This Watchdog’s Personal Bio: The beginning (ca. 1944-1962)

Introduction to My Biography Project

This biography spans more than eighty years (circa 1949–2026). I’ve yet to discover a way to begin this saga without risking mass drowsiness, so I’ll spare you the ceremonial warm‑up. To cut directly to the chase, let me briefly explain what you’re in for. One more note at the outset: throughout this narrative, you’ll encounter my brand of sarcasm and backhanded humor. And why, you ask? Because without it, I never would have survived writing this years‑long account —let alone the events themselves.

Many of the scenes described here first unfolded in Columbus, Ohio. I was adopted within days of my fifth birthday. My birth mother — a title I use only because biology insists on it — found it acceptable to engage in a bit of adulterous, shall we say, horizontal dancing with my uncle, who also happened to be my birth father’s brother. I can only assume some of their questionable choreography occurred while I was in the house. If so, I don’t remember it. Either childhood mercy intervened, or the sheer spectacle forced my brain to hit delete permanently.

Eventually, after the affair — and after the couple wrapped up their rumba routine — she delivered twin boys. How magical. Overnight, I had twin brothers fathered by my uncle and my birth mother. Perfectly normal. Happens every day in the wholesome American family unit, right?

My birth mother — and yes, it still pains me to admit she actually produced me — had a close relationship with Geraldine Palmer of Toledo, Ohio. Geraldine also found it acceptable to engage in extracurricular romance while her husband, Bill, was stationed at Fort Bliss, Texas. Apparently, she and her paramour weren’t exactly poster children for safe sex, because she became pregnant. To keep Bill blissfully unaware of both the affair and the pregnancy, she underwent a botched abortion that left her unable to have children.

Before my birth mother finished her metaphorical season as Ohio State’s starting quarterback, she arranged to have me passed off to Geraldine and Bill. There is no doubt in my mind that before I was handed off like a spoiled hamburger, my birth mother knew about Geraldine’s affair and the botched abortion — and that she also knew Bill had handled the matter like a true troubadour by becoming an alcoholic.

How charming. A birth mother playing doctor and nurse with her husband’s brother, then knowingly handing me off to a fellow adulteress and a confirmed alcoholic. What five‑year‑old wouldn’t dream of being welcomed into that version of “It’s a Wonderful Life”?

Honestly, if someone pitched this story to Quentin Tarantino, he’d reject it for being too unbelievable — even for him.

I have been working on a personal biography for the past few years. Rightfully or wrongfully, I’ve always felt that my lifelong experiences — beginning at the age of five — were, in various respects, sad, humorous, odd to say the least, and perhaps even unusual.

With that in mind, I decided to publish what I’ve completed so far (there’s more just about ready) covering the period from my adoption at age five through my high school graduation.

Fortunately for me, a friend who is a professional editor in the San Francisco Bay Area agreed to edit my work — and did so pro bono. Now it’s time for a look at how my life began at the age of five.

How to Create a Disgruntled Litigant

By Dave (aka The Watchdawg) Palmer

The Early Formative Years

I was born on June 11, 1944, at St. Ann’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio, and was given the name David Dean Hall. At that time, I had two older brothers: Pat, who was three years ahead of me, and Jim, who was two years older.

My mother worked as a nurse at St. Ann’s, and my father drove a taxi for Yellow Cab. Shortly after I turned five, my mother made the difficult decision to place me for adoption. I later learned she did so because she could not financially support all three of us.

My adoptive mother, Geraldine, was a close friend of my biological mother, Jean, and Jean knew Geraldine was unable to have children. The handoff to Geraldine and William Palmer took place in 1949 in Columbus, Ohio.

I vividly remember being picked up by Geraldine and William, along with Geraldine’s sister Delores (now my aunt) and her husband Don (now my uncle). Uncle Don was driving a black 1949 Ford four‑door Custom Deluxe —a detail that has stayed with me all these years.

When we arrived in Toledo, they took me to Tiedtke’s Department Store, a massive retail landmark on the corner of Summit Street and Adams. It was essentially a forerunner to what we’d now call a Costco: you could buy fresh squid on the first floor and new tires on the fifth. While we were there, Uncle Don bought me a Newell Repeater Gun that air‑fired ping‑pong balls. I still wonder what that antique toy would be worth today.

After I turned six, I began attending Rosary Cathedral Grade School on Collingwood Boulevard in Toledo. From fifth through eighth grade, I served as an altar boy and sang soprano in the church choir.

Every Sunday, I was required to attend the high mass overseen by Bishop George John Rehring. Toledo was a working‑class town with numerous auto‑related factories, so masses at Rosary Cathedral began at 5:30 a.m. and lasted thirty minutes or less. However, when Bishop Rehring presided, his sermons often stretched to an hour or more. He spoke so slowly that many parishioners nodded off. His pace was, to put it politely, comparable to betting on a turtle to outrun a cheetah.

