Chapter 1 - In the Beginning

January 25, 1954, in upstate New York was another gloomy and frigid winter day. In downtown Rochester, piles of icy snow, filthy from automobile exhaust, road salt, and sand, lined the sidewalks.

As Mrs. Slora, owner of Saeger’s Grill, the neighborhood bar and restaurant located at 218 Clinton Avenue North, tended to her chores inside, she saw a young woman enter through the bar’s side door. Dressed in a long, black coat and a flowered kerchief tied around her head, she appeared very tired. As the young woman headed directly toward the restroom, Mrs. Slora noticed that she was carrying a brown paper bag.

After several minutes had passed, Mrs. Slora realized she’d not seen the woman come out of the restroom. Thinking there might be a problem, Mrs. Slora hurried over to find out if she could help. But when she opened the restroom door, the woman was not to be found.

What she did find, however, was the paper sack the woman had been carrying. It had been placed on the lid of the toilet seat. Mrs. Slora walked over and peered inside the bag. To her utter dismay, she saw a tiny infant, sleeping peacefully.

Bits of dark brown hair flared out from beneath the blanket in which the child had been wrapped. As gently as possible, Mrs. Slora removed the tiny bundle, unwrapped the blanket, and saw that the abandoned infant was a baby girl.

The police came quickly after Mrs. Slora’s phone call. Detective James Martin immediately sent the foundling to Genesee Hospital. Nurses took over. The baby, they reported, appeared to be in good health. In a few days, they would turn her over to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. Soon, SPCC director, Guy D. Harris, reported that his agency would be joining in the police investigation to find the foundling’s mother.

Although not front-page news, the abandoned baby rated high in human interest and ran in the following day’s paper.

While reading the January 26, morning edition of the Democrat and Chronicle newspaper over breakfast, Betty blurted out, “Bob, look, here in the paper.” She pointed with enthusiasm to an article. “Now there’s a little girl that needs a home. Why can’t we have her?”

Bob leaned over his eggs and toast and quickly read the article showing a photo of an infant girl with dark brown hair resting in the arms of a nurse. Somewhat emotionless, he replied, “Why, that is quite a story. Honey, I don’t know why we can’t have her.” And he went back to reading the business section.

Betty looked at him with frustration. Was that it? He had nothing more to say on the matter? She was distraught and pulled the paper back to her chest. She sat in silence staring at the little face of the baby being fed a bottle by a nurse. Betty’s heart sank as she thought of herself. Will I ever have a little girl of my own? And she felt sad for the little girl. Who would abandon such a beautiful child?

She continued drinking her black coffee and turned the page to read an article that the Supreme Court had ruled that race-based segregation in schools is unconstitutional. That was the only thing that pleased Betty that morning.

The article said the infant had been crying “lustily.” The caption of the photo of the baby being fed read: “WHOSE? Foundling girl, abandoned in rest room, finds solace in bottle offered by Nurse Ruth Lyon in Genesee Hospital. Investigators seek baby’s mother.”

At the hospital, doctors identified Mediterranean traits and ordered numerous blood tests to see if they could verify the baby’s nationality. The results were inconclusive. The authorities determined that the female baby was approximately two to four days old, so when they created her birth certificate, they dated it January 23, 1954. They named the foundling Jane Churchill.

So there it is, my entrance into society! Oh, but wasn’t I one lucky babe! I had a birth mother who so clearly wanted me to be found. I shudder to think of all the unwanted babies who in those days would be discovered in a trash barrel or, if that was not despicable enough, weighted down by a rock at the bottom of a body of water.

Not only had I been found alive and sleeping peacefully in a dry, warm place, but also, the authorities had blessed me with quite a distinguished last name. (I later learned that the great Sir Winston Churchill, UK’s prime minister at the time, turned eighty years old the same year I was born. It’s interesting to me that he died exactly ten years later on January 24, 1965.)

