We all have our Oprah moments, memories of childhood upheaval or dysfunction that plague us beyond our ever advancing maturity. For some, it’s abuse. For others, it’s abandonment. In my case (true confessions time) it was discovering that Grandpa Johnson, the man who was my mother’s biological father, was not dead. You see, we all grew up thinking we knew the story of my mom’s side of the family. Grandma Ridgeway had married Mr. Johnson, had two children (the other being my wonderful Aunt Sarah) and then he died. We knew it. Mom knew it. Aunt Sarah knew it. After the war, my Grandmother married Sgt. Ridgeway and they had a son, Gary. “Sarge”, as he liked to be called, had an older boy named Ike as well.