I sit in a corner, sipping a sudsy green beer, pondering the meaning of ancestry. A server brings a platter of crispy-fried potatoes. Life is good.
The thing about life -- it is full of surprises. (I know it's a cliche', but it works.)
Last weekend, I visited my long-lost first cousin. We had a blast reconnecting after years apart. No reason for the distance. No big family falling out. Just two folks with busy lives.
What he imparted about our family name has given me reason to celebrate. Turns out, I am from a long line of Irish folks -- not French as I had always been told. Seems, when the family immigrated to the good old U S of A, they capitalized one letter to make the name appear to be other than Irish. Suppose, it was a time when being Irish wasn't desirable.
Now, I understand a number of things. Why I never really cared for heavy French food, but couldn't pass up a spud. Why green is my favorite color. Why bagpipes make me cry. Why seeing pictures of the Irish countryside leave me with a strange homesickness.
So, I owe a pot o' gold to my Cuz. Love you, Mikey!