Granny Knott

My grandmother gave me this picture of Granny Knott when I was a teenager. Over the years I’d forgotten what Nana told me about her, so I figured that Granny Knott was a family friend or acquaintance. Maybe even a second cousin twice removed.
I finally remembered to ask my dad about her the other day. Turns out Granny Knott was my great-great grandmother—and the little girl? My grandfather’s mother. Apparently she died when she was in her 30s, so Granny Knott became my grandfather’s surrogate mother.
The sad thing now is that we don’t know my great-grandmother’s first name. Dad says he thinks it’s because her daughters died young too. But I disagree that women are the ones who remember information like that. I know three rabid genealogists—Dad included—and they are all men who go after the details like ferrets. Will I catch the bug myself? I have a feeling I will.