I’m Coming Out of the Closet
Emeralds, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and all.
Henry VII. Queen Anne Boleyn. Katherine Parr. John of England. Louis “The Pious”. Richard I. Edward I. Richard II. Just to name a few. What do they all have in common?
Me.
Yes. I am related to each of them. King Henry VIII is my 19th great grandfather. His wife, Queen Anne is my first cousin. Her sister, Mary is my 19th great grandmother (it’s a long story — trust me). That makes Mary Tudor, Henry’s first daughter, my great aunt. Nineteen times removed of course. Elizabeth I? Second cousin, fifteen times removed. Good thing they are all deceased or family reunions would be a friggin’ nightmare. And can you imagine the Christmas cards? 0.0
For as long as I can remember, and with my memory issues that ain’t saying much, we’ve all been hunters and gathers. Going back generations. I grew up on a five-acre farm in southern Delaware. Crops were rotated on an annual basis. Perdue was like family to us. Across the street were dad’s sister and her crew. Next door was my great-grandmother of whom I called “Mom-mom Donaway”. A bike ride away was dad’s parents, Mary and Harry. Down the road from them was dad’s brother, Wayne. We all had farms. We all worked from the time we were able to walk. Mom had me standing up in a kitchen chair so I could reach the sink in order to wash the dishes.
As the oldest, I was the token son. At 15, I was riding a John Deere in the fields. Nothing like being christened in farming on a manure spreader. Pulling weeds from the huge garden. Picking apples and pears from our four tree orchard. Chasing after two cats and a dog not to mention thousands of chickens spread out into three chicken houses.
I remember being at my grandparents’ house, on my hands and knees, groping in the dirt for potatoes. I don’t know if that’s how they did it back in Ireland, but that’s how we did it here. Mom-mom Donaway was grandmom’s mother. Grandmom spoke like an Irish woman before I knew what that was. “I’m going to go rest me eyes.” she would say before falling out on either the Davenport or her side of the bed. Then she'd be up and back at it again.
Mom’s side of the family were the hunters. If they didn’t hunt, they didn’t eat. They wanted no handouts as they called it. Back then charity was frowned upon, to put it mildly. You did for yourself or you did without. Period. Their philosophy was that everybody had it bad (meaning rough) so there was no need to be a burden to someone who was already struggling. So granddad and my uncles would go out very early in the morning on every hunting season available to them. Then the animals would be prepared and put in a chest freezer in the garage for when winter came.
I loved the garden that I grew up with. We had it all — string beans (you may know them as green beans), yellow and white corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, bell peppers, lettuce, cabbage, watermelon, cantaloupe, strawberries, just to name a few. Up the road from us were wild blackberries. Dad’s parents had blueberry bushes.
It was all a lot of work but now I look back it was also fun. Of course when you’re a kid and this is how you spend your summer vacation, meh, not so much. We were always tired and we were always dirty. But when the work was done then we could go on long bike rides out in the countryside, curl up with a good book (stop laughing), go outside and play with the cats and dog. Typical summer, country fun. So imagine my shock when I started doing the family tree years ago.
Swimming pools, movie stars
Well, not exactly. Better!
Royals and nobles. A couple of U.S. presidents, and Freemasons. Family involved in the Salem witch trials, accused and accusers.
Politicians before that was a bad thing. Saints recognized even today by the Catholic church. Abbotts, Abbesses, ministers, nuns, bishops.
Knights of the Garter. Knights of Bath. Knights Teutonic Order. Thistle Scotland Robes. And yes even the famed Knights Templar. A total, “holy shit” moment if ever there were one!
I’ve had relatives that have held nearly every rank there is in the military. from the Vietnam and Koren wars all the way back to the Revolutionary War, and every war in between. POWs and KIAs.
If you can believe anything on Ancestry.com I was in for yet another huge shock. I am the 11th great-granddaughter of Pocahontas. No, not that of the 0.000000000000123% origin. The “real” one. Mom’s side of the family had always suspected that there were Native Americans in the tree but my grandfather’s story, bless his heart, was a sorted and sad one. It wasn’t until nearly everyone on that side of the family died that I found the connection to our long-forgotten people and my great-grandmother. Hopefully, they all know now.
There have been firefighters and doctors and *gasp* lawyers.
Relatives who were murdered, beheaded, hanged, assassinated, died of plagues, or buried at sea.
Cambridge, Harvard, and Oxford alumni. Members of Parliament.
And dare I say, one slave master. Thanks, cousin George. (Yeah that George).
I’m equally proud to have a piece of them in me. For without them I wouldn’t be me. I am all of them. And they are all of me. Every soul, every act, every gift, every selfish behavior. It’s all in me. I’m actually choked up writing this. I can’t wait to see each and every one of them when I get Home. It’s going to be a helluva party! (My pardons to the Puritans and Quakers in my tree!)
