A long-repressed memory from my youth re-surfaced as I drove home after my conversation with Dad. As a child, one of my great joys was rummaging through the closets, cabinets, and chests of drawers at my Grandmother's home in Mansfield, Ohio, searching for old photos, letters, and other family treasures. On one such exercise in urban archeology, I unearthed a letter from Dad, mailed in 1947 and addressed to his parents. It began like this:

"Dear Mom and Dad,Now I can explain what all the secrecy has been about the last few months. It's a boy, and his name is 'Davy.' He was born on November 7th, and his mother's name is Claudia."

I was surprised to see that the letter was about Mom and me. But why the secrecy? Puzzled, I kept reading until I came to this line:

"I fear she is not long for this world, as she has had heavy exposure...".

My attention immediately shifted from the secrecy part to Mom. I may have been just a kid, but I was an Oak Ridge kid, and I knew what the phrase "heavy exposure" meant, and I became worried about Mom. Would she be ok?

Although puzzled and troubled, I didn't ask my parents about the letter because I didn't want them to know I had discovered a secret, even by accident. So with time, I forgot about it, and the whole matter slumbered in some small dark place in the back of my mind waiting for the day when something would come along to awaken it. That day came along six years later.