Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Read Free

June.”
    Lord, why can’t I just say no to people? I honestly didn’t have the time to mess with this. And I wasn’t so sure I’d do it even if I had the time. Maybe it was because I’d always thought she was a snob. Whatever the reason, it left me as quickly as it came when I saw her wringing her hands, and I looked down at his photograph again. What must it be like to be fifty years old and not know your father?
    â€œWhat’s his name?” I heard myself ask.
    â€œEugene Counts,” she said as she sat down in a chair next to the wall and smiled.
    â€œWhen was he born?”
    â€œProbably in 1923.”
    â€œWhere was he born?”
    â€œProbably in Missouri.”
    â€œAnd his parents?” I asked, expecting her to say, “Probably somebody.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Well, at least she was certain of her lack of information. After ten years of doing this sort of thing, it still amazes me that people can know so little about their own parents.
    â€œDid he die in the war?” I asked. I tried to take notes by bending over my desk.
    â€œProbably.” Back to that again. She looked around the room. It was a tiny room, just off from the ballroom. She stared at the poster, which also served as a map of New Kassel. It read: “Step Back in Time. Discover Historic New Kassel, Missouri, and All It Has to Offer.”
    â€œMy mother and father never married, and I guess he felt like he didn’t have to come home to her when the war was over. He may have found somebody, a woman, in Europe and stayed. All I know is he used to write, then one day he stopped. My mother never asked him about his family.”
    She pulled out several yellowed pieces of paper from her purse. They were letters, addressed to Viola Pritcher. The lighting in the office wasn’t the best, and I had a difficult time reading the faded ink.
    â€œThese are two of the last letters that he sent her. I have all the others at home,” she said as she arose and went over to the wall opposite the window, where a very old, very pretty rose of Sharon quilt hung on the wall.
    The quilt was a donation from an elderly member of the society. The rose parts of the quilt were appliquéd one on top of the other in different shades of pink to give a multidimensional look, and the green vine swirled around connecting the roses. The quilting was very fine, with the stitches accenting the flowers themselves.
    â€œThe rose of Sharon quilt was traditionally the bridal quilt,” I said to Norah. “Most brides generally had one quilt in that design.”
    She smiled and hugged herself. “I always want to touch them. Do you?”
    â€œYes. Quilts have that effect. Go ahead, if you like.”
    She ran her small fingers across the appliqué roses, lost in her private thoughts.
    â€œSo, how far do you want me to go back? How many generations?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’d like to know at least who my great-great-grandparents were.”
    â€œAll right,” I said. I reached into the upper left-hand drawer of the Civil War–era desk. It was one of the first items Hermann Gaheimer had acquired for himself when he arrived. “Fill out this form, as best you can. I’ll be right back.”
    I went to the ladies’ room. I have no idea why all the women in the nineteenth century didn’t die of bladder infections. If I had to live in one of these dresses all the time, I’d limit myself to peeing twice a day.
    It took me awhile to get back to the office. I stopped by the soda machine in the hallway and got a Dr Pepper. The soda machine is definitely out of place. It’s like a satellite dish in the Amazon forest. Oh well, we must have our caffeine.
    When I got back to my office, she was gone. The form, which requested the names, dates, and places of birth and death for the ancestors that she could remember, was barely written on. The photograph and