Coming Home | Meeting My Biological Family After a 62 Year Mystery

     

Group photo from our first Arkansas visit! (8/24/25)

    Hello everyone! I have something to share that has been so long in the making, something incredibly close to my heart. As of late, I've been on a life changing journey that I have prayed for since childhood. Some of you who know me personally may know that one of the driving reasons behind my interest in genealogy comes from my own personal family mystery. As can be seen in my previous posts, I am extremely close with my grandparents, and based off of our relationship, some may be surprised to learn that they are actually my grandparents via adoption. I am beyond grateful to say that this has never hindered our relationship, and I couldn't have asked for better family. With that being said, I would like to open up the dialogue to tell y'all a little more about my backstory.

    Growing up, my dad never knew his biological father. In fact, it wasn't until he was a teenager that he was made aware that the man on his birth certificate and who he called "dad", was not his biological father. Thankfully, this didn't sour the relationship between the two, and my dad still shares fond memories of Charles Moore Sr. Sadly, Charles and my father's mother eventually separated, leaving my dad without a consistent father figure. This led to more questions about his biological father, especially as he grew into adulthood.

    It was my great aunt Nellie, my father's mother's sister, that had the information that my father was seeking. She shared basic information that she recalled from decades prior, as my father by this time was in his thirties. She shared a name, home state, estimated age, and a few other details, and it was from here that the search began. Aunt Nellie made a point to emphasize how much my dad favored his father, who she had met all those years ago. My father spent decades searching for his estranged biological family, to no avail. I grew up knowing about our family mystery, my dad sharing age-appropriate pieces of information over the years and carefully answering my questions. I too grew curious and wanted to know more about our roots.

    I was about thirteen or fourteen when I began my own search for answers. Newspaper clippings, phone books, and finally, an Ancestry.com account, thanks to my mom. I spent years filing through documents and directories, all the while sending message after message to strangers, all along the lines of "Do you know this person?" I too failed to make any real progress, until I was gifted a DNA test kit. Of course I was interested to learn more about my heritage, but I knew what answers I really hoped the test would bring. 

    When I received the results, my heart raced as I filed through the matches. There, I saw three close matches with the last name that Aunt Nellie had given my father in the 1990s. I knew that this had opened a new door for my dad and I. I reached out to a few of the matches, and relatives of matches via social media several times over the course of the next few years. It was this past April (2025) that the final breakthrough was made. I was in the car with my step-mom when I got a notification on Facebook Messenger. It was a member of our missing biological family, a cousin, named Mikka. She had caught wind of my search and reached out to me. She too is the granddaughter of my once mysterious paternal grandfather, named Mack. Her mother, Joan, is my dad's older sister. Joan hadn't taken a DNA test, therefor I never knew to look for her. She had slipped under my radar. Best of all, they wanted to know us. 

    I had never experienced a feeling quite like that one, it was everything I had dreamed it would be. We rushed home to the farm to tell my father the news that he had waited all of his sixty-two years for. That was the first time I've seen him shed tears of joy. I did too, and have many times since then. A couple days later, I called Joan to go over everything, as she was gracious enough to give me her phone number. This was the phone call that had played in my mind a million times over throughout my life. She met me with such kindness and warmth, I knew that my life had been forever changed. We were so quickly welcomed into the family and shown nothing but outpouring love. Most of the family lives in Arkansas, a moderate driving distance, but it was unanimously agreed to meet as soon as possible.

My Dad, cousin Brett, and I meeting for the first time (7/19/25)

    The first meeting of our new family came in July when Joan's son Brett and wife Cheyenne were visiting a local tourist town here in my father and I's home state of Missouri to celebrate their anniversary. We had decided to meet for lunch at a local favorite restaurant. Our emotions were high, I really couldn't believe this was finally happening. When the pair arrived, we were greeted with so much love and enthusiasm, I felt a joy that surpassed anything I had known before. Hugs were traded and we had so much to discuss, we had altogether forgotten we were supposed to order a meal. This day will stay so vivid in my mind.

