Well that is it. The tree has grown as far as it can.
I have now been taught to be humble as all of the people for whom I have feelings of amusement, I have found are part of my genetic makeup. Equally those people to whom I held in high regard I have found never had anything to do with me.
Emma is still my hero, but more so her mother who had such a hard life. She can to this uncivilized country and watched as each of her family members was either killed off, or married off to inappropriate people.
The inappropriate person is old James Welch, who was a soldier and swept in at the age of 31 and married a 15 year old. Behavior like that gets people sent to prison and registers have to be filled in once the sentence has been served. He is
not the only example in the tree. I suppose it can be said that the line is stronger with these young mothers. I think it just makes the line stupider. See even real words are not being used. Going back I must say that I have lost respect for all of these dirty old men.
My whole concept of who I am has been destroyed by this exercise. Going in I was happy that I was British, Irish, German with all of the South African breeds mix in. The predominate traits being that of Irish creativity and German pedanticy. Well the
German was an ass wipe who left his wife in Germany and married a married women in South Africa and went on to produce a whole herd of miserable looking offspring. None of the children did especially well in life, so it can't be said that great intelligence was brought to the table.
The married women he married was the offspring of a British soldier who forgot to go home. How sad. His family still live on the farm that he was given to stay here. So nothing going on there.
On the other side of my mother’s genetics I thought it was fine as the surname of Welch should have been safe. But no, Emma Rodgers became a baby popping machine that kept a lie going for 47 years. She, at least was English. The person she married was Scottish. There is nothing good to say here. Dourness and dullness have entered the frame. All brightness gone. Heavy drinking and bad decisions can now be excused due to this fact. Oh woe!
The next member of the genetic contributors was so irrelevant that she did not even pass on any of her history to her revolting children. It was an uphill struggle to find out her maiden name and that is where is has stalled. Nobody has any memories of her family and even where she came from. She produced 10 children
with the next James Welch and most of these children were indolent and did not make a much of any of their lives. On the whole there has not been one out of the pack that has surprised me. The more that I have found out the sadder, I have
become. What dreadful traits to pass on to one's children. What karmic debt is carried from being related to tonsils.
But wait there is another parent. Hopes rise, on this side, we are promised Irish ancestors. We are promised quick wit, a sparkle in the eye and people who have perfected dancing like a penguin. Think about it, if penguins could flap their feet rapidly, old Flatterly would have to step aside.
In we plunge, the surname is Pope, oh gosh, he is British. This is fine we have to have the levelness of a British person for the amazing Irish genes to sparkle off. Not everything can be happiness and light, you need a grounding plinth to shine off.
So surely the mother is Irish. I ordered off her death certificate, as all is revealed in these documents.
I open the picture of this document, and there it is, in faded in writing, not the proof of Irish nuttiness, but once again a dour Scottish relative. This goes to show that my grandfather was just a general nut job and not the whimsical Irish nutter that we have been told. With this the last bubble of my sparkling personality popped and all that I am left with is the oatmeal personality of someone who's genes are clogged with Scottish traits. No wonder they wear kilts, pants take some intelligence to get into.
So I have it bad, with genetics you would not be able to give away at a charity auction, you have my husband who thought he was three quarter Dutch with the rest being straight South African pavement special mix. We start with the Dutch side and find that the only reference for the name given is a headstone that has the name Willem and the surname used by his relatives. So his father was Willem, his grandparents were Willem and Wilhelmina. Once again I ordered up his grandfather’s death certificate to see where is lineage comes from. This too arrives and shatters my interest in this subject. Listed as his grandfather’s parents are Willem and
Wilhelmina. As a back story this one is so thin you can see through it. I know it is easier to remember just one name when you are making up a new history for yourself, but really one name! Pull the other one it has a bell on it.. Oops that’s right all my bells have been cut off and replaced by oatmeal! So don't tug it, it
could be disgusting! So who knows where the "Dutch" ancestry comes from.
On his mother's side this is where I find the Irish. His mother could have been painted green for all the wee Irish people hiding in her genetic makeup. So who know what Genetic make up my husband actually is, but what we do know is that has happiness and light twinkling though his person. Lucky bugger!
So I don't think I will be looking for any more facts. I will live the rest of my live quietly and irrelevantly. I will now look at oatmeal as an analogy of who I am. No longer multi-dimensional with bells a twinkle, but rather, oatmeal, rather boring and when you
stir it up all you find is more oatmeal.
I would wish you well but this too would be meaningless.