During my first year at Rosary Cathedral, I discovered that the girl who lived across the street from me on Cherry Street — Maria — attended the same school. After my dyed‑in‑the‑wool chivalrous father learned this, he ordered me to cross the street every morning and carry Maria’s lunch box and books to and from school. I did so faithfully for the next eight years.

When I was in the second grade, I was playing ball in the backyard with my friends Mike and Jimmy when my mother stepped out onto the back porch to announce that I had a new baby brother. He had been named William Emory Palmer Jr., after my adoptive father. I went inside, took a quick look at him — he was only a couple of weeks old — and then returned to my friends. I informed them, with the blunt honesty only a child can muster, that he was quite ugly.

At the time Bill Jr. was born, we were told by our parents and other adults — and wholeheartedly believed — that babies were delivered by a stork. That was the extent of sex education in the early 1950s.

When Bill Jr. arrived, our household consisted of my parents and me, along with my mother’s parents, Loretta and Henry, and my Uncle Bill (Henry’s younger brother). All of us lived under the same roof.

Bill Sr. worked as a city truck driver for Acme Fast Freight. Grandpa Henry worked at the Lazy Boy factory in Monroe, Michigan — he was its very first employee. Uncle Bill worked at P&J Industries in Toledo.

Grandpa Henry came from a family of sixteen children. I once joked with him that it was unfortunate the couch hadn’t yet been invented for his father — my great‑grandfather —who clearly could have used one.

Visiting Uncle Bill’s home in Sandusky, Ohio

Uncle Bill was a really, wonderful guy. Every weekend he would take the train from downtown Toledo to Sandusky to be with several of his sisters, all of whom were older than he was and who were never married.

Every so often, Uncle Bill would invite me to go with him on the train to Sandusky, a request that I never turned down. The Sandusky home was quite old and had a wood-fired stove and many other antique furnishings.

Being in Sandusky from Friday through Sunday was a great experience for me since it allowed me to get away from the turmoil at home in Toledo. It also allowed me to play and communicate with several of my cousins who lived in the immediate area.

On every Sunday afternoon after everyone went to St. Mary’s Church in Sandusky for Sunday Mass, several of my uncles would congregate around the kitchen table to play pinochle. On one Sunday, one of my uncles didn’t show up so they needed another player for partners. Uncle Bill told my other two uncles that since I had watched them play numerous times that he would take me as his partner. This didn’t sit well with them; however, they agreed so that the game could be played.

Fortunately for Uncle Bill, we beat the pants off my other two uncles in two games. Suffice it to say that the other two uncles were not pleased with being beaten by a ten-year-old rookie. 

It was a very sad day when I was informed that Uncle Bill had passed away after suffering from a massive heart attack at the old homestead in Sandusky. He had only been retired for several months and always looked forward to returning to Sandusky to care for his elderly sisters.

And lastly, as it relates to Sandusky. I fondly remember attending the Sartor (my mother’s maiden name) Family Reunion in the mid-1950s. There were so many Sartors in the Sandusky area that the reunion was held at the county fairgrounds.

Since I hadn’t met most of the Sartors, my mother told me if anyone asked who I was to say, “I’m Geraldine’s son.” This had the intended effect since everyone knew who she was.

Palmer Household Turmoil: A Rockin’ Rollercoaster Ride (Sitcom‑Style Rewrite)

Ah, the Palmer household — where family dynamics were about as stable as a toddler hopped up on Pixy Stix. And there I was, smack in the middle of it, trying to navigate the chaos like a kid trapped in a never‑ending episode of I Love Lucy.

Grandma Loretta and I? A lifelong clash of titans. The turning point came when little Bill Jr. finally vacated my parents’ room. The solution, according to Loretta? Boot me out of my bedroom and banish me to the basement. Yes — the basement. My new roommate was a coal‑fired furnace that clanked and wheezed like a rusty trombone. But at least I had my trusty Zenith Aztec Tube Radio blasting Fats Domino and Chuck Berry to keep me sane.

Eventually, I fled the chaos and sought refuge with the legendary Uncle Bernie — the undisputed hero of my family tree and possibly the only person in the clan who didn’t require a referee. He nearly made it to 100 before taking his final bow.

Life under Uncle Bernie’s roof was calmer. I even managed to get an education at St. Clement Grade School alongside my cousin Cheryl, whose parents were clearly from the more functional branch of the family.

But all good things must end. Returning to the Palmer homestead after graduation felt like stepping back into a dysfunctional time warp. The turmoil was still there, still loud, still relentless — like a rock‑and‑roll anthem stuck on repeat.