Group photo! (7/19/25)

    From here, we knew we had to make our plans to meet Joan. Finding the time and ability to take a day off can be difficult when in the farming business, but we finally managed to make it happen this past weekend! My dad and I were up bright and early Sunday morning to make the two-and-a-half-hour drive into rural Arkansas. I was so excited I nearly sent myself into a panic attack. The drive was beautiful and flew by as we chattered about the miracle taking place. When we arrived at Joan's house, we stood there in the driveway for a moment before going to the door, absorbing the moment, reflecting, and appreciating. Somehow the sun seemed to shine brighter that day, and the colors of the world more vivid. 

My Dad and Joan! (8/24/25)

    When we reached the door, several family members met us there. Smiles, hugs, and greetings erupted. Expressions of shock due to my father's striking resemblance to Mack passed around the room. I had never been here before, but I felt as if I had just gotten home. I ran to my Aunt Joan and wrapped my arms around her at the first given chance. I worked my way around the group, finally ending with Mikka. She took me in and I let out a sigh of relief as I melted into her arms. Two more family members then arrived, Mikka's two daughters. Also there is Brett and Cheyenne, and this time we got to meet one of their sons as well! We all filed into the living area and sat in a big circle, covering sixty-two years of lost time. I looked around at everyone, and once again I struggle to find the words to describe such a feeling. Each of these people had shown up for us and met us with unconditional love, no questions asked. 

My Dad, Joan and I looking through family photos and documents. (8/24/25)

    After visiting some, Joan announced that she had made banana pudding for us all. She had no way of knowing that banana pudding is one of my dad's all-time favorite desserts, but it seems some kind of higher power had whispered in her ear. We piled into the kitchen and all had a bowl of the delicious pudding as we looked through several family photos and documents, much to my dad and I's amazement. Even a family member in Texas who couldn't be there to meet us called on FaceTime to be a part of the celebration and send us her love. I prayed that it wasn't all a dream. 

My Dad and I at Joan's, him holding a photo of his father, Mack. (Note the resemblance!) (8/24/25)

    Eventually we had to begin our haul back to Southeast Missouri, but I am already looking forward to seeing my new family again. We've already made plans for upcoming holidays and day trips. It's hard to fit a journey like this into one blog post, so I would really like to delve into things more in the future with my family's blessing. I've learned that my grandfather Mack was a vibrant character, loved by his friends and community, something I am so proud of. Mack passed away in 1986 never knowing about my father's existence, so our meeting will have to wait. Though I can't help but think that he is proudly watching over us all as we reunite and come together. 

    We still have more family to meet and lots of bonding to do, along with chasing down those ancestral roots that nearly slipped through my fingers. I'm eager to update on my journey in the future, as I fully enjoy and savor these blessings. To my newfound family, thank you for everything, and I am so happy to finally know your love. At this point in the journey, I suppose the only pivotal question I have left, is if it is too soon to say "I love you."

Solving a Missing Photo Mystery | More About My Grandpa

     First of all, I want to express my gratitude toward those of you who read my last post and shared such kind and encouraging words. I'm graciously overwhelmed by the response, and I can't tell you all how much it means to me. Each of your compliments brings me great honor, most times I can't believe they are being said about me. To say I have great friends, family, and readers is an understatement. Without those things, I believe I would find it rather difficult to write at all, even if it is a much-needed mode of therapy. I'm really grateful for your support. 

    Although I understood the direction I was meant to continue writing in, I wasn't specifically sure where to start. There is so much to cover. So many people, so many memories. Of course, I gravitated toward the idea of writing more about my grandpa, but how could I possibly fit him into one article? It simply can't be done, so I was left once again wondering where to start. Today, I got my answer. Another seemingly divine encounter with impeccable timing. 

