someone else. Something went awry, that adoption fell through. That’s
how I ended up where I did, a mere two hour drive from where I was
born. In 1984, my father, the minister, was restless at his current job and
applied to another ministry. The potential job was overseeing two small
rural churches not far from Lindsay. This made my mother uncomfortable.
Strange scenarios played out in her head. The idea that I could grow up
there and potentially date a relative was too much for her social
propriety to bear. The imagined scandal already tarnishing the good
minister’s reputation.
The adoption agent who had handled my case was a family friend.
My mother outlined the situation, embellishing it with more potential
sordid affairs. The agent, knowing the good minister and his wife and
their propensity for secret-keeping, shared what the F stood for. My
mother promised to never divulge the secret, unless I asked; and she
didn’t, until I did. My mother also divulged that there was a note in her
will, just in case I’d never asked. She didn’t want to take that secret with
her, it was too weighty to pack in her baggage for the other side.
It was New Year’s Eve. A time for reflecting on the past before diving,
with abandon, into the new year’s potential.
My mother told me the F was for Fallis.
I Googled: Fallis, Peterborough, Lindsay
A multitude of results presented themselves, each leading to a new
tangent. I read wedding and funeral notices, lost in a balance of joy and
sadness. Lindsay, Peterborough, Bobcaygeon, it seemed the area was a
hotbed for the surname and I was somehow connected to them. What a
strange feeling to realize that connection when I have always been in the
disconnect. Unleashing my inner detective, I pulled out my adoption
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