My forebears gaze at me, neatly arrayed in the sepia tones of 1936. In the center sits the patriarch, my great-grandfather, Francis Hyde. His eyes appear to regard me from under a fez-like hat, but I know he sees nothing. He has been blind for many years. His hands rest on his thighs, encircling the much smaller hands of his two youngest grandsons, both in short pants. To his left is five-year-old Frederick. To his right is my uncle John, barely three and clutching Big Brown, the stuffed dog...