    I've been documenting my life and travels for as long as I can remember. I've always been the friend that takes all the pictures. I call myself a "memory hoarder". It began with disposable film cameras, then a digital camera, and eventually my first iPhone. Sometimes when I wanted to capture a moment important to me, I'd ask someone to take a photo of me. I've kept as many photos as possible from throughout my life, although I was always somewhat bothered by a group of photos and videos that I had lost track of. I had taken these between the ages of 10 to 14 on my first couple of iPhones. Last I could remember, they were uploaded onto my cute yellow laptop...that I haven't seen in years. I thought about the photos fairly often and hoped they didn't get thrown out with the computer, but it wasn't looking good. Over the years I had found a couple drives, looked through the photos, no luck. I had just about given up.

    Today, my dad came over to visit me. My chronic illness has been giving me trouble, and he knows his presence is some of the best medicine. While here, he was rummaging through a drawer looking for batteries, when he pulled out a dusty CD case with two discs inside. "Jen iPhone Pics 2014" they read in black marker. I was stunned. That drawer had been blocked for some time, so I hadn't looked there for the photos. I also don't recall them being put onto discs, something my dad must've thoughtfully done before laying my old computer to rest. "I should've known you wouldn't have just chucked the computer without saving my pictures." I said to him. "Of course not." he smiled and handed me the case, along with the disc reader to use with my current laptop. 

    I had a loose idea of what some of the photos could be. Snapshots of weekends at Goose Creek, our trip to Florida, my dad and I's adventures. A while back, my dad had asked me if I still had those pictures of my grandpa and I hauling hay on the farm when I was a kid. Unfortunately, those were among the missing photos. I prayed there would be a way to recover them, as they were all the more precious now. When I popped the first disc in, I knew what I hoped I would find. The first disc I put in was actually the second disc chronologically; all of the photos being taken in 2014. I flipped through them all, happy about my finds, but not entirely satisfied. I ejected the disc and switched it out for disc one, those photos being taken in 2013. 

    I flipped through only a handful of photos before I reached what I had been searching for. The photo was even better than I remembered, showing both my grandpa and I in our tractors, side by side. It was a great wave of emotion, a true feeling of joy. I immediately sent it to my dad, who was also overjoyed. I knew then what I would write about today. 

My grandfather (Darrell Plummer) and I (Jennie Moore) hauling hay on our farm in Knob Lick, Missouri - taken summer of 2013.

    Hauling hay with my grandpa, who I always called "Papa", is among my most favorite memories. Any memory I have of us spending time together on the farm lay especially close to my heart. I was blessed with countless summer days where I tagged along with Papa to check the cattle and visit his parents who lived in the farmhouse at the time. I think even then I knew how special those moments were. He trusted me with big tasks early; he always believed in me more than I believed in myself. Maybe eleven is a bit young to be operating agricultural equipment, but he never put me in over my head. We did this many times over the years, always without incident. We worked well together, and he always had a way of knowing what I was capable of. 

   He taught me how to drive slowly and carefully, keeping an eye out for ruts in the field. There were even times where he let me sit on his lap and drive his truck in the field. I don't know what I did to deserve the honors he gave me, but I'm forever grateful he allowed me to have those experiences. 

    Today, my dad and step-mother live in the farmhouse, taking over about two years ago. That has been one of the biggest blessings in my life, without question. Often I roam the fields, reminiscing on my memories with my since passed family members. I retrace their steps, taking in the view that they too once sought refuge in. The farm holds pieces of my loved ones, as if a portion of their energy had come to stay after they left their earthly form, creating a place I could always go to feel that closeness I yearn for. Now, I walk to find my grandfather. Perhaps it is really he that finds me. Either way, I usually end my walk feeling better. 

 

    I'm really grateful we recovered the missing photos, especially the one of my Papa and I. If I could only save one photo from the bunch, it would be this one. It will likely take me tens of articles to fully tell my grandfather's story, and how much he and our relationship means to me. Now that I cannot give the love in my heart directly to him, I'm sure I will write about him for the rest of my life. Thank you for lending an ear, it means the world to me. Until next time, friends. 

