Crime. Murder. Bank Robberies. Hidden Treasure. Dragons. Here lie all the ingredients for a rousing tale. If you wanted, you could even tell one story with each item in that list. Didn’t Harry Potter have to break into a bank that was guarded by a dragon during one of his adventures? To say I love stories is an understatement. I loved a rollicking good story before my obsession with books even started. But my habits, my addictions, truly sunk deep in my blood during the fifth and sixth grades. That’s when I first read the works of J. R. R. Tolkien and Franklin W. Dixon (yes, I know Dixon was a pseudonym for multiple ghostwriters, but as a kid I thought of him as one guy).  

Anyway, from those first reads I gained a lifelong love for J. R. R. Tolkien. And although I no longer read the Hardy Boys anymore, my fascination for the entire mystery genre began with them. I devoured book after book featuring Frank and Joe Hardy, relishing their adventures in The Tower Treasure, searching for the Secret of the Caves, or wondering what was in The Secret Panel. I mean, who doesn’t love a good mystery? Spicing up a story of any genre, whether it’s a fantasy, romance, or historical fiction, is as easy as introducing a secret, a puzzle, a stolen identity, international intrigue, or buried treasure. But what happens when you encounter a real secret? I mean a real-life secret. One you find in your own family. Especially a secret held by those who are the closest to you. The people you thought didn’t hold anything back. For some, revealing a secret is life shattering. For others, it’s like eating a piece of candy. 

In 2001, my grandfather, Charles F. Taylor passed. As a 26-year-old who always lived far away from him, I mourned the loss of the only grandparent I’d ever known. He stayed with us on various occasions, and once a year or so I’d get to visit, but I never really got to spend time with him the way my cousins did. So the minute I got the news of his passing, I packed my car for a weekend trip and drove to his Arizona home for the funeral. All my mom’s siblings were there. Half of them sat around in a dazed stupor until my aunt (we all have that one aunt), took to the bottle to ease her pain. Everyone else scattered quickly then. They ran back to their hotel rooms and left me with the lush of an aunt until morning. 

I was grateful for the funeral, if only to escape my drunken aunt. But then something extraordinary happened. While sitting in the pew of the little church providing the services, mom stood up to speak and give a life history of my grandfather. And at first, I wasn’t really sure I heard her right. I did a double take. I looked around to see if anyone else looked confused, but they all seemed to take it in stride. What did she say that rocked my world? She said, “It is unknown why Charles F., born James Monroe Taylor, took his brother’s name.” 

My head spun. Did I hear what I thought I heard? Did mom say grandpa took his brother’s name? Why would he do that? How did he do that? How can you be born James Monroe Taylor and knowingly transition into Charles F. Taylor? My mind reeled with even more questions. How old was he when he took his brother’s name? What year did he do it in? Most importantly, why is this the first I’m hearing about it? 

I learned the answer to one of the questions then and there.  

It’s the first I heard about it because families keep secrets.  

Because people are often tight-lipped about various aspects of their lives.  

All at once, in one moment, because of one statement from a church pulpit, grandpa became exponentially more intriguing. He became an international man of mystery, and unfortunately for me, we were about 45 minutes from burying him with his secrets. Now that he was gone, who could he tell? 

Dead. Gone. Buried.  

Where do I even start to find the answers to questions I didn’t know to ask before that moment? You see, grandpa, he was a quiet man who called all of his loved ones “pumpkin,” and he never once offered me a single detail about his life. He answered questions sparingly if you asked him, and those sparing answers varied in their levels of depth and specificity.  

One time I asked, “Grandpa, what do you think of your enchilada?” 

“Small,” he responded before the rest of the conversation fell silent.  

And the enchilada in question was probably about half his size (he was a little guy himself). This small enchilada came after he ate four taquitos and the rice and beans on the side. Moments later, while sitting quietly at the table, we offered my brother an enchilada and some taquitos. My brother said, “Nah, I’m good. I’m going to have some stew.” 

To which my grandfather finally piped up. “There’s stew? I’ll have some stew,” he said and kept eating quietly. My grandfather was quiet and listened to everything everyone said.  

That quiet nature is, for me, one piece of evidence that he actually took his brother’s name. You see, I’m skeptical by nature. I’m not sure I believed mom’s story. Sometimes I think it could be a hoax. But there are questions. Quite a few of them if you ask my family. There’s evidence and clues, some circumstantial, some fact. On somedays, I believe. On others . . . 

On others, I dig. But before I really started digging mom told me a story. She said that years after she found out he took his brother’s name she asked him, “Why did you take your brother’s name?” 

“Ask Reni (the drunken aunt). I told her everything,” was grandpa’s reply.  

