One day, while milking cows in the big barn, your grandfather heard terrified squeals coming from the pigsty near the pine trees west of the farmhouse. He looked out to see a large hawk swooping down, trying to snatch the young piglets with its sharp talons. So, he grabbed his shotgun, which he kept loaded in the barn, and ran to save the pigs. Halfway there, he tripped in the tall grass and fell. The gun went off, and buckshot struck his chest and head. And before anyone from the farmhouse could reach him, Jimmy, he died. Mom and I didn't discuss my grandfather's death again for many years, and I never had sufficient courage to ask my father or grandmother about him. What I would discover was that Mom's tearful story had been a lie. To paraphrase a noted archaeologist, we must know our ancestry to know ourselves. To uncover the truth about my grandfather's death, I needed to learn so much more about my family. I wanted to understand our values and traditions and hear the stories passed from generation to generation. In this process of discovery, I anticipated that I would learn more about myself. And most of all, I hoped that I would finally learn how my grandfather died and understand why my family had created the lie. This book is the story of my search for the truth. The journey would lead me through a series of family events that ultimately took a pandemic to connect. My search was like assembling a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle with key pieces missing. It would take my imagination and some guesses to fill the gaps.