“I was pretty groggy for a new father, but I remember wondering what she looked like,” said Rich. “We’ll take her,” she told Sister Jose Maria and then roused Rich to tell him they were about to have a daughter. “The call was from Sister Jose Maria, in Mexico, saying there was a baby girl, 20 days old and born in Mexico. “I always answer the phone in the middle of the night because Rich doesn’t wake up too easily,” Joan recalled. In this roundabout way, the wheels were set in motion and one morning, about 2 a.m., the phone rang in the King’s bedroom in Cincinnati.
He knew a Mexican family in Dayton with an aunt, a nun in Los Angeles, who was in close contact with a Mexican nun who ran a hospital for orphaned and abandoned infants in Mexico.” “Then we talked to a Cincinnati priest, a close friend, who spoke to another priest in Dayton. The waiting lists are endless,” said Joan. “When Rich and I decided to adopt a child we thought, at first, of an American child but it isn’t easy these days. We were sitting in the family room of the King’s charming, spacious split-level home near Loveland before a wood-burning fire in the huge stone fireplace, talking about a matter Rich and Joan had never discussed publicly before because of the many governmental complications involved in adopting foreign children. “Once, when I was shopping with the kids, a woman stopped, looked them over and asked me if I’d had three different husbands.” “We call them our United Nations,” smiled their pretty blonde mother. All three are of different nationalities - Holly is Mexican, Ricky is American and Heather is Vietnamese. Ricky is two and Heather, the baby, is almost two. Holly is the oldest of the three adopted children of WKRC’s Richard King and his wife, Joan. “It means love,” she promptly replied, hugging my neck.įront cover of the Cincinnati Post in 1977 – Joan, Ricky, Holly, Heather and Rich. “Holly,” I asked the beguiling four-year-old with sparkling sable eyes who was sitting on my lap, “What does adopted mean?” Adapted from an article written by Mary Wood of the Cincinnati Post in 1977.
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