad all of my life) and Jill were both fine, although both had acknowledged the oddness of it all. It took about six months for everyone to feel all right about the new addition into the family. Barbara eventually shared with me that Pop had been quite ill the year before, and she was being especially cautious and protective of his well being. It was totally understandable, of course, to be suspicious of a stranger showing up so suddenly. I mean, who was I? What did I want of them? When it finally became clear that I had no private motives or purpose other than finding my family, she began to relax, and she and I became very close.

Terri’s fears were more simple--she had been afraid I would take away her father’s love. Then the family came to see me in a play (one I had also written) called "Couples, a comedy...." The play consists of nine two-person one-acts performed by seven actors. One of the pieces I performed in was called "Father's Day," which reflected pretty much exactly how I felt meeting my father. Afterwards, Terri came up to me crying, hugged me, and told me that she understood why I was there, and was very proud of her big brother. Being an only child all of my life, it is impossible to convey how amazing it is to hear something like that.

Meeting my blood family has been a tremendous blessing, and without Marty and Barbara's love and support, I don't know how I could have survived the loss of both my adopted parents within a four-month period. I know that not all adopted children’s stories end up as positive as mine, and I am so very grateful it all turned out as well as it did. But even if our meeting had been limited to that one night in the bar, I think it would still have been worth the trouble. Seeing where you came from (genetically) instantly puts a great deal into perspective, so I do recommend the effort. If you are considering this, just be warned that emotions will run high from everyone involved in this process. It is a truly vulnerable time for all concerned, so be careful, be compassionate, and good luck in your search.