Playing Sports at Rosary Cathedral Elementary School

While attending Rosary Cathedral, I was the starting quarterback from fifth grade through eighth grade. During that time, our team won numerous games against Blessed Sacrament, St. Patrick of Heatherdowns, and Christ the King.

It’s worth noting that during all my years playing football and basketball at Rosary Cathedral, not a single member of my family — including my father — ever attended a game to watch me play.

During an eighth‑grade game, I was tackled and piled on by several members of the Blessed Sacrament defense. The hit broke my right ankle. Because no one from my family was present to take me to the hospital, I was fortunate that a close family friend, Mr. Bailey, was there. He took me to the hospital and contacted my father.

When my father learned we had no insurance and was told the cost of treating the broken ankle, he chose to take me home and told the doctor it would heal on its own.

It did eventually heal, but in 1964 I began experiencing severe swelling in my ankles and left hand and became unable to walk. A surgeon hospitalized me and informed me that the improperly treated ankle break was likely the cause of the rheumatoid arthritis I developed then — and continue to suffer from today.

Attending St. Francis High School in Toledo

After graduating from St. Clement, I wanted to attend Central Catholic High School. It was within walking distance, and many of my friends from Rosary Cathedral — including several teammates — were planning to enroll there.

My mother, however, wanted me to attend St. Francis High School on Bancroft Street. I resisted because most of the boys there came from upscale, high‑income families, and I knew I wouldn’t fit in.

I lost that battle and enrolled at St. Francis.

One day, while walking down the stairs between classes, someone knocked all my books out of my hands from behind, scattering and damaging them on the steps. I turned around and let the culprit know exactly what I thought of him — in language that would not have impressed the nuns.

My outburst earned me a trip to the principal’s office. When asked about the incident, I explained to the priest that my father would not react kindly if I had to ask him to spend money replacing books destroyed by some wise guy. I also admitted that I used “salty” language when addressing the offender.

The principal gave me a stern verbal reprimand and instructed me to be more careful in the future with my choice of words.

Strange Meeting of My Biological Brother at St. Francis High School

While trying out for the freshman football team as a quarterback, I ran into an immediate problem. The newly hired coach had previously coached at Blessed Sacrament — a team I routinely beat while playing for Rosary Cathedral. He refused to let me try out as quarterback and instead favored the player he had coached at Blessed Sacrament. So much for impartiality.

One afternoon after football practice, while I was waiting for the bus home, a classmate approached me. What followed was one of the strangest conversations of my life.

CLASSMATE: 

“What is your name?”

ME: 

“Dave Palmer.”

CLASSMATE: 

“My name is James Hall.”

ME: 

“Great. You know your name. What do you want — a backflip?”

CLASSMATE: 

“No, I’m your brother.”

ME: 

“I only have one brother, and it sure isn’t you.”

After the conversation ended, I figured the guy must be suffering from some sort of mental issue. When I got home, I told my mother what had happened. She asked for his name, and when I said “James Hall,” she calmly informed me that he was my real brother — and that I was adopted.

So, there it was: I learned I was adopted from a guy on a football field who was competing with me for a spot on the St. Francis freshman team.

The next day, I met with James and followed him to his home on the east side of Toledo. There, I met my older brother Pat and the twin boys my biological mother had with her second husband.

I have to be honest — there was absolutely no chemistry between my biological mother and me. She showed no regret for giving me up when I was five years old. In fact, she gave me the distinct impression that she would have been happier if I had never shown up at all.

Whenever I meet someone who was adopted and they tell me they’re trying to find their biological mother, I respond with the same question:

“Are you aware that she’s trying to find you?” 

If she isn’t, then why waste your time?

Attending High School Away from Home

After returning to the Palmer home, I eventually ran away again. I simply couldn’t tolerate the constant interference and tension created by my grandmother Loretta. This led to my being referred to a juvenile counselor, who arranged a meeting with my parents and me at his office.

During that meeting, the counselor made it clear that Grandma Loretta was the central problem. He gave my mother a direct ultimatum: either her parents moved out, or I would have to move out. To this day (as of September 2026), I vividly remember my mother’s response:

“How can I ask my mother to move out of my home?”

That answer sealed my fate. I was sent to attend high school at a private school in Farmington, Michigan.

While there, I lettered in football (quarterback, free safety, punter), baseball (pitcher), basketball (guard), and track (high jump, triple jump, 100‑yard dash, 400‑yard relay).

During a track meet against Farmington High School, I was preparing for the high jump when a shot‑put competitor released a 12‑pound shot put that struck me squarely in the small of my back, dropping me instantly. I’ll never forget the track coach’s response as he approached me lying on the ground:

“Dave, you’ll still be able to compete in the triple jump, right?”

