sassykg • November 21, 2021

The story started earlier this year. It was a typical January day in Palm Desert, California. The sky was awash in sunshine and the Santa Ana winds were beginning to make their presence known. I was self congratulatory about completing my early morning online workout that emphasized balance and strength, and I was contemplating the agenda for the rest of the day. My iPhone rang on FaceTime video and I saw my sister, Margaret Ann’s picture appear. My two sisters (Margaret- Ann and Gail) and I are in regular contact so it was absolutely normal to hear from Margie. Little did I suspect that the ordinary was about to become the extraordinary! What my youngest sister shared with me changed our family forever. It is rooted in a family joke that morphed into a family gift.

Our Gillis family gatherings are generally raucous and accentuated by by generous portions of wine, Canadian beer and the freshest, crustiest bread we can find. The five of us have traded family folklore and try our best to outdo each other with who has the most colourful childhood stories. Often during these gatherings we share a standing joke. It goes like this: “We likely have a sibling somewhere in or around Italy!” There is laughter all around. We guess that in some quaint town there lives a sibling fathered by my dad during his time at the Battle of Ortona in Italy.

Here is the background to the longstanding joke that became a proven reality.

In 1939 my twenty one year old father, Alec Gillis, “rode the rails” to Alberta looking for work. When war was declared in Europe, long before he knew my mother, he enlisted in the Canadian army. Initially he was stationed in London where he served as an M P and a military dispatcher. We have a classic picture of him (on the left) in Trafalgar Square with his cousin, both proudly wearing Canadian army uniforms. The two are beaming their youthful smiles while holding out their hands feeding pigeons. We have lovingly imagined dad racing around London and environs on his motorcycle perhaps attending the local dances we have heard were part of that wartime scene. But for some reason as we understand it, Dad chose to volunteer to join the on the ground fighting.

AJ, as he was nicknamed, went on to serve in North Africa where he contracted malaria . That disease haunted him throughout his life and manifested in him awakening in the night to sweats and uncontrollable shaking. He then was ordered to Italy where he fought in what was probably the bloodiest of WWII battles: The Battle of Ortona. He was one of a very few brave Canadians who survived the December combat. Dad didn’t share much about that engagement nor for that matter did he share stories about any of his time overseas. He had his reasons.

So our conjecture about a possible sister or brother had no foundation in anything our father ever said. But if there where such a brother or sister he/she would be older than any of us and would likely live close to Ortona. Or so we thought!

My sister’s astonishing call to me came after a shared dinner in Toronto with my dad’s youngest brother, my favorite uncle, Jim, his wife Peggy and two of my cousins. The conversation began easily, trading pleasantries and reminiscing. Then the bombshell announcement! “You two have a half brother who lives in England.”

In the vast realm of genealogy, there are countless stories waiting to be discovered. For my family, at least 3 separate genealogy searches resulted in an extraordinary journey that ended in finding our long-lost brother whose fate was intertwined with a WWII Canadian soldier: my father.

It seems it all started with a confluence of simple curiosity and a drive to uncover familial roots.

As it turns out, my cousin, another distant cousin and my son Matthew entered their DNA into Ancestry.com. So did another fellow, named Peter, who is nicknamed Sam. When Sam turned 80, his daughter Sharon bought him the ancestry kit as a special a birthday gift and sent his information off for analysis. What he eventually discovered was my father and the five of us!

It didn’t take long for my siblings and I to try connect with our brother who had grown up unaware of his biological parentage. We began with a Zoom call with Sharon, Peter’s lovely blonde, adult daughter who is my new found niece. How strange it seemed to share all our stories with our niece who of course, had a British accent!

Through that call we learned that Sam was born in England in 1942. His mother was unwed and he was adopted by the midwife who delivered him. He never knew his natural father or mother and was always interested in his biological roots.