     

Reflecting on Grief, Loss, and Being 23

     "Write hard and clear about where it hurts." - Ernest Hemingway. A quote I had come across some months ago, immediately knowing it would play a role in how I was to proceed forward with my life. Although my published work is primarily fact based and focuses on an outer topic of my choosing, at my core, I am a deeply emotional person who often craves the outlet of deeply emotional writing. Being neurodivergent, I struggle to communicate my thoughts and emotions to others. Speaking the words does not come easily, or at all. If any unkempt emotion begins to slip, a teary meltdown will often ensue. I attempt to deal with most of my baggage alone, not tolerating the feeling of being perceived and analyzed by others very well. Although, with the state of my being, and overall my life, continuing my relentless attempt to write my best work without allowing any slippage or room for my reality has begun to feel not only unsatisfactory, but inauthentic. 

     I explained this feeling during a front porch conversation with my best friend Aliyah as the sun went down one evening a few months back. She had been living out of state for a couple of years, and in November, she decided it was time to come home. It worked out well for her to move in with me, and I'm glad she did. Up until this point, I had been living alone for a few years, which had its ups and downs. Thankfully my parents live close and help with my support needs, both mental and physical health wise. Overall I had made it work, although not easy, until September came. I had been doing well for a lot of 2023 and the first half of 2024, but things began to come crashing down, consecutively and quickly. 

    On September 22nd, my grandfather died. I would say it was somewhat unexpected, although he was 89 years old. Pneumonia, and ultimately sepsis, is what got him. He was only majorly ill for a couple of days, decidedly dying as if it had been a scheduled departure. Perhaps it was, just not for us. He was a Godly man, and undoubtedly ready for whenever this day came. I suppose I never would've been. From the hospital to the funeral, the experience was surreal, somewhat a blur. My grandpa and I were extremely close. Biologically, we aren't related. My grandparents chose me, knowing about my lack of close and living family. They have given me the purest love I have ever known, and it is because of them that I understand what "family" really means. I'm no stranger to grief, but have managed to find a sense of normalcy after a loss with time. I can't say I've found that yet when it comes to my grandfather.

    Less than two months had passed when my great aunt Irene died on November 7th. She had been declining for a few months, so this wasn't a shock per say. Irene was 100 years old, and the prized matriarch of our family. Her story is an amazing one, a century of passion and courage. Like my grandparents, Irene chose me too. She is my step father's aunt, who played a large part in his raising. Since my mother and step father's marriage began when I was freshly nine years old, Irene made it a point to ensure I was included, and valued equally. I never felt like the step child with her. She was eclectic and creative, working on sewing and crochet projects up until her passing. I love that about her. Every year she would call me on my birthday, never missing the occasion until this most recent birthday of mine. My birthday is November 6th, and by that time, she had slipped into a permanent sleep-like state. I held my breath, knowing what was to come. Irene passed away in the very early morning hours of November 7th. "She waited". My mother gently spoke to me. I nodded in agreement, noting how Irene never did want to inconvenience anyone. 

    It was at Irene's funeral service that I heard my grandfather's voice again for the first time since his passing. My grandparents were career musicians, and for a time, my step father was their drummer. Irene was fond of my grandparents and their music, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that one of their gospel recordings was chosen for the service. The song began and the crowded room was quiet. I bowed my head nearly into my knees as I braced for impact. It was the most bittersweet of bullets, surely. I kept my head low, focusing on my breathing and channeling the tears into a tissue. On my way out of the building after the service, a passing staff member shot me a look of recognition, and then one of sympathy, as he realized that I had been mourning at the home just a month earlier. 

    Soon it was December. My dog, Tippy, had been slowing down for some time. My Dad and I adopted her from the local shelter when I was in the 6th grade, also around Christmas time. The volunteers told us she was some sort of terrier, but it was her big, clunky feet that gave her away. Tippy was actually a Belgian Malinois, a breed commonly used as police K-9s. She was big, full of energy, and my best friend. By this time, her eleven years had begun to show, although I'll admit that I thought she had more time. On the morning of the 2nd, I had found her in the yard, unable to move under her own power. I called my Dad, who carried her inside. We gave her immense amounts of love as we waited to take her to the emergency vet appointment we had made. When it was time for her to go, I watched my father carry her out the door. By this time, Aliyah had come home from work, only moved in for about two weeks. "I don't think she's coming back." I said to her as I began to break down. "I know." She said, trusting my intuition and holding me as I cried. Sadly, my intuition was correct.

