RANDY LINDSAY is a native of Arizona. He lives in Mesa with his wife, five of his nine children, a dog, a cat, and a hyperactive imagination. His wife calls him the “Story Man” because he sees everything as material for a story. He has three books traditionally published and four indie-published titles.As a family historian, Randy has 14 years of genealogy experience. He has researched over 5,000 names in his own family tree and helped over a dozen other people in their ancestral quests. He has a passion for family history and a newfound appreciation for the frequency in which family relations can turn out to be different than what everyone believes to be true.
“Raised in a family he bore little resemblance to, Randy was jokingly referred to as “”the milkman’s son.”” This warm and candid memoir chronicles the unraveling of a family secret, which begins with Randy’s dad having dreams about deceased relatives urging him to complete their family tree. Randy agrees to help with the genealogy, but after his searching leads to a dead end, he takes a commercially available DNA test. The results reveal a possible genetic match to a sister, which begins a familial quest that forever changes the author’s life.
Featuring a cast of vivid characters, richly drawn from two distinct families, The Milkman’s Son, reveals on man’s family tree, pulling back layers of new information as he gets closer to the truth–a biological father, siblings, and family members he never knew existed.
This is a story of accepting, forgiving, reuniting, and, most importantly, it’s about the bonds that connect us and the unconditional love that makes us feel like we belong. “
Snippet:
“Am I Russian?” I ask.
“No,” says Ancestry.com. “You’re ice cold.”
“Am I . . . Irish?”
“You’re getting warmer,” Ancestry taunts.
My eyes roam over the map, placing family names on the countries where I know they originated. England . . . Scotland . . . Germany . . . Denmark . . . France . . . Poland.
Poland?
I don’t have family from Poland. My research goes back to 1800 for most of my lines. All the branches have names that fit the countries where the family originated. There are no Romonovs, Bartollonis, or Kowalskis in my family tree. Not that there is anything wrong with those names or heritages, I just happen to know who is in the family and who isn’t.
“No,” says Ancestry.com. “You’re ice cold.”
“Am I . . . Irish?”
“You’re getting warmer,” Ancestry taunts.
My eyes roam over the map, placing family names on the countries where I know they originated. England . . . Scotland . . . Germany . . . Denmark . . . France . . . Poland.
Poland?
I don’t have family from Poland. My research goes back to 1800 for most of my lines. All the branches have names that fit the countries where the family originated. There are no Romonovs, Bartollonis, or Kowalskis in my family tree. Not that there is anything wrong with those names or heritages, I just happen to know who is in the family and who isn’t.
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