I’ve never really been interested in tracing my family’s genealogy like many of my friends. I’m too afraid of what I might discover about my ancestors. You never can tell what scoundrels you might find lurking in the branches of your family tree – horse thieves, mobsters, serial killers and, heaven forbid, even politicians. Gasp!

Actually, I am allegedly kin, on my father’s side of the family, to a long-dead, famous politician – I prefer to call him a statesman. But I have no documentation to prove it, only the claims of puffed-up kinfolk at family reunions held in the Old Dominion State of Virginia. They swear that Patrick Henry of “Give me liberty, or give me death” fame is our cousin.

That, to my way of thinking, doesn’t sound like something one of my relatives would say. Our folks are more likely to blurt out, “Give me a whiskey; the Redcoats are coming!”

Anyhow, somebody supposedly has letters that were written to the family by Cousin Pat. The fact that nobody I know has ever laid eyes on said letters makes me a little suspicious. But you just never know. I might be eligible to join the Daughters of the American Revolution after all – except I’m not a joiner so I never would.

If Patrick Henry was my cuz, I’d really like to have one of those letters he allegedly wrote. Imagine how impressed my friends would be when I pulled it out at parties to show off. Of course, most of my friends probably wouldn’t even have a clue who Patrick Henry was. Now, if my cousin was George Clooney or Hugh Grant, they’d sit up and take notice.

Once when I was a kid, my neighbor, Warren Bridges, and I got into an argument about whose family was the best. His uncle was a municipal court judge, and my daddy was a construction worker, so Warren was winning. His mama was a social worker, and my mama was a drug store clerk. The outcome of the argument wasn’t looking so hot for me.

So, I pulled out all the stops and played the “Patrick Henry” card. Flustered (because everybody in Virginia knows who Patrick Henry was), Warren stuttered and sputtered and finally blurted out, “Well, that’s nothing! I’m kin to Pokie-Hontas!” He meant, of course, Pocahontas, the Indian princess who supposedly saved Capt. John Smith’s life. Warren’s family was Irish. But, you never know.

Someone on my maternal grandfather’s side of the family compiled a history that uncovered another interesting character in the family tree – Judge Jeremiah Cobb, the chief magistrate at the trial of Nat Turner of Nat Turner’s Rebellion in 1831 in Southampton County, Va. Turner, who led a slave insurrection that killed at least 55 men, women and children, was hung from an old oak tree that once stood outside the county courthouse in Courtland (Jerusalem), Va.

I’m sure if I shook the family tree hard enough, several unsavory nuts would hit the ground. And, since acorns don’t fall far from the tree, there’s bound to be a little scoundrel in every one of us. So, it would behoove all human beings to refrain from getting all puffed up and proud about their lineage. You just never know.

 

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