A Mott now Not

I was born a Mott in Wichita, KS. My parents divorced when I was three. Dad Mott went to Sacramento California, his favorite place. Mom went back to where her parents lived. She worked for an oil company and "had" to raise her two boys all by herself. Being divorced had a label in the late 1950's, but she was one of them. Oh, those poor Mott boys. Growing up without a father. Sitting in the front pew of the church every Sunday since Mom sang in the choir. I was 3 going on 4 and my brother was 3 years my elder. I have early memories that started when I was 2 going on 3. I don't know or why these memories have stayed with me. They just did. My Grandpa Mott died when I was of young age. I was able to visit and go places with Grandpa Mott in the neatest car I had ever seen. He smoked using a cigarette holder that I thought was really cool, something I would want to do when I grew up. Grandpa Mott had a stroke and was kept at home in a hospital bed until his death. At that point in time I had a feeling that I would bury my father even though I knew him not.

My Grandma Mott would tell me stories of her side of the family, who moved to Little River but very little of nothing about being a Mott. So be it.

Life went by. I was in my late 40's when a blood cousin came out of the woodwork to let me know my father was dieing. He was in the Veteran's Hospital in Wichita. He was easy to spot in a ward of the hospital as he looked like me. Or was it I who looked like him. It took a few visits before he understood who I was. I'm certain he thought I was chaplain. Since I was ordained I let our conversations go as such. I asked if he had children. Yes, he said he had two boys and could tell you their birthdays. In subsequent visits he understood that I was one of his boys. I wonder how many have had to visit their biological fathers while in the hospital without their father having a clue of who this stranger was who came to visit. It confirmed what was always in the back of my mind. I would be the one to bury him, Bob Mott. It was made so.

Going back to my life, my mother remarried. I was all for being adopted by my step-father for one and only one reason. The lunch line. Being an M put me near the back of the line. My best friend's last names started with B and C. If I became a C that would put me between two of my best friends. At the age of 10 this was a chance of a lifetime, move up in the lunch line order and being next to my best friends. There was absolutely no other reason for agreeing to change my last name.

Little did I know that all of the documentation of being a Mott was changed when I was adopted. I had no rights or privileges of a Mott. It took filing for his life insurance to find out what I was not, a Mott.