I assume the children’s welfare authorities chose the name hoping it might be an asset to counter some of the negative issues associated with me, which came to light once I was placed with the SPCC for foster care and eventual adoption. For one thing, a mysterious rash developed all over my body, and it would not go away.

For another, I had two visibly unappealing red birthmarks. One showed from my left temple across my left cheek and over my nose to my right cheek and then all the way down to the bottom of my chin. The second, a thick, dark birthmark, rose about a quarter of an inch off my left shoulder.

These visual factors along with the auditory ones—the fact that I cried not only “lustily” but also most of the time—were defects they believed only a mother could love in her own child. They deemed me unadoptable.

Oh, and as for the search to find my birth mother? Well, that trail just ran icy cold.

Betty and Bob Driggs of Rochester had always loved children. For years, they had tried to have their own, but after several heartbreaking miscarriages, they decided to adopt. Embracing their Plan B, the prospect thrilled them. They’d adopt first a baby boy and then a baby girl.

In 1947, six years and four months before I was born, they found their first child—a six-month-old baby boy, whom they named Robert Parker Driggs II (after Bob) but nicknamed “Chip,” as in chip off the old block.

Unfortunately for the Driggs, the trial period that began the adoption process was indeed a trial. Because Chip was such an adorable baby, his birth mother had difficulty deciding whether or not to keep him for herself. She’d put him up for adoption and then, during the trial period, change her mind and take him back. Finally, when this happened one time too many, the authorities at the adoption agency had had enough of her shenanigans. She was told that this was her last chance and that if she changed her mind again they were going ahead with the adoption. The baby would belong to the Driggs, permanently.

Devastated, Bob and Betty Driggs could not fathom that she’d let him go again, not under these final terms. Now they believed they would never see their little boy again.

At this time, Chip had begun to say a few words. The one word he repeated again and again came out sounding like “jig,” and so his birth mother was sure he was saying “Driggs” because he had bonded with them. Guilt set in, and she knew he’d be better off with them, and so, she decided to let her baby go.

The adoption went through. And now Chip was permanently with Bob and Betty Driggs... and their pet, Jiggy, a funny little cocker spaniel that Chip absolutely adored.

By 1954, when Chip was in second grade, Bob and Betty were ready to find their baby girl. Betty contacted the Monroe County Children’s Services, inquiring about a baby girl to adopt. She was told no, there were no baby girls for her to see. So she waited a few months before calling again. Again she was told no. Every six months, she called, and every six months she was told the same thing: no girls for her to see.

The wait was becoming agonizing not only for Bob and Betty but now also for their son, Chip, who was impatient for the little sister he’d been promised.

One afternoon, about fifteen months later, Chip walked into the kitchen, loaded down with shopping bags. They’d just come back from town. It had been a rare, beautiful, fifty-degree day, blue skies and sunshine. For early April, spring was definitely in the air that day, and like everyone else, they were eager for winter to end. While Chip unpacked the bags, Betty put the groceries away listening to Chip rattle on about the upcoming baseball season and how he could hardly wait to find out who his Little League coach would be this year.

Then the telephone rang.

Chip, closest to the wall phone, picked it up quickly. Betty noticed his eyes widen. “It’s Mr. Hanson,” he said, holding the phone out toward his mother, “from Monroe County Children’s Services.”

Betty closed the fridge and for just a moment leaned against it. Dare she believe this would be the call she’d been praying for, for so long? Then, with her heart pounding, she walked over to take the phone. “Hello?”

“Elizabeth,” Dave Hanson said, “I’m happy to say that we have a little girl for you to look at, but….”

The next afternoon, the weather returned to cold and cloudy. Betty had arranged for Chip to go to a friend’s house after school and for Bob to leave the office early for their three o’clock appointment to meet their little girl.

When they arrived right on schedule, Dave was there to greet them. He ushered Betty and Bob upstairs and into a wood-paneled room with four large windows that let in little light due to the dark cloud cover outside.

There was something cold and unsettling about the moment. Most chilling of all were the heart-wrenching sounds of a child’s misery that was emanating from a crib at the back of the room.