Because the school allowed fast‑tracking, I graduated just before turning sixteen. I excelled in math, and the school wanted me to attend Lawrence Technological University located in Southfield, Michigan. They offered free room and board in exchange for campus work, and all my father had to pay was $400 a year for books and incidental costs.

He refused, telling me, “I didn’t go to college, and you don’t need to go either.”

That refusal led to my final departure from the Palmer home.

Even though the school was only sixty‑nine miles from Toledo, no one in my family ever visited me during the two years I was there. They also never provided bus fare for me to come home for Christmas or any other occasion.

Employment After Leaving the Palmer Home

After leaving the Palmer home in early 1960, I found a job with the Catholic Charities Diocese of Toledo at its print shop on Spielbusch Avenue in downtown Toledo.

Before I could work full‑time at age sixteen, I needed permission from Child Services —both to hold the job and to live outside my parents’home. Fortunately, I arranged to live with an elderly woman who provided me with a bedroom and meals at a minimal cost.

While working at the print shop, I was sent to Rochester, New York, to learn how to operate the first generation of Xerox copiers. I was also sent to New York to train on the Vari‑Typer typewriter, which we used to justify columns for books, flyers, and other printed materials.

The print shop manager was Father Lawrence Ernst, the son of a wealthy Detroit‑area family connected to the auto industry. He donated substantial sums of money that allowed the print shop to thrive.

Every year, Father Ernst purchased a new gold‑colored Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz Convertible, which cost about $7,500 in the early 1960s. After receiving the new car, he sold the previous year’s model to one of the print shop employees on an installment plan. Within a few months, he would hand the employee the registration in their name and tell them they owed nothing more. In short, it was essentially a gift.

During Christmas of 1960, knowing I was living alone, Father Ernst invited me to his mansion‑style home in Grosse Pointe, less than ten miles from downtown Detroit.

When we arrived, a woman asked for my coat. I had just bought it and wasn’t eager to hand it over to a stranger. After Father Ernst explained she was the maid, I reluctantly complied.

I met his parents and two unmarried sisters. His father offered to show me around the home, and I agreed. He proudly showed me an indoor pool he had recently installed so his grandchildren from California could swim during the winter. This was in addition to an outdoor Olympic‑sized pool. I remarked that it wouldn’t be fair to the grandchildren if they couldn’t swim while visiting Detroit in the winter.

After the tour, we went to the dining room for dinner. I noticed multiple knives, forks, and spoons at my place setting — a stark contrast to the single set we used at the Palmer home.

Soon after, a man I later learned was the butler poured champagne into everyone’s glass, including mine. I waited until the others took a sip before trying it myself. It took everything I had not to spit it out, but I pretended to enjoy it.

After dinner, we moved into a massive living room with a Christmas tree at least twenty‑five feet tall.

Father Ernst directed me to sit in a cushioned chair next to his while he handed out gifts. His sisters received envelopes containing several thousand shares of GM stock from their parents.

He placed several gifts next to me as well. When he finished distributing everything, he asked why I hadn’t opened mine. He told me Santa had arrived the night before and left gifts for me. At sixteen, I didn’t believe in Santa Claus, and I was slightly embarrassed — but I opened the envelope with my name on it.

Inside were three one‑hundred‑dollar bills from Father Ernst’s father. I was stunned; I had never experienced anything like it.

I also received $200 from each of Father Ernst’s sisters, along with several expensive pieces of clothing from an upscale men’s shop.

Time Spent at the Malt Shop After Working at the Print Shop

I earned about $75 a week at the print shop — a solid income for a sixteen‑year‑old in 1960. To put things in perspective:

Gas: $0.25 per gallon

Hamburger: $0.21 per pound

Bread: $0.20 per loaf

Average house: $12,700

New car: $2,600

Every Friday after payday, I went to Tiedtke’s downtown and bought three or four of the latest 45‑rpm rock‑and‑roll records. Then I headed to the Malt Shop on Cherry Street, just down from Central Avenue.

I gave the new records to the manager, who replaced four songs in the jukebox with the ones I brought. He often asked what to do with the old records, and I told him to give them to one of the girls in the shop.

In those regular visits, I played a role not unlike Fonzie from Happy Days. And unlike the unhappy days at the Palmer home, the Malt Shop felt like the difference between heaven and hell.

Hey, if you’ve made it this far and have even a mild interest in reading this opening salvo of my actual, truthful bio, I’d love to hear from you at the email below.

And when you do, please tell me what you really think. I’m not looking for something written simply to spare my feelings. Give it to me straight—I can take it. Honestly, I’d much rather hear an uncomfortable truth than a beautifully packaged lie.

With that contact me at: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

If you enjoyed any of this, come back shortly to view the next part of this Old Dawg's life.