    Although my faith is being tested beyond measure, and more questions fill my mind by the day, I couldn't help but feel it was not a coincidence that my friend had moved in two weeks earlier. In all the time I had spent alone, I was never really alone since I had Tippy. There was really no matter of life that I hadn't experienced with her by my side. She had been there for everything. She helped me learn to do my makeup, navigate puberty, comforted me through heartbreaks. She was there when I received my high school diploma in the mail, and the first time I got accepted to write for a real magazine. Most importantly, she was at the door to greet me with excitement every time I returned home. The silence in the void she left behind was deafening. Had Aliyah not been there to fill it, I don't know how I could've survived it. I know in my heart she was lead to be here, for this, at this time. 

    In the time between then and now, I've lost a childhood sweetheart to violent crime, a high school friend to a car accident, and a pet parakeet, Chiquita. Granted, perhaps not as life altering for me, but salt in the wound nonetheless. I had always had an urge to write out the baggage I was carrying, but always seemed to find it too difficult to follow through with. I yearn for a break from the grief wherever I can find it, which has lead me to be avoidant in several ways. If I were to write all this down, I would have to look it in the face, which I really did not want to do. I am tired of being followed and harassed by the looming dark cloud. I struggle greatly through each day as it is. I kept running, until my sparring partner, grief, had cornered me again.

    I'm writing this on the night of August 6th, going into the morning of August 7th, 2025. On the morning of August 3rd, I awoke to a text from my mom. "Are you awake?" it read. I had my suspicions at that point that something had happened. "Yeah, what's up?" I reply. The phone rings. It's her. I answer, and she delivers the news that our beloved neighbor had passed away. Living on my own now, I didn't see him as frequently as I once did, though he had played a major role in my life. His name is Gay, a funny, compassionate man who told amazing stories and looked like Santa Claus. I was just beginning the 4th grade when my mom, step father, and I moved next door to Gay and his wife, lovingly nicknamed "Cookie". Gay has a garage building out behind their home, where he would hang out most days. After school and on summer days, I'd spend time with Gay in his garage, learning about history, cars, and Pink Floyd. He always had a stash of treats in the freezer, especially those red, white, and blue bomb pops in the summer. Being a quirky kid, I didn't always feel like adults liked to have me around. I always worried I would be perceived as strange, or annoying. Gay never made me feel that way. He treated me as one of his own grandchildren, and I'll hold those memories forever.

    Jumping back to that front porch conversation with Aliyah a few months ago, I expressed the feelings of grief and discomfort that had been keeping me from writing and creativity. "Write about the pain". She said. Reassuring me that it's okay to do so, which I needed with the way I get so lost in my own head. She didn't know about the Ernest Hemingway quote of similar nature that has stuck with me from months before. I noted her advice and felt it was clear that I am meant to put the pain on paper, yet still found it so hard to do so. I have felt stuck in this hamster wheel situation, until today. It was Gay that finally broke the dam withholding my words. Despite the grief, because of his unique character, I found it easy to talk about Gay. I wanted to talk about Gay. That's a feeling and opportunity that I couldn't allow to go to waste, which brings me here, to the near end of this year long, pent up word vomit. 

    The last time I spoke to Gay was following aunt Irene's funeral. He had come over to the house to give his sympathy and comfort the family. I'm glad he did, as Gay always knew how to lighten the air and make others laugh. He and Irene were good friends, as they both were with everyone. He upheld his usual mission to smile and nurture, but I know he was sad too. Although not closely, Gay and my grandfather knew each other as well. They spoke highly of one another and admired the work of each other's careers. Sometimes I'll envision the three of them meeting in the afterlife. "Heaven", "paradise", "the other side". Whatever you'd like to call it, I believe they're there. I imagine them greeting one another familiarly and discussing their journey, their new life in this fleshless realm. I think of what the reunion will be like when it is my turn.

