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.