So, trusting my Aunt Reni to have the answers, mom asked her sister about the entire affair. “What are you talking about?” Reni said. “Dad never told me anything about that.” 

And thus ended that session of mom’s sleuthing.  

One time I asked mom, “How did you find out Grandpa took his brother’s name?” Mom told me the tale. According to her, grandma took on some ironings for extra income. One day when the postman came to deliver the mail, mom maneuvered past the ironing board grandma was working at and went to grab the mail. On her return, she sorted through the letters to find one addressed to James Taylor (not the musical artist). “Oh, we need to catch the postman before he leaves,” mom said to grandma.  

“Why? What do you have there?” grandma responded.  

“There’s a letter for a James Taylor. That’s not us.” 

Grandma motioned for mom to give her the letter.  

“Give it to me,” she said. “That’s for your Dad.” 

Confused over why her Dad, Charles, who was typically referred to as Chuck or Pinky, would have a different name, she handed the letter over to grandma.  

“Your Dad was born with the name James,” was the most explanation mom received. In subsequent conversations, mom asked about grandpa’s name change and my grandmother surmised my grandfather changed his name when he ran away from the Civilian Conservation Corps. Personally, changing your name because you ran away from the CCC doesn’t sound like an offense you keep secret for sixty years after the program ended. At least not from your closest loved ones.  

Still, the man kept the reason secret. On another occasion grandpa entertained his brother, Charles Franklin Taylor in the home (My grandfather only ever went by Charles F. not Franklin). Mom, understanding the old ideal—children are to be seen and not heard--made herself scarce, but clearly remembers keeping quiet in the presence of the two Charles. She felt awkward and even thought something more illicit might have happened for grandpa to take a new name. She got the impression because she knew she wasn’t supposed to let her uncle know that her father used the name Charles.  

But who really knows? The mind of a child can imagine all kinds of intrigue and subterfuge. So can the minds of adult grandchildren who would like to know a few extra details of their grandparents’ lives. I wonder if grandpa felt the need to lie in order to serve in World War II? Then I discount the idea—he was plenty old enough to serve by the time the United States entered the war. I wonder if he struggled with some illicit affair with another woman somewhere. I wonder if he was running from money troubles or some other problem where he wanted to live secretly.  

I don’t know why he took on his brother’s name. I don’t know how he legally changed it. My perception is that it would have been easier to appropriate someone else’s identity (modern technology might have something to say about that).  But still, knowing about this little family mystery in the first place is a great impetus for me to sit down with family and friends, to document my life, the life of my family and others. It’s a great story that links me to the power of a name, an individual, and helps me learn about a man I didn’t get enough time with while he walked this earth. It also makes me think--If Grandpa had a secret identity, can I have one too?

Although I have my own memories on the subject, it also gives me the excuse to call my mom. Before writing this down, I called her and asked her again about my grandparents. I wanted to ensure I wasn’t mistaken in any of the details of the story. On this go round I was reminded that people often called grandpa, “Pinky.” I don’t remember hearing that detail before, even when it was part of the eulogy at his funeral. I've probably forgotten more than I should have (all the more reason to cite your sources, am I right?). I’ve known for some time that Grandpa served in the CCC, but I haven’t truly explored that aspect of his life. My mom and I wrote various agencies to see if we could find more information about it, but alas, our search was fruitless. Hearing about the CCC is so different than the harmonica playing, radio transmitting man I know, the one who wasn’t afraid to beat an 8-year-old at the billiard table three games straight—three games where the 8-year-old only attempted three shots.  

Those additional details matter to me. Just like it matters that I get to ask mom about her family. This mystery, one of many, might not quite be as adventurous as the Hardy Boys, but it has its intrigue, and better yet, I am the one who gets to do the sleuthing. Genealogy is all about the sleuthing. With this story, sometimes I dig deep. Other times I am content to let it be the family story. But these mysteries, they’re one of the reasons we spend so many hours on the computer, in dusty libraries and archives, walking cemeteries . . . we love the hunt for our families and to solve these mysteries. I know you have family mysteries, family stories. Tear jerkers. Romances. Comedies. We all do. We have secrets buried with those who have gone before. What are they? And how are you finding your answers? What will the journey be like along the way?  

Here at the Mississippi Genealogical Society we love a good story, a good mystery—we love a good tale we can share with others and ones that will help make meaning in you and your family’s life. So if you feel inclined to share a story or two, maybe a romance, or an adventure, a mystery, or some other aspect of your genealogy, please think about joining us for a meeting, writing a blog post, or submitting a photo we can use on social media. Or just come enjoy the membership of this community who loves discovering kin.  

There’s always more to learn if you ask the right questions.