Never glimpsed his face. I had never even considered what Ambrose looked like. Now on this summer morning, I stare at a photograph of my grandfather, mesmerized. For several long minutes, I take in every detail: his tanned skin, thick brows, his dark eyes, broad smile. This is Ambrose. This is my grandfather. The photograph is one of three that I receive in an e-mail from my father. In the electronic note, he does not comment or share his opinion about the pictures; he simply passes them along with a message from Jerome Walsh, my father’s second cousin who lives in Marystown, a relative we will meet when we travel to Newfoundland in a few weeks. The former mayor of Marystown and a genealogy buff, Jerome has researched the family back to the early 1700s, accumulating hundreds of photographs, including these three he has sent my father. The first picture I pull up on my computer screen is a black-and-white image of my grandfather; he stands between his two brothers, Leo and Ernest.
