My mom was adopted. She never found out who her real parents were before she died at 43. So my brother and I did.
Biological Grandma was dead but we met several of her brothers and sisters. They were all either old or dead already.
On mom’s birth certificate, the line for the father’s name was blank. I questioned the aunt and she claimed ignorance, with a shoo of her hand. She mentioned that it could’ve possibly been an army man coming through town, she wasn’t sure.
Aunt told me that bio-grandma ended up marrying an Italian guy. Had “izzo” at the end of his name. Said they adopted a seven year old boy from Italy. None of them have a good relationship with him now. They don’t know where he lives.
So Grandma gives her baby up for adoption, and then adopts another kid.
I took a DNA test from Ancestry.com. That test led me to discover the name of my biological grandfather. MY MOM’s DAD. The name on that line. I am positive that this is the man that knocked up my mom’s mom. I canNOT believe it, AND I’m totally convinced I’m a genius.
I was satisfied with my discovery, so my interest in the subject was put to rest for awhile. Fast forward a year or so.
It was a couple of weeks ago. My son and I are going on a tour of the British Isles in June. I thought it would be cool to see if any of the places in Ireland and Scotland are going to on our trip, have any connections to our ancestors. So, I renewed my ancestry.com subscription and I’m obsessed and living in my computer again. I was enjoying myself so much, I decided to make an ancestry photo book for my brother.
I finished that, but I’m not ready to put it down, so I decide to make a a genealogy book dedicated to my mom. I could fill in her missing father’s, grandmothers, and aunts and cousins that she never had a chance to search for herself.
I pull up mom’s bio-dad on ancestry.com. I knew a little about HIM, but nothing about his life, or his family. I start clicking on birth certificates, death certificates, and census records. I found his name on every one. Checked all the info, where he was, how old, blah, blah. I made notes of his parents names, where the were born, the age at the time the census was taken. Census records were taken every ten years.
I got to the third census record. He was seven years old, it said. I saw his mother’s name, then father’s….finally found his name. I scrolled my eyeballs carefully to the right, so I wouldn’t lose the line I was on.
There was a category in the census for your status in your house, or who you were. You fill in whether you’re, “Head” of household, or “Wife,” or maybe, “boarder” or “servant“, “mother-in-law.” Of course “Child” or “grandmother.” Back in the early days there’d be fifteen people in one household taking up the half of the page.
When I looked at the household status line where my biological grandfather’s status was, it said in black cursive handwriting , “Child. / Adopted“.