Team capsules for high school girls lacrosse

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Scranton Cultural Center hosts inaugural ‘Buy Local: Spring Fling’ event on Sunday

<p>I&#8217;ve booked a house at the shore for a week in September. I&#8217;m meeting my sister there and we&#8217;re looking forward to dinner at an oceanfront restaurant and time spent on the porch.</p><p>She can&#8217;t wait to see my kids and they can&#8217;t wait to see her. We had a few bumps in the road on the way to planning the weekend. I changed dates midstream and I think it might have momentarily irritated her, but then I got a text letting me know everything was all right.</p><p>I&#8217;m the little sister and, although, we have different views on many things, especially politics, we are always extremely respectful of each other. She asks about my children and I ask about my niece and I pray for her and my other two sisters regularly.</p><p>The thing that makes the week a bit unique and perhaps column worthy is that <em>I&#8217;ve never met her. </em>Adopted when I was a year old, transferred as it were from sister to sister, I had grown up as an only child and never met my biological father. Even though I knew his name and made some effort to contact him, I had given up the search when, about two years ago, the phone rang at 11:30 at night. It was my daughter.</p><p>&#8220;Hi, Mom. I have to tell you something; don&#8217;t be mad,&#8221; she said, waking me out of a deep sleep.</p><p>&#8220;What happened, are you alright, is everything alright?&#8221; I said.</p><p>&#8220;Yeah, mom, everything is okay,&#8221; she said. &#8220;Uh, me and Nate found your sisters.&#8221;</p><p>I didn&#8217;t believe it. Years before, my kids had found an obituary of someone they said looked like my dad. I didn&#8217;t see the resemblance.</p><p>&#8220;Well, except the ears,&#8221; I had thought as I peered into the computer at the image of the man with whom I had at one time shared a name.</p><p>Now, here again, the opportunity to find out more about who I am, about my roots, presented itself.</p><p>&#8220;Where did you find them?&#8221; I said, making my way to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping to become awake enough to absorb what I was being told.</p><p>&#8220;Facebook,&#8221; she said. &#8220;Nate and I went out and when we came home we thought we would look for your family.&#8221;</p><p>&#8220;Were you out drinking?&#8221; I said as if that would impact the validity of their findings.</p><p>&#8220;Mom,&#8221; Kelly said. &#8220;Focus.&#8221;</p><p>So I found my three sisters, who had some idea I existed, with messages that went back and forth on Facebook and now I&#8217;m meeting the middle one at the shore.</p><p>&#8220;What if you don&#8217;t like me?&#8221; my sister asked.</p><p>I couldn&#8217;t imagine not liking her. Of the three, she&#8217;s the one with whom I&#8217;ve had the most contact, the one with whom I could easily spend an hour on the phone.</p><p>Neither of us seem to offend easily.</p><p>I have a feeling we&#8217;ll get along simply because, beyond politics, we have similar mindsets.</p><p>Still, I worry.</p><p>What if she doesn&#8217;t like hip hop music or is a vegetarian or doesn&#8217;t like the smell of movie theaters? What if we&#8217;re so different we don&#8217;t enjoy our time together?</p><p>What if my noisy family overwhelms her or we offend her with our political views or we&#8217;re just simply too obnoxious?</p><p>I shared these concerns with my oldest son, Nate.</p><p>&#8220;Not to worry, mom,&#8221; he said. &#8220;I&#8217;m bringing wine.&#8221;</p><p>Well said, Nate. Well said.</p><style>
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<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta><p>By Geri Gibbons</p><p>ggibbons@www.timesleader.com</p></bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta><p>Reach Geri Gibbons at 570-991-6117 or on Twitter @TLGGibbons</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Beyond the Byline: Making the way to the beach and back to my beginnings