What if your search to discover your roots unearthed a secret buried for over sixty years—one that would not only rewrite your family’s story forever, but shatter the heart of someone closest to you?
Sharon Beth embarked on a journey to learn about her family’s heritage. Over time, she became the family’s historian, carefully documenting generations of stories, photographs, and shared memories.
Then, a DNA test revealed a shocking truth that left Sharon questioning all she thought she’d known, and she was faced with one of the toughest decisions of her life: to reveal the truth and risk upending the life of someone dear to her, or keep this secret to herself?
This raw and honest narrative follows Sharon’s journey to uncover the truth and discover a family she’s never met. Through tales of love across social and religious divides, Autumn Leaves takes readers from the 1950s tenements of New York’s Lower East Side to a glittering hotel in Connecticut and the world of burlesque, and on to present-day California—all woven together by a diamond necklace and a haunting song of lament.
Autumn Leaves is a testament to the power of faith, love, and forgiveness, which heals the hardest truths.
What if your search to discover your roots unearthed a secret buried for over sixty years—one that would not only rewrite your family’s story forever, but shatter the heart of someone closest to you?
Sharon Beth embarked on a journey to learn about her family’s heritage. Over time, she became the family’s historian, carefully documenting generations of stories, photographs, and shared memories.
Then, a DNA test revealed a shocking truth that left Sharon questioning all she thought she’d known, and she was faced with one of the toughest decisions of her life: to reveal the truth and risk upending the life of someone dear to her, or keep this secret to herself?
This raw and honest narrative follows Sharon’s journey to uncover the truth and discover a family she’s never met. Through tales of love across social and religious divides, Autumn Leaves takes readers from the 1950s tenements of New York’s Lower East Side to a glittering hotel in Connecticut and the world of burlesque, and on to present-day California—all woven together by a diamond necklace and a haunting song of lament.
Autumn Leaves is a testament to the power of faith, love, and forgiveness, which heals the hardest truths.
I was born in 1978 and grew up in the city of Reseda, a
suburb in the Greater Los Angeles area of California. My
immediate family includes my older sister, Rebecca, and my
parents, Rob and Michelle, whom I’m very close to. I am
married to an amazing man, Nathan, who’s the same age as
me, and we have four wonderful children all together. I met
Nathan in 2003 along with his two children, who were two
and six years old at the time, just before we turned twenty-
five. Three years later, in 2006, we were married in Santa
Barbara, California, and had our first child together at the age
of thirty and our second at thirty-two. I absolutely love being
a wife, mom, teacher, volunteer, believer, and now a grandma!
Growing up in the 1980s was awesome, as many of my
fellow Gen Xers would agree. We LIVED. Before the internet
became a part of our lives, my friends and I, who were consid‐
ered “latchkey” kids, had parents who worked full-time. There
was no such thing as helicopter parents hovering around, so
we got to explore the neighborhood freely. We got lost, got
hurt, and got rejected by other kids, but we took it all in
stride. It helped us grow independent, tough, and emotionally
resilient. If we wanted to play, we had to rely on our imagina‐
tions to entertain ourselves during bouts of boredom. If we
wanted to eat, we made our own meals. If we wanted to see a
friend, we had to get ourselves to their house. We were strong
and resourceful, and I’m so grateful I grew up in that era.
I’m also reminded of my childhood whenever I hear Tom
Petty’s “Free Fallin’,” where he sings about livin’ in Reseda and
dating a girl who loves her mama, Jesus, America, and horses.
That was my childhood existence in a nutshell.
My next-door neighbor growing up was Anastasia (Ana).
In 1984, my family had just moved into our first home, and
she was my first friend on the block and my best friend for
years. Ana and I had a close bond that made us inseparable,
even though we had other special friends in the neighborhood
and a three-and-a-half-year age difference. We were “buds.”
We climbed the cinder block wall that divided our yards and
sat up there talking, writing notes to each other, and goofing
around for hours until it was dark outside. Our wall crumbled
in the 1994 Northridge earthquake, but we didn’t care—we
had easier access to each other after that! We made perfumes
out of rose petals in the playhouse in my yard, climbed trees,
and picked our neighbor’s oranges and apricots when we
were hungry. When we got bored of doing that, we played in
the street all day, riding bikes, roller-skating around the
block, and going on “adventures” with my sister and the other
neighborhood kids. We drank from hoses, ate loads of junk
food, and the only reason we didn’t go outside was if we were
grounded or sick. We LIVED.