My mother’s recollection of that moment is that she saw Dave roll his eyes and nod as if to say, Yup. That’s the baby! That’s the one you’ve come to see. He then motioned for them to go ahead, saying, “See for yourself.”

Bob took Betty’s hand, and as they approached the crib in the far corner under the window, they saw me, a fifteen-month-old baby girl, lying on her back, rubbing her eyes, and shrieking to beat the band. They had dressed me in a simple, off-white dress. I had on one pink bootie but had already kicked off the other.

“Oh the poor darling,” Betty whispered as tears dripped from her eyes.

Bob took charge and immediately tried to calm me down by removing his wristwatch and swinging it in front of me. But it didn’t work. I wailed even louder.

From behind them, Dave proclaimed, “I told you.”

Betty spun around. “Please!” she snapped. “Don’t talk like that!”

“Well, I tried to warn you on the phone.”

“Yes you did, and I told you we don’t care about all of that. We want her. She’s our little girl, and we don’t care where she came from or that she doesn’t look like us or anything else!” Then Betty turned her attention to me again. “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “We’re here now. You don’t need to cry.”

So then Dave backed away, and even though I was still kicking and screaming, Bob lifted me from the crib, and before handing me over to Betty, he planted gentle kisses all over my birthmarks. When I was nestled in Betty’s arms, she began to sing a lullaby.

I was still bawling my eyes out at first, but as she continued to sing and to sway me from side to side in a nice wide arc, my sobbing lessened, and then, when I was merely whimpering, I finally opened my big brown eyes and looked up at her. When our eyes locked, the crying abruptly stopped. Just like that! And, just like that, I gave her a great big smile.

In that magical moment between mother and child, Betty and I forged a bond that was nothing short of unbreakable, the kind of bond that simply had to last for… ever.

As is always the case, a mandated trial period took place before the official adoption could occur. This trial for Betty and Bob was going well, unlike the period with Chip. Betty was elated to be at home with me, and Bob was always itching to get home from the office to spend as much time as possible with his children. It was a bonus too that Chip acted so protective of me—his soon-to-be little sister. I apparently idolized Chip because the moment he came home from school, I followed him everywhere.

Soon after the trial period had commenced, my rash began improving. Even so, Betty and Bob complied with the instructions to have me get steroid shots and be fed primarily orange foods, and they included the details of both in their regular weekly and monthly progress reports to the authorities, as they’d done during Chip’s trial period.

Poor Betty had to take me for my shots, and each time, even before we’d leave the house, my fears set in, and I’d be crying. By the time we were at the pediatrician’s office, I’d be screaming in abject terror at the mere sight of a lab coat, never mind the needle.

It didn’t take Betty and Bob terribly long to become convinced of three things. One, the amount of steroids I was getting couldn’t possibly be good for me. Two, all those orange foods my previous captors had me on were doing nothing but causing the bizarre orange darkening of my skin. I guess they thought all that beta-carotene would clear up the unsightly phantom rash. And three, the only medicine that would truly benefit me was their unconditional love and the security that being with them would provide. And so, the shots were soon suspended, a decision made by Bob and Betty, and I was put on a normal healthy diet. That diet did include orange foods—but only within reason.

Week after week, month after month, my issues were getting better and better. In fact, everything was getting better because we were getting closer to the trial period being over.

August 30, 1956, arrived a steamy hot day with intermittent rain, drizzle, fog, and thunder, and it couldn’t have been more beautiful. I’d been with the Driggs family since I was about fifteen months old. Although now only a two-and-a-half-year-old child, I could fully grasp the monumental importance of this day.

Betty and Bob had bought me a special outfit, a pretty pink dress with matching socks and patent-leather shoes. And they too were all dressed up because it was so special an occasion.

After we piled into Bob’s car, he turned on the windshield wipers, and Betty turned on the radio. Doris Day was singing her new hit song, “Que Sera Sera,” and they both happily sang along with her. By the time we pulled into the parking lot next to the county courthouse, I had learned the song and was chiming in.

