@ossobuco,
Thanks. I know you didn't mean write more here, but you asked about the Brewster kids' parents. I never heard Zona mention a father and never saw any visiting relatives. That describes about all the kids. It probably didn't take more than a few months, and I'm just guessing, to forget our parents. We were not up for adoption, but kept for the parents. Everybody just seemed to fit right in. It was all paid for.
Concerning Zona's mother, she was asked, at 16, by the
office to sign some papers that would allow wherever she (the mother) stayed (mental institution) to giver her that special treatment doctors used to use on mental patients -- lobotomy. When we were in our 50s she told me this. I suggested to her that her mother probably had postportum depression, nothing more.
To be honest, we didn't talk about parents and in fact used to make fun of them, joke about them. My dad was OK, kids there liked him, but I don't recall feeling the same about anybody's parents. The Venable sisters -- Alisha, Elaine, Nora, Billy, and Greta, their dad was in Huntsville Penitentiary and the mother I never heard them speak of, I never saw. We just became whoever and whatever we ended up being in that enormous sort of family. The Venable sisters could all sing together like the Andrew sisters or better. Greta took piano lessons. It was whatever we were good at, excelled at. Everything was paid for by all those churches.
Music and sports were BIG, and I didn't exactly excell in either though I was always on the different teams. Hey, Osso, I was never an athlete, we all played sports together, some excelled. No, I won all the spelling bees in my class, was asked one year to compete in spelling at district (or regional?) competition. But, I flubbed that. I also wrote the papers (stories) that were read aloud. I also was in trouble constantly because I just had the wonderlust disease.
I'm trying to imagine what life would have been like for me, all the other 180 kids, in foster homes. Oh, God. I don't think our lives were headed in such a pleasant direction with our dad either. I do recall one babysitter, Annie, a black woman. We loved her, she sure could cook. But, she couldn't make enough money babysitting. One day she just didn't show up. The man next door invited me over. Ah, all I recall is his huge hairy thing, there about head-level. He did nothing when I ran screaming, but he could have. It was many years before I attached any feeling to that little incident. My dad's friend. What a buffoon.