On weekends I attended church, and from the ages of ten
to fourteen I worked at a local pony-ride and petting zoo that
Ana introduced me to. Sunrise to sundown was spent groom‐
ing, tacking, corralling, and riding horses. I was thrown off
horses and stepped on more times than I can count. I was
rammed in the legs by the most annoying goats and chased by
the most aggressive geese. I constantly shoveled poop, lifted
small children on and off the ponies, and got yelled at by the
owner and the older kids who worked there because I was at
the bottom of the pecking order.
While there are multiple perspectives, I remember the
owner, Linda, was a loud, tough woman. She wasn’t afraid of
anyone, but almost everyone was afraid of her. There were
expectations, and if you didn’t meet them or you screwed up,
she would scream and insult you with names like “Dingy” or
“Airhead” in front of everyone, even in front of the customers.
No matter how small or big your mistake was, she had little to
no mercy for your feelings. And the older kids just followed
her lead. Many days I would hide my tears, but I just kept
working. You had to suck it up. You were there to work, and if
you wanted to earn money, this was the job. If you didn’t like
it, there was the door. We drank warm Coca-Cola sodas and
ate crunchy beef tacos from Taco Bell for lunch, which she
sometimes provided for us.
Looking back on those long weekends, I can’t help but feel
lucky to have been part of Linda’s farm. No matter how tough
she was on us or how grueling and challenging I found the
work environment, I wouldn’t trade those days for anything.
Linda’s little farm was the only one in my immediate area that
offered our community a place to work with ranch animals
and learn horseback riding. I felt like I’d struck gold whenever
she allowed me to ride for free in the big arena or the time she
let me borrow a horse for a trail ride. I also felt like a hotshot
when she handed me a whopping ten-dollar bill for an entire
weekend of work. I appreciate all the life lessons I picked up
while working on that farm, especially about taking care of
animals and the value of hard work. It made everything worth
it. As a bonus, I got to chat with Henry Winkler and Hulk
Hogan, who used to visit the farm now and then. They always
smiled and spoke gently toward me.
Many of the kids who worked on the farm owned a horse,
including Ana. One afternoon, I borrowed Ana’s horse for a
trail ride in Chatsworth Park and was thrown off. I knew
better than to borrow her horse, who had a very bad habit of
rearing up. But I wanted to go riding with friends, so I took
my chances. I took a hit straight to the nose and was knocked
unconscious and bloodied only to be found by joggers in the
park who carried me to safety and helped me call my mom,
who then took me to the hospital. After recovering, I decided
I would never borrow Ana’s or anyone’s horse again. If I
wanted to continue riding on the trails, I realized I had to
make a change.
I had been saving up my money every weekend, and at the
age of twelve, I was able to buy my own horse. I also had
enough money to pay for the monthly boarding at White
Oaks Stables in Chatsworth, where Ana also boarded her
horse. My horse Stormy was a spunky six-year-old dapple-
gray Arabian that stood about fourteen hands tall. Ana and I
frequently enjoyed trail rides in Chatsworth Park together. By
the end of the day, we were exhausted and filthy, but we were
living our best lives. My Grandma Sheila, whom I was very
close to, had just passed away, and having Stormy helped me
cope during that difficult time.
When I quit working at the pony rides, the money ran out
and I had to sell Stormy because the agreement with my
parents was that she was my responsibility. I was nearly
fifteen years old at that time, and I’d outgrown the working
conditions on the farm. Letting go of Stormy was incredibly
difficult. I tried to locate her years later but was unsuccessful.
I can still see her sticking her sweet gray head out of the
trailer and neighing as her new owner drove the trailer away.
I went to church that morning in tears, and even as I write
this today, it breaks my heart. I will always cherish her and
can only hope she experienced a great life.
The same year I sold Stormy, Ana joined my youth group,
and this added to our adventures together, especially at the
camps, barbecues, and swim parties. I later ended up getting a
new job on the weekends with real paychecks and friendlier
bosses. But I’ll never forget my first job on the farm. What
Linda brought to our community was priceless, and those
memories will always be a part of me. It was a great child‐
hood, and Ana and I remain friends to this day.
In February 2011, when my son was eighteen months old,
I took him for his first pony ride at Linda’s farm. I felt like I
was ten years old again, lifting him onto the pony and strap‐
ping him in. It was a special moment for me to share that with
him (and my unborn daughter, whom I was pregnant with at
the time). I was saddened that I didn’t get to see Linda during
that visit. She had passed away a few years before, and the
farm officially shut down shortly after our visit. I drove past it
later to see the empty lot of land, and a piece of me felt very
empty, too.
