By allowing ads to appear on this site, you support the local businesses who, in turn, support great journalism.
Listen!
Kathy Bradley
Many years ago, long before ancestry.com and spit-in-a-tube DNA tests, I sat at the kitchen table of the little house on South College Street and asked my daddy’s daddy to tell me about his family. Not us, all the grown-up aunts and uncles who used to be the children he bounced on his knees and threatened to, but never did, spank with a leather belt. Not us cousins, who rushed in and out of the house like indecisive waves, the screen door sounding behind us over and over.
Sign up for the Herald's free e-newsletter