In the not too distant future, Z and I will be off in search of Leprechauns.
Those mischievous Irish rascals said to sneak about in the night, out of sight, creating havoc for one and all that happen to cross their paths, unsuspecting or not.
Which, to be honest, sounds a lot like the O’Toole Brothers, down the street, who tend to sleep on their front lawn most Saturday nights, so they shouldn’t be too hard to find.
But we’ll be looking for the genuine article; the wee folk with their pots of gold stashed where the rainbows end, on the Emerald Isle itself...home of my ancestors, or half my ancestors, on my father’s side.
I mean, all my ancestors on my father’s side...but none of the ancestors on my mother’s side...who come from Italy...so that would be half...in total...or thereabouts.
Oh, wait...that doesn’t include my grandma’s peeps....so maybe it is only half...or a quarter....or...
Yeah...confusing, I know.
But so is this whole ancestry thing.
Up til now, the only knowledge I had of my Irish ancestry was that my Grandpa Jim and Grandma Nellie spoke a little funny and, when they baby sat, liked to slip a bit of whiskey into my milk, just to settle me down and make sure I slept through the night.
Child Care 101, the Irish way.
But, if truth be told—or at least my version of the truth—back then, if information didn’t come to me in the form of a comic book, I didn’t much pay attention.