    I've spent the last year learning how to cope, and continue to get up, even when it feels as if no progress has been made. Most days are still difficult. I hope that in the future I will be able to write to you all with good news of my improvement and wisdom I've gathered along the way. I'm simply not there yet. However, I still feel that there is meaning to writing in the midst. Pain of the mind has a way of being poetic, all while being relentless in its doing. Most of history's finest literature comes from the gut wrenching pains of the human experience. Is it not the deep contrast in the darkness that makes life's elements of light more vibrant? I can't deny the truth in that, however I also cannot deny that a mindset of the highest gratitude is one not easily achieved. The road to this understanding is often littered by intense trials, and profound loss.

    I'm thankful to have reminders of my passed loved ones among my surroundings. I worried that these things could be a trigger for me, but I've found that isn't the case. They bring my home an element of comfort that it has been lacking for some time. When they catch my eye, I take a moment to stop and reflect. I reflect on the person, our memories, and the relationship we had. Most times I'll get that feeling that their spirit is nearby. I smile, often with tears welling in my eyes. Loss has come with at least one silver lining, the feeling of added protection and a near constant element of spiritual companionship. 

    I have several photos of my grandfather and I throughout the house. I sit in his old recliner chair and imagine the hugging feeling is coming from his body, or even simply his being. In my office/art studio, I keep Irene's cookie tin of craft supplies, including her works in progress. On top lay her latest crochet project, hooks still intertwined in the yarn. I think I'll frame it that way. On a living room shelf sits a framed photo of Tippy, her collar hung onto the corner. Next to it, her favorite toy, a spiky rubber ball. In my bedroom a beautiful snow globe sits on my dresser. When you wind it up, it plays a song, and glitter snow flutters down on two playing children. Gay gave it to me when I was young. 

    These accompany the other memories strung about my home, many also tied to earlier losses. My great-great-grandmother's dishes, photos on the fridge of my great grandparents, a memory collage of a best friend whom I lost to cancer four years ago. Before my mother-in-law passed in July of 2023, she gave me a ten dollar bill. I never spent it. It still sits on my desk where its been since the day I brought it home. When I look at these now, I often experience more gratitude than sorrow. That keeps me optimistic about healing. 

    Grief comes with many side effects, heightening anxiety and creating anticipatory grief. I've been fumbling through each day attempting to deal with this within the confines of my own mind. I began therapy, changed medications, tried to blind myself with activities I once found enjoyable. These are good things and I will continue with them, but I've come to the realization that above all, I need to write myself through it. This wasn't a part of my "professional" plan, but clearly a part of a greater one. I had convinced myself it is important to base my writing topics on what my readers would likely find the most interesting. "Find your niche, hustle, and monetize, or you won't make it as a writer today." The "professionals" say. Any writing I have done and published is authentic and something I'm passionate about, but it doesn't cover all of what my heart yearns to write and share.

    Going forward, a lot of my writing will be deeply personal. I really enjoy writing on the topics with a hook or flashy headline, but within me there is much, much more, and I feel the need to share it. My grief, life lessons, memories, and family stories may not grab the attention of the average reader, and that's okay. What may be underwhelming to some, I know will sit well with others like me. I suppose I did name the blog in reference to being my diary after all. Writing this way may not secure my chances to "make it" as a writer, but at this point in my life, I'm finding what I need to do to "make it" in general. Aside from grief and loss specifically, although typically part of the process, I'm finding my early 20s to be quite a difficult age to navigate. I know this is the case for many, and that does make me feel better. 

    If you've made it this far, I just want to say thank you. The company and encouragement of my readers lends me a sense of comfort and community, something I seek so desperately these days. I will conclude this post here, as I'm feeling a bit of weight off of my chest. There will be more writing to come as I hash my way through my overgrown jungle of a mind. Whatever it is that my mind needs to release and reflect on, it will be. Thank you for reading and being a friend, I'll talk to y'all soon.