"What had seemed to be a simple exercise was turning into a real puzzle," Florence lamented later in her journal about the secret family messages. "Right from the start I found myself grappling with two family trees."
Two family trees?
It was the other family tree, which was not hers, that would really send her into a tizzy.
So for ten of her later years in life, between the ages of 72 and 81, this very ordinary grandmother meticulously followed every lead, every hunch, every clue, with the determination and tenacity of a bloodhound. And the intelligence of a young university student.
Then with every visit I'd make she would drive me nuts with her latest discoveries.
Which, as we shall see, ventured beyond Florence's family tree into unexpected (and high) places.
We didn't always agree.
Sometimes when I would challenge her pet theory or her slides in logic tears would well up in her eyes and, as if suddenly we'd reversed roles and she'd become my little innocent daughter, she would tell me how hard it was to be doing this alone.
The responsibility wasn't easy, she'd declare in a little girl manner, that she wasn't an educated woman, that she was only doing her best.
At which point I'd capitulate and assure her what a fantastic job she was doing.
Which was the truth.
Then something quite unexpected happened that turned the nature of her enquiries in an entirely new direction.
