No turkeys were harmed in the writing of this diary.
The one thawing in my refrigerator is just fine, thanks.
This is the story of how I, ruleoflaw, became part of America’s Aristocracy, Lord Notmuch of Scheiss Insel. Like most aristocrats, I did nothing to deserve my privilege. Genuflecting is optional, just throw money.
When I was a child in the 60’s and 70’s, my Thanksgiving Holidays were spent with family around a table piled with fabulous food. I accepted the Pilgrim/Plymouth Rock mythology without question and laid it aside in favor of Mom’s stuffing and gravy. “The Pilgrims” were chintzy figurines with tall black hats and blunderbusses, accompanied by women in a bonnets and aprons. The whole experience was cozy and common, nothing that would look out of place in a Norman Rockwell painting.
We were an unremarkable family who had moved to a small town in Wisconsin from Chicago several years before I was born. My Dad (I've written about his family background here.) was a truck driver back when that automatically meant membership in the Teamsters. Good pay and bennies, not a lot of high society cachet. While most of my eight siblings and I were still in school, Mom stayed at home. When we were older, she continued her interrupted education and eventually became a Nurse. Starting off, most people were ‘Midwest nice’ to us. They were outwardly friendly and polite and given time, genuine friendships developed. Mom kept having kids. By the time my twin brother and I showed up, we needed a bigger house.
My maternal Grandfather, Homer V. Collins lived with us. Grandpa Homer agreed to put up the money for a down payment on a very nice house, big enough for three adults and nine children. The plan was that one of the bedrooms would be his alone for the remainder of his days. That big house was in the next town over. It was a noticeably better neighborhood than the one we had left. Our neighbors on the block included an attorney, a bank president, a former state assemblyman turned circuit judge, and the County Clerk of Courts. The Judge’s kids became my lifelong friends and the Clerk’s son grew to be like one of my own brothers. Despite these connections, my folks weren’t invited to run with the mostly Protestant country club set.
Homer wasn’t wealthy. He had managed to make an adequate living in a white-collar career with the electric company in Chicago. He retired to live with his daughter, her hardworking husband, and the teeming masses of grandchildren and whichever of their friends happened to be sharing a meal with us.
Homer had more than his share of struggles. He lost two wives to cancer. You read that right, two. He had converted from Methodist to Roman Catholic in order to marry his second wife. Her death occurred just before the Great Depression hit. The bank he worked for failed. With the permission of the bank building’s owner he and his three kids took up residence in the basement while he got day labor as a grave digger. He tended the coal furnace and in return paid no rent. Eventually, his children were removed to live with their respective mother’s families. This was supposed to be temporary, but even after his career recovered, he never got them back. Being a single dad was not considered a respectable bourgeois lifestyle (before anybody called their situation a “lifestyle”). To get them back would have been a long, costly, court battle with no guarantee of success. He remained bitter about that until the end of his life.
My mom went to live with her Aunt and Uncle. They were descended from Irish Catholic immigrants and owned a chain of dry-cleaning stores. In their case, the transformation from “Shanty Irish” and “Lace Curtain Irish” took about two generations. You might say Mom came from large money. Unfortunately, she never actually inherited any of it. Before she married, Mom never learned to cook. They had the help do that sort of thing. Her Aunt was not pleased when she began seeing a truck driver. When my dad came to call he sometimes arrived in his truck. One of Auntie’s lady friends once asked why there was a truck parked outside. Auntie replied that a young fellow was here to see the maid. Yes, really. She did not attend the wedding. She had a turkey carpet delivered to their apartment as a one year anniversary gift but never apologized. My parents were okay with that because there was a baby on the way who should know her Auntie and anyway, the rug was pretty nice. It took a while, but Auntie got over it.
In Chicago, they lived in a basement apartment with a streetcar line across the sidewalk from their window. My mom learned to cook from her mother in law. Thank you Grandma, for all the crepes and Apfelstrudel. After their fourth child dropped in, they rolled up the carpet and moved to Wisconsin, continuing to litter the landscape with their offspring. This brings us full circle to the that big house in the too-nice-for-truck drivers neighborhood.
Dad started working full time when he was thirteen. Thirty years later he was part of a new American phenomena, the blue-collar middle class. He earned that. He didn’t go to high school but he knew how to pronounce ‘bourgeois’ and generally used it as an epithet to describe pretentious bullshit. He kept his head down, led us in the Rosary and did right by his family. For this he developed a reputation as a stand-up guy.