Coincidently, my two sons, Noah and Matthew and I, had planned a visit to London in late May just a few months after learning about Sam. Who would have dreamt that trip would be a perfect conduit to a family reunion that was nothing short of remarkable! We reached out to my new found brother through Sharon and asked if it might be possible to meet in person. We discovered that Sam, his wife Cynthia and Sharon all live close to Wolverhampton which is a short train ride from London. We got the go-ahead! We had a plan! Noah, Matthew and I were heading to Wolverhampton.

I cannot underestimate the tenacity of my siblings. This reunion did not disappoint. Think domino effect! As the time for the reunion drew closer I mentioned to Margaret Ann that she and Gail might want to join the adventure. After a brief hesitation, Margaret was on. Gail quickly followed suit. I promised them a room in the London hotel I had booked. Although we never knew the acronym FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) it seems it is also a part of our family DNA. It didn’t take long for brothers, Hugh and Doug to put their hands up to come on board.

On a warm and sunny day in late May the seven of us took the early morning train to meet our brother Sam and his family. The Wolverhampton reunion was beyond incredible. Connecting with Sam and his family was emotional and filled with a sense of belonging that words cannot adequately describe. We shared our personal stories and told Sam what we had learned about AJ’s war experiences. We brought him Dad’s war medals which seemed extremely meaningful to him. It seemed natural that Dad’s son who was born in WWII should have his medals. It was an afternoon filled with joy and gratitude, and a sense of belonging that words cannot adequately describe.


In the vast realm of genealogy, there are countless stories of families uncovering hidden secrets and long-lost relatives. Our family experienced one such extraordinary journey, as we stumbled upon a brother we never knew existed. Through the wonders of modern technology we were able to connect the dots and reunite with our brother, who was the son of our father, born during his service in World War II for Canada. This unexpected revelation has brought immense joy, love, and a renewed sense of belonging to our family.


Since our reunion, our family has been on an incredible journey of building new bonds and creating cherished memories. We have embraced our newfound brother with open arms and he us. We are all eager to make up for the lost time.

Our family was astounded how much Sam resembles our dad. We didn’t need a DNA test to affirm that he is our brother. Dad and Sam had more than good looks in common. Both were electricians, both loved to dance, and both were involved in boxing.


Our story is a testament to the power of technology and the role it plays in connecting families across time and distance. Although there are other genealogical apps, it was Ancestry.com that provided us with the tools and resources to uncover a hidden chapter of our family’s history, bringing us closer together in ways we never thought possible.


Discovering a long-lost brother has been a life-altering experience for our family. It has taught us the importance of embracing our past, cherishing our present, and building a future together. We are grateful to have uncovered this remarkable story, reuniting us with a brother we never knew we had. Our journey continues, filled with love, laughter, and the shared bond of a family made whole once again.

Let me share a bit of levity connected to all of this. My younger brother Doug pointed out that I am no longer the oldest child in the family. He was smug in declaring he will always be the youngest. My response? Don’t count on it!

is loading comments...