***
As I approached my early twenties at the turn of the century, I
became increasingly fascinated by my heritage. I’ve always
deeply cherished my family, but perhaps I became more
conscious of this following the challenges I experienced after
high school, which made me appreciate my family in a way I’d
taken for granted before. I was in a toxic relationship, and
they supported me through those tough times. I don’t know
what I would have done without them. I recognized and
appreciated how they were always there for me no matter
what. I was reminded of how much I missed Grandma Sheila,
who’d passed away when I was twelve, and how short and
precious life was—and the fact that my remaining grandpar‐
ents were getting older.
I realized that no one in my immediate family had kept a
record of our heritage, and I felt it was crucial for someone to
preserve our family’s history to keep it alive. So in late 2000, I
reached out to a distant maternal cousin named Bonnie, as
she’d already done some research on my Grandpa Jack’s
family as well as her own family. I had a soft start with my
maternal side, jotting down everything Bonnie shared.
Bonnie was a great resource for me. She taught me how to
search for records and provided a lot of useful background
information regarding my ancestors’ names, birthplaces,
migrations, and occupations. I became completely captivated
as I slowly took on the role of keeper of my family’s history.
Later, I would be grateful for the careful notes and records I
kept, even though at that time, I had no idea how much was
missing from them or how misleading some of the informa‐
tion would be.
At the time I began my research, three of my four grand‐
parents were still alive: Jack (my mother’s dad), Rob (my
father’s dad), and Lorraine (my father’s mom). Sheila (my
mom’s mother) had passed away. During my conversations
with Grandpa Jack and Grandma Lorraine, I looked at
multiple family pictures and they would describe each person
and how he or she was related to me. They also told me little
stories they remembered about family members.
Grandpa Rob lived over an hour away at the time and
wasn’t doing that well health-wise, so Grandma Lorraine
filled in a lot. I heard stories from her about a cousin who
played football for The Ohio State University and another
cousin who lost a limb working in a factory. She also told me
about her twin sister, Louise, and how they’d met and married
a set of brothers: John and Rob. It was wild to me that two
identical twin sisters married two brothers!
Grandma Lorraine married Grandpa Rob (whom my
father is named after) and Louise married John. Sadly, the
marriage didn’t last between my grandparents—nor had
Grandpa Rob’s first marriage to a woman named Katherine,
before Grandma Lorraine. Grandma Lorraine and Grandpa
Rob divorced when my father was a teenager, but they both
attended family events like the annual Christmas parties,
which were held in a different family member’s home each
year. I have fond memories of being with them and seeing
them interact like two friends. Grandma Lorraine lived a
couple of miles away with my aunt in the home my father
grew up in. She worked in the loan department for a bank
for many years, smoked Virginia Slim cigarettes, drank her
coffee black, and had a deep, distinguishable voice. It was
easy to make her smile and laugh. She had the cutest giggle,
and I never saw her upset. It was always a delight to
visit her.
Grandpa Rob was a U.S. Army veteran who served as a
paratrooper during WWII, landing behind enemy lines to set
up communications. After the war, he worked as a telephone
lineman. He was the man who climbed the telephone pole and
repaired or maintained the transmission wiring. Then he
worked as an aerospace engineering drafter for McDonnell
Douglas Corporation (which later merged with Boeing),
converting design specifications of aerospace engineers into
detailed technical drawings that could be used in the manu‐
facturing process. My Aunt Christine told me that he also
worked for Lockheed Martin performing similar duties.
While working in the aerospace industry, he attended night
school to become a chiropractor and later set up practice in a
shared building with another doctor.
Grandpa Rob often adjusted our backs when we needed it
(especially my back, when I was sore from lifting kids on
ponies all day at the farm). As he aged, he retired from the
chiropractic field and kept busy as a courier and then finally a
security guard. Grandpa Rob liked to dabble in different job
fields and never stopped working. He had a great sense of
humor, and I always felt very loved by him. He had a bright,
thin-lipped smile. You knew he was happy when you saw that
smile. He drove a white Cadillac with a license plate that read
“Dr. Rob.” When I was younger, I thought that was so cool. In
hindsight, it’s super cheesy to me! Grandpa Rob remarried
again after Grandma Lorraine, only to divorce once again. He
loved his fried steaks and living single after his third divorce.
He got along well with my other grandparents and would
often comment how he was going to “steal” my Grandma
Sheila away from Grandpa Jack. He was a character. Growing
up, I didn’t spend as much time with my paternal grandpar‐
ents as I did with my maternal grandparents, Grandpa Jack
and Grandma Sheila; nonetheless, they were always truly
special to me.
A few months into my research, I learned that Grandpa
Jack and Grandma Sheila had a collection of 8mm film reels
from the 1950s to 1960s and a projector. I asked Grandpa
Jack if I could watch the videos, and he told me his projector
didn’t work but I could have the reels. I took them so that I
could later figure out a way to convert them to DVD.
