Let the Ancestor Speak: The Funeral Home Where Everyone Stared at Me and Brenda Casually Claimed Me

(Posted February 24, 2026)

Hi fellow travelers,

Some of the research stories behind Brenda and my 4x DNA connection are too good (and too human) not to share. I smile about them now, but at the time they felt like plot twists in a family mystery novel. Here are the highlights from our journey to figure out how two cousins—one in Kansas, one in Georgia—could possibly share an ancestor from Civil War days.

It started with a simple Ancestry message from Brenda: “Want to figure out how we’re related?” She matched six of my known relatives, one at over 40 cM—strong enough to point straight to a 4th-cousin link back to the mid-1800s. On my dad’s side, though, the paper trail showed no slavery in direct lines, and most folks had next-to-nothing net worth (under $1,000 in many years). In Georgia, that was barely the price of one enslaved person. So the connection had to be somewhere else. We decided to go find it.

Brenda came to Kansas; I made three trips to Georgia. Georgia, bless it, likes to keep its secrets. Sounds like it’s her turn to come here, doesn’t it?

Before I go any further, a quick note about where I come from—because it shaped how I approached all of this. I grew up in Peru and Costa Rica in the late '70s. My parents were missionaries, so our life was full of adventure, military curfews, and the occasional smoke from overturned buses where protesters were trying to burn down Lima. With light brown hair (almost blond) and blue eyes, I stuck out like a sore thumb in Peru. I remember “Yankees go home” graffiti on walls and the confusion it caused—my family was more Midwest and South than New England, but “Yankee” was just a bad word but how were they to know? Although I was very young, I got the feeling my country was not always on the right side of things. People actually went missing in the '70s. That childhood taught me early to read a room quickly, spot unspoken rules, and never assume anything is as simple as it looks. So when Brenda and I started digging, I approached it the way I always have: eyes wide open, ready for the twists, and expecting the unexpected.

The funeral home scene in Sandersville is still the one that makes me smile every time it's retold. We were hunting a death certificate for Sylvie Turner—the ancestor we thought tied us together. I pushed open the door to what I assumed was the only funeral home in town. The air was cool, quiet, and respectful. I took one step inside and froze. Every single person in the room turned and stared—wide-eyed, silent.

I’m clearly the odd one out, and the stares are so intense I start mentally drafting my escape plan: “Just back out slowly, pretend you’re looking for the bathroom, no sudden moves.” No one says a word. Just… staring. I’m internally whispering, “Abort mission! Abort mission!” but my feet have apparently joined a union and gone on strike.

Then Brenda strolls in behind me, clocks the room, and—without missing a single beat—announces in her calmest, most matter-of-fact voice: 

“She’s my cousin.”

That’s it. No “sorry for the intrusion,” no awkward chuckle, no explanatory footnote. Just “She’s my cousin” like we’d RSVP’d weeks ago and brought the casserole. The room stayed quiet for another beat, then slowly people turned back to what they were doing, as if she’d cast a spell of plausible deniability. I was letting out a nervous laugh right there among the sympathy flowers. Turns out this was the funeral home serving the African American community, and there was a separate one across town for white folks. I had no idea that was still a thing in the 21st century.

One kind soul promised to dig through their archives for Sylvie’s full record and fax it to Brenda if they found it. Spoiler: we’re still waiting on that fax. Another classic dead end in the genealogy game—promises are free, but archives have their own timeline.

But the day wasn’t over. Turns out one of the people in the funeral parlor was Brenda's cousin who suggested we try the local barbershop because the barber’s mother-in-law was a Turner. Little did I know that adventure was about to turn into a whole new chapter of comedy, culture, and cuisine.

Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow: The Barbershop, Pigs’ Feet, and the Gordy Connection.

If you’ve ever had a “wrong door” moment in your research, drop it in the comments—I’d love to hear it.

More soon. The ancestors are still talking… and apparently, they love a good cliffhanger.

Lana Reed 

@ltas411 

Let the Ancestor Speak