My mother, whose maiden name was Kinsey, was born in Lompoc, California. I was indeed a member of the Kinsey family, despite the fact that there had been no contact (that I knew of) in the years since my parents’ death. At the time, I’d paid for a copy of the form, which I’d placed in my files. Now I looked at it with new eyes. My paternal grandfather—my father’s father—was Quillen Millhone. My grandmother’s maiden name was Rebecca Dace. Their only son, my father, was Terrence Randall Millhone, who went by the name Randy. He listed his place of birth as Bakersfield, California, which I’d forgotten. Terrence Dace’s full name was Randall Terrence Dace. The two given names had probably been recycled through the family in variations from one generation to the next, going back who knows how far. If Rebecca Dace had brothers, it would explain how the surname Dace remained in play.

Why hadn’t I made the connection when I first heard the name? It’s not as though Dace was a common name like Smith or Jones. The truth was, I’d been raised thinking of myself as an orphan. My Aunt Gin, for reasons of her own, had neatly sidestepped any talk of our family history. While she was intimately acquainted with the facts, she felt no compulsion to advise me of my antecedents. When assorted Kinsey relatives appeared in my life, I reacted as though my world were being invaded by aliens. I was unaccustomed to cousins and aunts, and I chafed at their overtures, which were motivated by goodwill. The existence of my maternal grandmother, Cornelia Straith LaGrand Kinsey, was a shock and not one I received with grace. Over the past couple of years, I’d adjusted (more or less), but I wasn’t entirely reconciled to any of it.