The foilables of ancestry research

When I first started looking at ancestry.com, I was initially on fire about finding all my parentage. I knew a few things from my parents, but even those were suspect. They weren't really interested, or they didn't know, or they focused on part of their heritage. We were English, we were German, we were Scottish, Irish, Welsh, French, and Native American. Maybe some other stuff, they weren't sure. In short, they weren't any help.
My cousin runs the Laughton family website, and he just said our people were all mostly English. Laughton is a well-known old English name, and there's a town somewhere in the middle of Britain named Laughton en Morthren. Okay. Fine. But if you look at the names many are Anglicized Irish names. Huh.Well that just had to be too simple, and then there's my mother's side of the family.
Eric, my English boyfriend, said maybe they were all English, with Irish surnames. Sure. But think about it in an historical perspective. The British Isles were invaded numerous times, people moved from place to place because of war, famine, the need for work, and whatever. Think some more, and realize that people are people and they don't always have clear motives.
Tracing a name can bring you to a dead end where no records exist, or bring you to the point where finding those records presents a snarl not unlike the Gordian knot. For example, a peek at an Irish famine ship registry reveals the name of one of your ancestors. And you notice there are eleven other women with the same name. My, that's a common name.
But wait, what if ... Hey! Do people always travel under their own name? You have to have a clean record to travel to another country, don't you? So, what if your auntie has that name and you were pinched by the law for stealing a loaf of bread?  You could use her name, couldn't you? Then you could get a job in America. But when you get to America you find the slums of New York, New Orleans, and other places, and a whole lot of people who hate you. You could anglicize your name try to drop the accent and get a job in service. You might not have your pride, but you'd have a full belly.
What if your parent mistakes relations by marriage for those of blood?
And then, what if you were raised by other people, and they gave you their surname? What if everyone knew your mother, and not for her cooking? What if your sister was really your mother? None of these  scenarios is unrealistic. Records can only help you so far.
So, along comes y-DNA and mitochondrial DNA tests that trace your DNA to the source, giving you a percentage of your bloodline by geographic region. It's not cheap, but it can be done. How far do you want to go? At this point, I think I'll quote Irish comedienne Geraldine Doyle, "In the end, you'll just find out you come from a long line of dead people."

The Garden Center

It's been a long day, and my feet are tired. I'm enjoying my new job at the Garden Center. It's hard work, and I'm pushing myself to be useful. As a temp, I might be hired at the end of my four-month term or I might not. But, while I am working I'm doing my best to enjoy the days. I do love being in the center of such utter chaos, with people milling around, asking questions, and me, being able to provide answers. The social structure of the place is interesting. There are two Irish-born natives there, one from Donegal in the north and the other from Dublin in the east. I've had good experiences with the other Irish and Irish-Americans I've encountered in my life and it adds a flavor to the place. I'm sorting out the crabs from the friendlies, and learning which to drift toward and which to handle with kid gloves. I'm thinking of my childhood and the other Irish people who opened my eyes to a wider world. One was Patrick Cleary from Tipperary. Patrick was the milker at the local dairy barn, who patiently relieved 80 Holstein cows of their milk three times a day at the Crocker Farm in Ashby. My  friend Barbara McKenney and I would ride our horses to Crockers on summer days, and hang out in the milking parlor, watching the orderly progression of cows move through the herringbone stalls. Patrick talked about Tipperary and Ireland, suggested books if we wanted to know more, and kept us out of trouble for four summers. Through Patrick Cleary we met Jim, who came from Belfast and was an all Ireland champion boxer. Unfortunately, I didn't pay close enough attention the time he told us his last name, and I regret that now. The only thing on my mind at that age was: "He's kind of cute for an old man" and "I wonder if Barbie wants to race through the cornfield." He was of a more political bent, being from Belfast, and we learned a little about the Orange and the Green. We were kids, so a deep discussion of old anger and wrongs would not have been appropriate. Jim would take over Patrick's milking duties for a month, leaving our friend clear to go home to Ireland. It was probably a break for the both of them. Other people from the Emerald Isle came along later, each contributing a little bit of themselves to my life. As for those of Irish descent, Dan Holohan I acquired a taste for the music to which I still listen, and am considering learning to play. I met others in college, including a couple of nuns, who gave me a taste of the culture. From Catholic college I entered an industry that is heavily weighted with people of Irish descent, the owners and publishers all seeming to come from old newspaper families. I wonder what part these two will play in my life? Or maybe it will be just business?