Marge was my mother. All of our lives, my brothers and I heard that we were part American Indian. She was orphaned during the Depression, and for all these years we had no traces of her family to either prove or disprove her story.
Then along comes my nephew's wife, a rabid genealogist. For the past few years she's doggedly pursued the threads of the Hendrickson line. She really is a very determined woman. I'd given up, my brothers had lost interest. But out of nowhere, Lisa managed to find some member of the family who had extensive info, and voila! Marge wasn't full of shit!
Marge's father's father's mother was a Mohawk. Her Christian name was Mary Catherine. She died by slipping off a bridge and drowning. As scant as that info is, it's more than we've ever had. It explains a lot. But most of all, it proves that our mother wasn't lying. That's really priceless. Though Marge isn't here to enjoy our discovery, she's probably somewhere waiting to say, "See? I told you so," to each of us who pooh-poohed her. So Happy Mother's Day, Ma. I know you're enjoying this one. You've got Lisa to thank, after you gloat over the rest of us.
Sunday Sermon And Hoots
9 hours ago