My Family History

My paternal grandfather was a real bastard however. That is to say that he had no father, well not one that stayed present during his life. Well, how many times would you think that that would happen ? Exactly three.  Yes, he had two sisters who both had different fathers, who also didn't stick around. My great-grandmother was apparently a fun gal to be around for a short period of time.

Let's see... My grandfather was therefore mainly raised by his grandfather; guess what his name was? Phillip. The original Mr. Phillip? You bet. My grandfather once related to me that his real fathers last name was Cortwright and that he disappeared to the Spanish-American war and never heard from again. I guess I could try to research some army enlistment documents to further pursue this line of the family tree, but until I do, my paternal line stops here.

My Grandfather was a carpenter. He built many things outa wood. When I was 3, I moved into a 3 bedroom, one bath house. When I moved out of that same house it had 6 bedrooms, 3 baths, guesthouse in the back yard and much more. That house only exists in my mind anymore, it's physical space is now occupied by a multi-cubed concrete box.The Grandparents lived in New Orleans when I was a child (indeed, when my father was a child) and we visited them many times. I remember Mardi Gras in 1964 and visiting the above ground tombs unique to the area.

My Dad's brother was killed during the war. The big one, the great one, the war to end all wars.... W.W.II. You might think by this that he died frozen in the mud in the bottom of a trench in Argonne but alas it was here in the States. His plane was crashing and he put it down in a lake rather than hit a populated area some where in Florida.   You've heard how only the good die young ? Well I think that they die before they really can screw up really big-time. My poor Dad never really had a chance to out-do his brother, and I had an uncle that I never met. Vernon Elsworth,  R.I.P.

That leads us to the Family Crypt. Yup, we've got one. In New Orleans you can't bury the dead below ground. The water table is so high that they would float right out of it. So we build large mausoleum thingies in order to hold everything in place. Many years after my Grandfather died, I had the pleasure (nay, obligation) to have his name inscribed on his tomb. Since he was a carpenter, I drew up a sketch of a framing square and a hammer which was sandblasted into the door. Marking my Grandfathers tomb is my one small recognition of his greatness to me.

My mother's family line is a different story. Her father's family history is traceable back to 760 A.D., to a Dane in England named Arkfrith de Medecalfe (or something like that, meaning "Bob-of-the-middle-hill"). That was a long time ago. Through her side we are somehow related to the Fairbanks house. It is the oldest occupied wooden structure in America. I think it is in Massachusetts, I've never been there. My mom was born in Springfield Mass., though her people's people were from Canada, and they moved back there, so I always thought we were Canadian from her side.

Mom's father was one of 12 kids so there are still a bunch of Metcalfs in Canada. There's a family farm with a family crest emblazoned on the chimney. There were so many of them that they had their own church, and they'd fill it up too. They had names like Stanley Livingston Metcalf. I presume they named kids on the basis of what was in the news at the time.

My Mom's Mom, raised my Mom's Sister's kids. That's funny 'cause my brother raised his kid's kids too. My Grandfather was raised by his Grandfather. It must run in the family.

One of the reasons for this is that my mother's sister was declared stark-ravin-cuckoo so she spent her life in the happy farm while grandma raised her kids. It is the kind of thing that you hope doesn't run in the family. My mothers two brothers were both preachers.  One decided to save the flock in the Saint Thomas Islands, that's as good as place as any to find sinners to save, I guess.

My Great Grandfather's brother invented the paper clip, and I never saw a dime out of it; but neither did he. Talk about getting bent out of shape. His uncle invented disappearing ink, but something funny happened to the patent application he filled out. We don't really talk about it much.

I was the third kid out of six. Three boys, three girls. Cheaper by the half-dozen. I think my dad wanted to try for a swimming team. Dad was a swim coach, Mom was a swim teacher. You couldn't pick your sport, but you could pick a stroke; mine was breaststroke. First of all, I liked the name; secondly, I liked the little glide after every stroke. Sigh.

If you think about the differences between a coach and a teacher, I guess you can understand the fundamental rift in my parents relationship. A coach pushes and harangues you into doing better, a teacher nurtures and encourages improvement. Given my choice, I guess you can understand why I sided with the teacher's philosophy in the long run. I am not saying that my Mom is right, but that I understand that perspective much better.

Let's see, 3 boys, 3 girls. My big brother hasn't married yet. He's had 2 kids but gave none his name. My little brother raised a son but not his, and a daughter, but she won't pass on his name. My two little sisters have had children but that doesn't count in a patrilineal society. That leaves me to pass on the family name. I have one son, if he for some reason is not prolific, well, the name stops here. Sorta Sad.