Today I’d like to tell you a little story.
The gentleman you see at the top of the page is a musician named Granville C. Reynolds.
I have been trying to find out more about him for over 20 years.
It all started with that photograph, or rather, the original sepia version of the photograph. It was probably taken some time between 1872 and 1888. Granville was born in 1846.
Granville didn’t start out as a musician though. The son of a shoe manufacturer in Massachusetts, in 1865 he is a shoe fitter; in 1866, a mechanic. That year, he married, and by the end of the year was a father of a little boy in Connecticut.
But then something happened. In one record of his marriage, the entry is crossed out. In 1869, his wife remarries. In 1876, Granville’s father in his will excludes Granville’s “son by his wife now said to be divorced from him and to be married and living with another man.” The child is not named. Did the family not even know his name? What on earth happened?
Granville maddeningly disappears from the records after 1866, and emerges in 1875 in Rhode Island as a teacher of music. He is there for only one year, then he disappears again.
He reappears in 1880, living with his parents. Occupation: musician. But what instrument?
I came across an intriguing notice in an 1884 periodical. In the “New Music” column we find
“Golden Days are Coming Dearest: ” Words by George Birdseye; music by Granville C. Reynolds, is unquestionably the sweetest song of the season. Brimming over with melody, cheery and hopeful it will touch an answering chord in every heart. 
I cannot find this music. Birdseye’s poem was set a number of times, but I can’t find Granville’s. I can’t even prove that the Granville C. Reynolds mentioned is our Granville.
But knowing that he was a musician, I can only hope that the “sweetest song of the season” is his.
Granville died of a stroke in 1888. He was only 42 years old.
Up until a few weeks ago, that was all that I could ever find. I had resigned myself to the fact that I might never know what instrument he played.
And then—I found the most unusual genealogical clue I have ever encountered.
Searching in a genealogy database, I plugged in Granville’s name, the way I always do, hoping new data might have been uploaded. And I found this:
October 16th. Mother called for a piano record on the Victrola. One of the Nocturnes was played, and Roy gave the name of Granville Reynolds. He was known to mother’s people, when she was a young girl, Reynolds then being a man of about forty years of age.
“He played that, if you remember, at your home that evening when he called….He says he passed through the change not long after. He says it was better for him, for he was worn out.” 
What was this?! It turns out, it was a passage from the book The Second Letters from Roy, by Leon Stevens, published in 1918. The premise of Letters from Roy and The Second Letters from Roy is that Leon’s brother Roy, deceased, was communicating with his living family from the Great Beyond, in a chatty correspondence about people and events past and present.
While I can’t vouch for the validity of the premise, I do know that the author’s family and the Reynolds family lived in the same place at the same time, so it is likely that they had crossed paths with Granville during his natural life. And the details about Granville fit.
He played a nocturne. The only piano nocturnes recorded on Victrola records were Chopin’s.
Granville was a pianist.
And so it is only fitting to close with a Chopin nocturne. The one that, to me, best suited Granville was Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9 No 1, played here by Arthur Rubinstein.
A side note: I created the colorized picture of Granville at the MyHeritage genealogy website. Until the end of April you can colorize your own black and white (or sepia) photos for free, as many as you would like, and download them. Visit myheritage.com/incolor for details.
- The Southern World, Atlanta, GA, March 15, 1884, p 192, via newspaperarchive.com.
- The Second Letters from Roy by Leon Herbert Stevens, Boston: Christopher Publishing House, 1918 p 125 via hathitrust.org. Originally found on myheritage.com.