Randy Lindsay - The Milkmans Son: A Memoir of Family History, a DNA Mystery, and a Story of Paternal Love

2020 Randy Lindsay

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain, at permissions@shadowmountain.com. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Lindsay, Randy, 1959 author.

Title: The milkmans son : a memoir of family history, a DNA mystery, and paternal love / Randy Lindsay.

Description: Salt Lake City : Shadow Mountain, [2020] | Summary: This memoir traces one mans journey through his family history when a DNA test reveals that his dad was not his biological father Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019044950 | ISBN 9781629727387 (hardback) eISBN 978-1-62973-924-3 (eBook)

Subjects: LCSH: Lindsay, Randy, 1959Family. | Fathers and sonsBiography. | DNA fingerprintingPopular works. | BirthfathersBiography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.

Classification: LCC HQ755.85 L564 2020 | DDC 306.874/2dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019044950

Printed in the United States of America

Publishers Printing, Salt Lake City, UT

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover art: Mopic / Shutterstock.com; Katsumi Murouchi / Getty Images

Book design: Shadow Mountain

Art direction: Richard Erickson

Design: Heather G. Ward

Contents

Authors Note

It turns out that if you tell people your dad is not your biological father, youve officially invited them to play twenty questions. Although the order in which theyre asked varies from person to person, the first few questions are always the same

How did you find out?

Have you met your real/biological father?

How did your siblings react to the news?

And...

What did your mom say when you found out you have a different father?

My mother did a wonderful job of raising me. I had an intimate relationship with Misfortune, and Mom remained calm during my frequent childhood trips to the hospital. Like the time one of the neighbor kids pushed my face into the mud, and my eyes were so covered with dirt I couldnt find my way home. Mom followed my cries until she found me, and nearly started crying herself when she discovered why I hadnt come to her when she called. Then she drove me to the hospital. Despite my mothers urgings to break off my relationship with the God of Incidents and Accidents, he and I had regular dates until I was well into my twenties.

Mom tolerated my emotional teens and all the minutia-induced drama that comes with that stage of life. No matter how far down the ladder of self-doubt I traveled, she shone a spotlight on my positive traits and convinced me that I mattered as a person.

I was one of the original nerdsback before being nerdy was populara weird kid who liked Godzilla, dinosaurs, and space aliens. To my mother, however, I was a creative kid, one who was unafraid of exploring new frontiers where the rest of the family dared not venture.

If a life-sized poster of unconditional love exists in the halls of human achievement, then it has my moms picture at the centershort, smiling, and beautiful.

But this isnt a story about my mother.

This is a story about me and my two dads. I share this portion of my life with the world because it is a tale that will become more common as technology continues to improve. All anyone needs to know about my mother is that she loves me and I love her.

Chapter 1

Ghosts of Family Past

The dastardly thing about a life-changing event is that it can disguise itself as a normal day. Months, or even years, later you discover that what looked and felt like an ordinary Monday was the first step on the road to what-happened-to-my-normal-life?

At the far-from-youthful age of fifty-seven, I found out that my dad, the man who had been a vital part of my life since the moment I arrived in the world, was not my father. Most people I tell about my situation find it... surprising. While to others the event is an amusing anecdote, for me it represents the sudden destruction of my sheltering concept of family.

I load the four youngest children into my minivan. It isnt even 10:00 a.m., but the temperature is over a hundred. The inside of the van feels like an oven, but my kids are troopers and dont complain when the air conditioning fails to reach the back seats. Only my oldest daughter, riding in the front seat, endures the drive with any sense of comfort.

The trip to the far side of Phoenix to visit my dad takes almost two hoursmost of it freeway. I bring the children with me because Dad loves to see them. They dont have a chance to see one another very often.

I turn down the dirt road that leads to his trailer home in the desert. Even though the windows are up, I can smell the dust. Gravel and stone crunch under the tires as I pull into my dads personal five-acre slice of desert. In addition to the mobile home, his mini cowboy kingdom has a barn, a horse in a pen, and a roping corral complete with a donkey to rope. The familiar stockyard smell of my youth sneaks past the closed windows.

As soon as the van stops, the kids bail out of the vehicle. I yell to them to watch for rattlesnakes, but theyre too busy petting my dads horse to pay attention to me. These are suburbanite kidsmembers of the YouTube generationwho know nothing about rattlers. Or lizards. Or scorpions, for that matter. When I was their age, I scoured the sand and scrub for snakes and lizards. I knew the difference between the harmless and the poisonous varieties of wildlife living among the desert shrubs and usually had the sense to stay away from the dangerous ones.

The plywood floor of the back porch sags dangerously as I walk across it, making me wonder whether my next step is going to smash a hole through the ancient building material. Various bits of tack and harness hang from the walls of the enclosed patio. Cardboard boxes clutter the dusty floor. I slide open the glass door to Dads trailer and shout, Were here!

Dad struggles to push himself out of his easy chair and then hobbles over to give me a hug. With his Tom Selleck mustache, a tan cap advertising the local grain-and-feed store, and his long-sleeved western shirt, he looks every bit the cowboy. Good to see you, son. Where are the kids? I made sure we stocked up on Popsicles.

Popsicles. Dad feeds them to the kids until they cant eat any more. I tried a couple of times in the past to stop them after eating two, but Dad just points out hes my father, this is his house, and the grandchildren can have as many Popsicles as they want.

My dad mentions Popsicles, and the children, as if guided by some mystic sugar radar, file in through the back door. Within minutes the kids are lounging around the living room with rainbow-colored lips.

Dad and I visit for a few minutes before his attention is drawn away from me and to the television like the Millennium Falcon was dragged aboard the Death Star. My dad is riveted to the bright colors and loud screeching sounds of SpongeBob SquarePants . Not that it makes a difference. Our conversations follow the same pattern every time we meet.