Forty years ago or so my late grandmother had a falling out with her brother. I don't know the details. Never heard the whole story. It was about a man I had never met. Barely heard of. I only knew I had an uncle somewhere.

I knew my great grandmother and my aunt. I had heard countless stories about all of them. I heard all about my great grandfather. I have his immigration papers and trinkets from WWI. But I never knew my uncle.

My grandmother died in 1998. And I wrote a story about it. I thought the story and the history had died with her.

Yesterday I received an email from someone I didn’t know. Someone I had never heard of. I almost deleted it as spam. My cursor hovered over the remove button until I saw the same sender twice in my mail box.

The header read simply "cousins."

"I am guessing from your story that your name is Jim. I read that your grandma was born Marion C, and if from Connecticut, that would make her my dad’s sister…My aunt Marion. Help me, here…Does this sound right? Aunt Marion was married to Uncle Tony, who was a terrific gardener. All I know is that they lived in Arizona. I only met them once, on a day trip to Connecticut to my grandmother Julia’s home. I also met Aunt El that day, and ate my grandmother’s cooking. My dad, Ralph, is now 75 and he is Marion & Eleanor’s kid brother. They lived in Norfolk, Connecticut. So your dad (if he is Marion’s son) would be my cousin, and you would be…my second cousin? My name is A. and I would really like to hear from you, if you are willing to jump into this. I have so few memories and just tidbits of information about my family that I would be truly grateful. Thanks, A."

Her information (with the sole exception of Norfolk - it's actually Norwalk), was correct. I played in that house in Norwalk, eating from my grandfather's garden and pulling apples from his trees and raspberries from the shrubs. My father and my uncle grew up there. I listened to stories from my Aunt Eleanor and collected feathers with her in the woods. My grandmother made us jello and cakes and we caught fireflies outside the deck every summer. Our dogs would rumble and play with Buffy, my grandmother's Boston Terrier, and we would play games on the tractor in the garage or wander around in the smooth river rocks at the stream in the back. My great grandmother would come over with her homemade pizzelles and we would fall asleep stuffed and tired in the car on the way back home to Danbury or later, to Brewster.

And in all those years, I never knew I had an uncle. Or a cousin.

Until yesterday. Until a little wonder and a little happenstance and a single name and a single Yahoo query led her directly to my digital door.

I don't know what happened forty years ago. I don't know what drove the family apart. My family tree, like every family tree, has holes and scars and fallen boughs. But because of a story I wrote and posted here, my tree grew a little taller.

Writing this website has given me a lot these last two years. I’ve found friendship and romance and frustration and laughter and frankly, I’ve found out a lot about myself. But yesterday, yesterday I found family.

Or more accurately, family found me.