My Other Roots Story

After telling you that Roots Story yesterday, I've just recalled another one. This is again from about eight years ago:

Back in 2001, I belonged to a scriptwriters' on-line chatroom - where I met some lovely people who are still in my life today - and was in there one day when 'a newbie' dropped by.

She said her name was ... let's pretend she said Samantha Smith for privacy reasons ... and that she was a 19 year old from Seattle, trying to make her first documentary: one about finding her roots. It was, she said, for her mother, currently suffering from enormous depression after her latest husband walked out on her. It was all horrible because she was refusing to get out of bed, endlessly crying, saying repeatedly "No one has ever really loved me. I've never had a mother. Never had family. I'm an orphan." and other 'woe is me!' type of stuff.

Samantha said she was currently at university and, to show her mother how much she was indeed loved, decided, for an assignment, to make a documentary on the hunt for her mother's roots, and had so far filmed how she'd tracked down her mother's birth certificate, but was already having trouble organising the footage. Jim, always Mr Mentor-Man and very helpful, jumped in: "Let's nail this baby! What have you discovered so far?"

"My mother's date of birth in Seattle, her mother's name and place of birth. There's no record of who the father was."

"And who was your mother's mother?"

"She was a (let's make this up) Uta Henderson from somewhere called Nuku'alofa in some place called Tonga."

My hair stood on end. I've known Hendersons all my life. The family had a hotel in Nuku'alofa - which is, as far as I know, still running, although, for privacy reasons I won't tell you the name - and they are now to be found working in every profession throughout the Pacific, New Zealand and Australia. Enormous family with endless generations of very clever, very talented red-heads; doctors, lawyers, dentists, senators, linguists, dancers, film-makers, United Nations-types, with the younger generations all in the arts and fashion and spread out all over the world, doing the most amazingly enviable jobs and being all sorts of world leaders in their various fields.

I ran straight to the phone and dialled the first Henderson in the book. Lorraine. A lovely lady I've known my whole life. Told her the story. "Don't know anything about any Smiths from Seattle, but I did have a Great Aunty Uta. She died about ten years ago. Let me find out what I can and ring you back."

I went back on-line and, since Jim and Samantha were still at it, organising the footage, left my e-mail address and a message for Samantha: "Please drop me a line at this e-ddress. I may have something private to tell you."

Barely had I posted it when the phone rang. For the longest time it was all this endless billowing of crackling old lady laughter; dozens of old ladies in paroxysms of hysterical glee, sounding exactly like a Shakespeare coven. "Sorry about this." said Lorraine. "It's a conference call of my Great Aunts. They want to talk to you."

It was hard getting any sense out of them because someone only had to say a word and they'd all be off again. Bah hahaha hah! "My dear" one of them finally said "You have to excuse us. If you only knew our sister Uta you'd realise why we all find it so funny."

"They said they were only reading the bible together." another old lady cut in, and then the chiming "Is that what they're calling it these days?" Bah hahaha hah!

It took a while, but slowly the story came out. All six Henderson boys and all these Henderson sisters' husbands, nine of them, were all off in Europe for the war, when their hotel in Nuku'alofa became the epicentre of American G.I. R&R. Partying soldiers everywhere. Fun times. The dance floor was constant jigger-bugging and boogie-ing, and all the Henderson girls were in there, shaking it up and having the time of their lives.

But not Uta! She was the religious, sour-faced, self-righteous sister and, boy, was she furious; the sisters had no right having fun - innocent though it was - with their brothers and husbands in such danger. So, as an alternative to dancing, she set up a bible-reading session in the reading room at the hotel. Only ever had one taker. A young man from Seattle called Charlie Lockhart (obviously not his real name). Every day, for hours, the two of them would get together and read and discuss the various passages ... "Is that what they're calling it these days?" Bah hahaha hah!

Anyway, the story went, according to Uta, that she decided she should go to bible school in America and Charlie had told her there was a very good one in Seattle and so off she went for six months. And no, Charlie stayed on in the Pacific, and yes, that was the year Samantha's mother was born. "Bible school? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Bah hahaha hah!

The Great Aunts had no idea that anything like this had happened, because Uta came back from Seattle even more religious, grim and self-righteous than ever before, so they never for a minute doubted her Bible School story.

"Did I do the wrong thing, telling you?" I asked them.

"No, my dear, not at all. There is no one left to be hurt by this news." said the most sensible Great Aunt. "Our parents are dead. Uta is dead. Her husband is dead. We love it. And we'll all wait until we've stopped laughing before we tell their children." and then came the chiming "Tell Samantha to ring us.", "Tell Samantha to ring us right away.", "We want to know her." and "Promise we'll stop laughing when we talk to her."

Roots found! Obviously! "Sorry if I've just turned your documentary into something terribly short and unbelievable, but here's a number you should ring right now if you want to find out who you are." I wrote to Samantha.

And that's the story. The only codicil here is that Lorraine rang me two months later to let me know that nearly two thousand Hendersons were flying into Nuku'alofa from all over the globe for a Mata ni Gone ceremony at the hotel to welcome Uta's daughter and her off-spring into the Hendersons.

Mrs Smith obviously was no longer an orphan, In fact, the poor honey now had more family than anyone has ever needed. Good luck with that Christmas list, Mrs Smith!