When we first walked into Judge Fritch’s office at the county courthouse, Betty and Bob couldn’t hold me back. I dashed over to him, exclaiming, “Hi, Judge! Hi, Judge! I’m getting adopted!”

He was such a warm, friendly man. While Betty set aside her umbrella and Chip and Dad took seats, the judge led me over to his big swivel chair behind his desk.

He invited me to sit on his big chair behind his big desk while he gathered up papers for Bob and Betty to sign. Mom told me I was jumping up and down on his chair, chanting, “I’m getting adopted, I’m getting adopted!”

The judge looked over at Bob and Betty. “Guess I already know how Jane feels about this topic.”

“Oh, yes. We’re all so happy, Judge Fritch,” Betty said. “Finally, we have our little girl!”

Bob was beaming. “She’s everything we dreamed of,” he said, “and more.”

Betty called me over to sit on her lap as soon as the conversation turned to the documents to be read and then signed. The reading went on for quite a while. Of course, to me it all sounded like gobbledegook, but still I tried to tune in every now and then. Mostly, I just loved cuddling up to Betty. I remember smiling at her the whole time and looking into her dancing blue eyes.

 

In the Matter of the Adoption of Jane Churchill... upon reading and filing the petition... duly acknowledged Agreement... written report of the investigation... and it appearing that the... interests of said child, Jane Churchill, born January 23, 1954, in Rochester, New York, will be prompted by said adoption... are in all respects satisfactory and proper persons to adopt said child and that no objections exist thereto... ordered, adjudged and decreed that the said Jane Churchill shall be raised and treated in all respects... lawful child of Robert P. Driggs and Elizabeth L. Driggs, his wife, and shall henceforth be known... Ann Kimberly Driggs.

 

“So,” the judge finally was asking, “everything seem in order?”

“Perfect,” Bob and Betty agreed.

I watched Bob—now my official daddy—place his copy into his briefcase, handling it as though it were an injured bird. Then he looked over at me with raised eyebrows. When he reached for his hat and umbrella, he looked over at me. “Kimmy,” he said, “thank the judge now.”

I bounded over to the judge and then raised my arm to shake hands with him, though I’d never done that with anyone before. “Thanks, Judge,” I said. He held onto my little hand and gave me a good, firm handshake.

With true joy in his voice he said, “You are most welcome, Miss Kimberly Driggs. Most welcome.”

“You too,” I said, and they all laughed.

Once we were outside again, it was only drizzling. I remember skipping along between my parents and holding their hands, with Chip marching ahead of us. In a singsong sort of way, I kept repeating, “I am adopted, and you’re my mom and dad!” How I must have adored the sound of those words.

As I was about to get into the car after Chip, the clouds above were just then parting, letting in some sunshine. Daddy and I both looked up. He knelt beside me and pointed to a tall building one street behind the courthouse.

“Look, Kimmy. See that big building?”

“Uh huh.”

“Now look up, up in the sky. Do you see those colors, honey? That’s a rainbow. That’s a rainbow.”

“A rainbow!” Mom said, happily.

“A rainbow,” I whispered to myself. “A rainbow.”

I learned quickly that by being an adopted child I had been chosen. Although I didn’t comprehend the distinction from how Chip and I were chosen but other children were not, I sure loved the sound of that word, “chosen,” especially the way my mom said it.

One night shortly after the adoption when Mom tucked me into bed, she recited a poem to me.

 

Not from my womb

Nor bone of my bone,

But still, miraculously, my own.

Don’t forget for a single minute,

You didn't grow under my heart, but in it.

 

As she said the words, she moved her hands to touch either her heart or tummy. It was then that I came to understand the true meaning of the word “chosen.”

The original poem, I have since discovered, began with the words, “Not flesh of my flesh,” and its author is Fleur Conkling Heyliger. But for me the words and phrasing as my mother recited the poem are what feels right. To this day, I recite it the same way in my mind when feelings of insecurity begin to sneak up on me, threatening to set off ye olde phantom rash.