I'm searching for an answer to a story that only I was told, or so I believe because no one else knows about it. One day in the late 60's my grandmother told me story. It wasn't a made-up before you go to bed story. It was with wistfulness and cloudy eyes. The kind that you share and it makes you happy and sad at the same time. Why me and why that day, could it had been preordained that genealogy would be my forte?
She spoke about when she was little and how she and her brothers and sisters