An Ornery Streak

  By Ed Baranosky

               My wife’s parents were Scottish. They immigrated to the United States in the early 1920s. My father-in-law would make a point with pride saying his heritage could be traced back a thousand years.

               My retort to him was “your tight little island was invaded first by the Vikings and I’m sure all the sailors from the Spanish Armada didn’t drown. Surely some of them made it to shore.” I could never resist a chance to get him started.

              My European heritage on my mother’s side came from the southern part of Poland. Their blood was infused by tartar blood of the hun who raided from the East. I saw it in the high cheek bones of my grandfather. There had to be a bit of the Orient in our genes.

               I can hear my father say when he was asked if he was Polish . “My wife is Polish, I’m Lithuanian.” The Viking influence must be present in me also.

               The part of Europe where my grandparents came from was fought over in various wars. If there were any records kept they have long since have been destroyed.

                I can only trace my heritage back to when my grandparents got off the boat from Europe and spent 21 days on Ellis Island.

                In fact one of our relatives purchased bricks with our surnames to be installed there when they restored the place. Recently I heard people were stealing the bricks. I wonder if ours are still there.

              My grandmother on my father’s side was an educated woman. My father’s sisters played the piano. Two of them went to college.

      My father left school after the seventh grade. School was not for him and he never went back. He could speak five languages

      He made an effort to learn on his own terms. Maybe that’s where I got my rebel gene.

              What I am trying to do with this diatribe is to find a reason in my past that would explain why when you say “black” for some unknown reason I automatically say “white.”

             I like classical music and oil paint. Somewhere in my background there must be some culture. When I’m in that self- examining mode I find I keep searching for that one thing that is missing . . . to become great.

             Get the picture?

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