My grandfather, whom I called Bobo for reasons I don’t quite understand, was a fascinating man. They tell me he trained to fly bombers in World War II, but after he bombed the chicken coop it was decided that he would be more helpful to the war effort working at a desk. Bobo was a teacher, but after the war he went to law school and eventually was elected as a county judge. Never one to get into a rut, he tried out a variety of professions, often spending his summers taking classes at universities around the country.

At some point, he became interested in genealogy and researched not only his line, but also those of his many grandchildren. Although I’ve always been intrigued with history, I paid only passing attention to the many books that Bobo published over the years. When he died in 2009, however, I suddenly found myself driven–probably by Bobo’s spirit–to trace the history of my family for myself. I soon discovered that, although Bobo had done extensive work, he had not found the grandparents of my Grandma Diddy, Bobo’s first wife. They had immigrated from Ireland some time around 1880, but that’s the end of the information about them. Rose and James are mysteries, but I hope to find them in Ireland this summer.