During my conversations with Grandpa Jack, I took notes
and kept some of his pictures. As I learned new facts, I’d safely
store the information in my new family history file. I took
great care of the photographs, making copies and laminating
them in case the originals faded or got destroyed somehow. I
ended up interviewing Grandpa Jack on camera, too, so I
could have a filmed version as a keepsake. It was such a trea‐
sure having Grandpa Jack’s pictures and spending that time
with him talking about Grandma Sheila and the family, espe‐
cially because I was so close to them both.
A couple of years later, in 2002, I converted Grandpa Jack
and Grandma Sheila’s 8mm reels to DVD and watched them
with Grandpa Jack and our whole nearby family. Afterward, I
remember feeling very accomplished. I’d completed a huge
project for myself and for the generations to come. All the
research I’d gathered in my new file, as well as the pictures
and reels, really honored the memories of my elders, and I
could feel the pride radiating from Grandma Lorraine and
Grandpa Jack when we spoke about their past. For me, too,
gaining knowledge and being able to put faces and names on
my biological family was truly a gift. It was my pride and joy
to have all of this in my possession.
In October 2004 my dad got a phone call from Grandpa
Rob’s boss saying that my grandfather hadn’t shown up for his
shift as a security guard. He’d had a heart attack in his home
and called 911. He was rushed to the hospital where he
underwent quadruple bypass surgery, then developed pneu‐
monia and was placed on a ventilator. His condition was
grave, and the nurses were keeping him sedated most of the
time. This was not long after I’d started dating Nathan, who
came with me to the hospital to say my goodbyes. I’ll never
forget telling Grandpa Rob directly into his ear that Nathan
and I were engaged to be married. He was in and out of
consciousness, but after I whispered those words to him, his
eyes opened up wide and he squeezed my hand. I’ll always
remember that moment of happiness he was able to convey to
me as he exhausted his final reserves of energy. Grandpa Rob
passed away two days after my birthday in the winter of 2004
before I could get started on his family history, something I
regret to this day. You always think you have more time until
you don’t. However, I was grateful to have gathered a multi‐
tude of information from Grandma Lorraine at the time. And
she filled me in on Grandpa Rob’s family as much as she
could.
After Grandpa Rob died in 2004, I paused my genealogy
work to focus on finishing my degree. In between all of the
researching and interviewing, and working full-time to pay
for school, I’d graduated, gotten married, and given birth to
two children, and we had moved at least five times. The years
were flying by. My daughter was a year and a half old when
Grandpa Jack passed away in February 2013, and by 2015,
Nathan and I had moved 350 miles away from my family in
Southern California, including Grandma Lorraine, who was
the only grandparent I had left. I was so grateful that I’d gath‐
ered Grandpa Jack’s information when he was still alive. With
all the information from Grandma Lorraine and Grandpa
Jack, my genealogy files felt complete . . . or so I thought.
In Autumn Leaves, Sharon Beth explores her family tree in depth. Her life story, a blend of new beginnings, endings, happy periods, and challenging times, encourages others with similar experiences to share their stories. When confronted with unbelievably shocking DNA results, she began her detective work.
Beth’s Forward rings true for many as it triggers childhood memories. For me, I read this part and couldn’t agree more, concluding that the things we’re told in our youth are the same regardless of which part of Earth we call home. Then Beth turns the focus to herself, her childhood, revealing a happy neighbourhood, the fun she had as a child, and above all, the people whose hands nurtured her. And she shares family photos, those grey ones, and they’re all beautiful, especially those of Grandma Sheila.
Remarkably, Beth’s story goes back and forth, interweaving past and present, and I found myself deeply immersed. I met Linda, who wasn’t Beth’s relative but a wonderful woman running her business. Sad that Beth paid her a visit many years later, only to find her long gone. Some individuals had a lasting impact on Beth and departed when their time was up. Beth remembers them, sharing their stories here.
Though I didn’t get to meet Grandma Sheila, she’s very much alive in this memoir, being heard and seen through Beth. In the end, she explained why she didn’t label the tape that captured her at the beach with her daughter, Beth’s mother. She revealed her love for Nino.
I wanted to hear directly from Beth’s mother, and Beth granted me that wish in the end. In her own words, Beth’s mother recounted the DNA discovery’s impact on her, how she was coping, and her life moving forward.
Overall, Beth’s favourite song is “Autumn Leaves” by Frank Sinatra, and I bet memoir readers will want to listen to this song again, especially after reading this great memoir.