I probably should have revealed a long time ago that I don't really know who I am. Believe me, I know how ridiculous that sounds. I knew who I was growing up and all the history that went with it. I got the shock of my life when I found an old photograph of someone that appeared to be about 22 and in a sailor's uniform during World War II. He was the spitting image of me at that age and I immediately showed it to my mother (it was in her drawer). She admitted that it was someone who she had dated during the War and that while she was working in the Shipyards (and her current husband was in jail for manslaughter), this man had loved her and wanted to marry her. She said no.

My mother was FURIOUS that I could even IMPLY that she had a "relationship" that produced ME. The PURITANICAL mindset of that generation (born early in the century), considered it all SHAMEFUL. Thus, the Red Cross was notified, a former boyfriend was sent home to marry her (supposedly the father); and he came from the Aleutian Islands off Alaska to Maine to marry her. A scandal was avoided, a new life started--and came to a screeching halt a few months later with both the death of the father in an accident and the death of the maternal grandmother due to health. It threw my whole world upside down, but even at 3 1/2 years old, I was totally aware of all the emotions, the activity, the ramifications of losing two of my most beloved figures in life, next to my mother.

It would not be until my teenage years and the discovery of the uncanny likeness that I found out the name and the AWFUL discovery that it POSSIBLY could be a very rich man with a name so well known that I HAD to go deeper into research. However, without any help from my mother who refused to discuss the subject until the day of her death, the trail went cold other than an old middle-age photo emerged from the history book showing another mirror-image of me in middle age. I passed it all off as just coincidence and happenstance. I let it pass into history--until the day of my marriage.

I needed a birth certificate to get married so I went to the local town office to get one. I gave the name I grew up with and was given a birth certificate that was PHONETICALLY the same, but spelled differently. It was the ENGLISH version of my name, and when I gave them the FRENCH spelling, they found the correct BC. However, THAT BC had just been created by my mother just two weeks before in preparation for the wedding.

Thus, you can see that I don't really KNOW for certain who I am, nor do I really know the reason for all the secrecy--other than some Puritanical nonsense. For the record, the man in the mystery photo was named J. P. Morgan. This would, of course, make me Irish and would explain 6 redheaded daughters--though redheads have shown up at rare times in the family tree. Thirteen of the grandchildren are also redheaded.

The girls have done some research and one is going to Ireland in April. It's more of curiosity than anything else at the moment. Fame and fortune has nothing to do with it. It IS curious, however, that there is speculation of the "lost tribes" emigrating to Ireland and relics such as Jeremiah's "rock" which sits beneath the throne in Ireland. It is intriguing, but more in a "trivia" sense than anything else.

The TRUTH, however, may BE stranger than the fiction.