I don’t remember much about Grandpa Homer. I have a few clear memories of him. He sat in a lawn chair on the porch, smoking a cigar. It was sunny and warm but he wore a camel’s hair overcoat. (It’s cold when you’re old.) His straw boater hat was hopelessly out of style. He had a TV in his room for watching White Sox games. When I was four and he was seventy-five, he fell down the stairs. His hip was broken. The ambulance took him away and he never came home again.
After he died Mom sorted through his stuff. There was a King James Bible. It was really, really, old. It had some details about Grandpa Homer’s family written in it. Just some names and some dates, not much. and by no means a complete list. Mom never had time to dive into genealogy. Grandpa had told her that his people were from England and that his Father had fought for the Union in the Civil War. He said that another of his ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War. Some of his people had been in America for even longer than that.
Mom’s friend Joan was the town’s Librarian. She showed Joan the old Bible. Joan Told her that there was a local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. If she asked to join them, they could verify the things Grandpa had told her. There was a fee and monthly dues. She passed.
The historical connection fascinated her but she just couldn’t see herself sipping tea with a bunch of snobs. Dad had a word for that, ‘bourgeois’.
Unlike my Mom, I have had time to dive into genealogy. My only regret about getting my DNA tested is that she hasn’t been here to share it. There are wild stories about people whose DNA exposed shocking things about their parents. Not me. Almost everything my parents told me about their ancestors is borne out in my DNA. The real surprises are where my research has led.
My dad’s family were very recent immigrants. Their connections in Germany were still fresh and I’ve even met some of my German cousins. The farthest back I’ve been able to trace any of his people is a 10x great grandfather, born in 1560. Mom’s Irish ancestors didn’t want to discuss their famine-driven forbears, but I’ve managed to find 4x great-grandparents from Limerick and Tipperary in the 18th century.
Grandpa Homer had the biggest surprises under his straw hat and family bible.
Surprise #1, some of his people were Scottish, explaining “4% Scotland Ethnicity” in my own DNA.
Surprise #2, I’ve been able to trace his mother’s line back to a 15x great grandfather who was born in 1380. On his father’s side I’ve been able to get back to two 11x great grandfathers, one born in 1500 and the other in 1502. Along the way I’ve discovered many English ancestors who bore titles of nobility. For a lot of Americans and Canadians whose ancestors arrived in the colonial period, noble ancestors are not uncommon. When your older brother is set to inherit the title and estate, seeking your fortune abroad is one of your better options. Go forth to America and multiply.
Surprise #3, about a month ago, I verified something I had suspected. It seems my 8x great grandfather was named William Bradford. If you were paying attention in school, that name may ring a bell. Bradford arrived in North America on a ship you might of heard of. He was the second Governor of Plymouth Colony, on and off, for thirty years. His tenure is marked as a period of pretty good relations with the Wampanoag and other natives. Near the end of his era, Plymouth was absorbed into the Massachusetts Bay Colony. After that things got very ugly indeed.
America’s ruling classes have always felt a little deprived by their lack of noble titles and unearned hereditary privilege. They soothed their bruised egos by inventing an All-American aristocracy. In the 19th and 20th centuries, the Mayflower Descendants Association and the DAR put a genteel, patriotic face on snobbery and bigotry. More recently, both organizations have worked to improve their public image with mixed results. The Mayflower Descendants have settled into the role of a historical society and it looks good on them. Nevertheless, the hoity-toity reputation still lingers.
There are about 35 million Mayflower Descendants alive today. Approximately 10 million of them live in the USA. Roughly speaking, being born a Mayflower Descendant is about as likely as being been born with blue eyes; Pretty common as aristocracies go.
I could join the Wisconsin Chapter of the Mayflower Descendants Association, but why pay fees and dues? I already know where my chromosomes came from. I don’t need a gold star for something I did nothing to earn. In the line between myself and Great-times-Eight Grandpa Bradford there have been some questionable characters. It’s kind of cool to know that I have a direct physical connection to a famous historical figure who wasn’t a complete asshole.
Kind of cool. Hey Mom, we’re Mayflower descendants. We have our own, personal Pilgrim Forefather. She’d be tickled.