Faith, Found and Misplaced

By K Grieve • May 12, 2025
My mother Marjorie ensured I grew up Catholic - deeply, thoroughly, unmistakably Catholic. The kind of Catholic that meant school uniforms, fish on Fridays, and Mass every Sunday whether you wanted to be there or not. But more than rituals and doctrine, what stayed with me - even now, when I’m no longer a practicing Catholic - is the former Pope Francis’s heartfelt call to justice, unity and looking out for the persecuted and forgotten. Those are still part of me, even if my church attendance record would suggest otherwise. I went to an all girls Catholic school, and as I recall, it was in grade 11 that I first ran afoul of my faith. Sister Agatha (pseudonym) taught us religious studies that year and she gave us an assignment to present an aspect of faith to the class. Now I can’t claim that I was a regular reader of Time magazine. But somehow I came across that publication that posed the question “Is God Dead?” on its cover. Perhaps I saw the cover of Time on a newspaper stand in the grocery store. Whatever! I somehow managed to notice the publication’s headline asking “Is God Dead?”. That sounded unabashedly provocative and at that stage of my life , I was steadfastly taking any opportunity to provoke. In light of that, I asked myself: “Why not give a talk that caused a bit of a stir? My topic was solidified: “Is God Dead?” I was naive not expect it to spark recrimination, not to mention bigger questions about change, meaning and permanence. I spoke to the class confidently and with determination, as if I really understood the topic. Waxing poetic, I somehow managed to mention some well known Jesuit priests, the Berrigan brothers, Daniel and Phillip who were antiwar activists and who came to to be part of a Catholic movement know as liberation theologians. (There is much more the the Berrigan brothers’ story. If interested read “Disarmed and Dangerous:The Radical Life and Times of Daniel and Phillip Berrigan, Brothers in Religious Faith and Disobedience”) To say the least, Sister Agatha did not think I was being clever. She was outraged. The next day she approached me in the hallway. Menacingly wagging her finger in my face, she declared I was in deep danger of losing my faith. She followed up with a phone call to my mother reiterating her concern. I was straying from the path. I might be forever lost. My mother - actually to my surprise - rose to my defense and stood up for me. She told Sister Agatha that I was thinking, questioning and engaging. “Isn’t that what faith should be?” she pronounced. “If belief can’t survive a teenager asking questions, maybe the problem isn’t the teenager. WOW!!Thanks Mom. That moment has stuck with me my whole life — not because of the challenging repercussions but because I learned what it is like to hold both tradition and curiosity in the same hand. To cherish where you came from, even as you dispute some parts of it. And despite all my doubt, despite my distance from the Church, there is one Catholic habit I have never shaken: Praying to St. Anthony. You may have heard of him? St. Anthony. He is the patron saint of lost things. You lose your keys, your wallet, a ring, an earring - you pray to St. Anthony. “Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.” I have endless stories of how praying to St Anthony for lost objects has mysteriously recovered the misplaced. The most recent incident involves my husband who for three days could not find his passport. Searching everywhere, retracing his steps, Ross was stymied. He carries what I call a “murse” aka a man purse. Consumed with retrieving his passport, Ross called everywhere he could remember where he had been with his passport. Interspersed with that, he kept rechecking his murse - like about 4 times. At this point I intervened. Pray to St. Anthony I told him. And I insisted he promise to donate money to a charity of his choice. Failure to pay up results in St. Anthony striking you from his “list”. “ So I was thinking $25.00” Ross said. “No way,” I replied. “A passport is worth at least $200.” It was not long after this conversation that Ross took one last dive into his murse. He came to me with an Cheshire Cat on his face. The passport was found! I have no logical explanation for this phenomena. But I have story after story where I swore I had looked everywhere, given up hope - and then, sometimes minutes or even months after that whispered prayer, the lost object was found. A necklace under a rug. A set of keys in a pocket I’d checked five times. A photo wedged between pages. Coincidence? Maybe. But I keep praying. And things keep showing up. That’s faith, in a way I think. Or maybe it’s just hope expressed differently. Either way, I find it comforting. So no, I don’t go to Mass every week. I don’t memorize encyclicals or make religious retreats. (Although I can, to this day, recite almost all of the Baltimore catechism-including listing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost). But I do believe in social justice. I believe in community. I believe in standing up when someone tries to shut you down. I believe in mystery, and ritual, and that strange feeling when something lost is found again. And I still reach out to St. Anthony when I’ve misplaced my car keys. Some things, it seems, you never really lose.

A Burger Joint With A Story

By K Grieve • April 22, 2025
Winnipeg: A Burger Joint With A Story You can’t ever underestimate the influence of where and when you grew up. Childhood memories and experiences help shape our world view and create a blueprint for life. My childhood time in my hometown of Winnipeg Manitoba is certainly no exception! It is filled with positive nostalgia and yes, more than a few regrets. But this story is about fond moments and lasting impressions. Nested in the heart of Canada’s prairies, Winnipeg has recently been called one of our country’s best kept secrets (Winnipeg: A Hidden Gem in the Heart of Canada). At its center lies The Forks, an historic meeting place at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers. This vibrant area is alive with multiple family-friendly features from a children’s museum to funky boutiques and the Winnipeg Goldeyes baseball stadium. A focal feature of the Forks is the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.
More Posts