It began Wednesday night with Madeline"s homework. When did your first ancestor come to America and who was it? The question had come up before, not in her mind necessarily. I've wondered, among other members of my family. Part of the answer was Johannes Herchelroth in 1733, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. But there are 256 persons that make up that generation, which means Madeline (my granddaughter) has 1023 other great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents besides Johannes Herchelroth, including some on her mother's side who were here long before the great German immigration of the early 1700s. But I never had an answer to "why" until yesterday when Michael found a narrative from some our extended family that filled in at least an outline of possibilities. As I read the account of persecution and starvation that caused many Germans to leave and come to America, I wept. One of my ancestors, that I interestingly share his name, landed in Philadelphia after a long and difficult sea voyage on The Elizabeth. He was 19. The account is much too long to quote here. But I wonder what he thought when he stepped off that ship in Philadelphia's harbor.