“Make yourself at home.” Just like the rest of the house, the room was spacious, perfectly decorated and not by a teenager. This was the step-mom’s design, I’m sure. There was a television on the opposite wall of the bed; the walls were navy blue with deep green accents. Pictures of Nixon in uniform, playing on the field, lined the walls. The only give away that a teen boy actually lived in here was all the clutter on the floor and shelves.
‘Put your number in my phone. Easy to text that way.’ I typed, then handed it to Nixon. He finally got his number in after trying many times to access the feature. Kids these days, don’t know how to deal with old technology. Chuckling, I texted him, ‘You’re slow.’
“I deserve that. Okay. Okay. Well, I was thinking since you’re here, we might try to find out why we’re so alike. Who are your grandparents?” The seat beside the computer looked inviting, so I sat down and took out that notebook Nixon had given me. I tore two sheets out and wrote our names at the top.
My family tree was sloppy, but rough drafts are hardly ever perfect, I handed him his paper and gave him mine as well to examine. I’d went back to my great-great grandparents, that’s as far back as I could remember. He offered up his tree as well and we went to work on seeing any relation. There was none. He was not Native American, like I’d expected, nor Hispanic.
“Scoot over.” He grabbed the other chair next to me and sat down in front of the laptop. “There’s this genealogy website where you can put in someone’s name and their information comes up, it’s like where they put in the census of that time or whatever.” Sounded interesting. The site came up in a boring text with a search box in the middle of the page. The keys clicked as he typed in his great grandfathers’ name. Harold James.
‘Let our quest begin,’ I thought.