As yet another birthday of mine approaches (all chocolate presents gratefully accepted), one of my sisters asked if I’d like to take one of those ancestry tests now available. She wanted to give me that as a present, especially since she heard that DNA from male members of a family sometimes provide more detailed information about where a family originated. (Actually, I believe her exact quote was, “You’ve always been a little squirrely and this should prove it.” But I like my version of the conversation better.)

I readily accepted and the necessary kit arrived this week. You basically just have to donate saliva into a small vial, package it up, and send it on its way to the lab. If our parents, grandparents, and other assorted relatives are to be believed, I should find out that I have a lot of Welsh blood and coalminer dust running through my veins. Generations of Lewises dug the black stuff out of deep holes in the Welsh countryside. My grandfather Lewis came through Ellis Island (legally, I might add) in 1910, and continued his career in the mines of Pennsylvania and Indiana.

My mom can trace her family tree back at least a couple of hundred years here in America. They apparently were a hearty bunch because, while many settled in northern Indiana, a good many kinfolk headed west when the journey was tough. Southern California was full of orange groves and lemon trees, so why they didn’t buy up some cheap land and create a compound for generations to come at Malibu is beyond me, but they weren’t quite that gifted with foresight and it definitely didn’t happen. I think maybe they owned a couple of acres in Encino, but that just isn’t the same.

I don’t believe the basic results of the DNA test give you anything more than a pathway to the past in regard to geographic migration. That in and of itself will be cool enough. But what would really be the most interesting is to find out if I’m related to some historical giants, good or bad. There is some red hair in the family (one sister and three nieces claim that trait). So maybe we’re distant cousins twenty times removed of Erik the Red, a somewhat fierce Norse explorer from around 950-1000 AD. History indicates he may have been in the advertising business. After all, he discovered and named a large ice-filled island Greenland in the hopes of attracting settlers.

Leif Erikson, Red’s son, has long been thought to be one of the first Europeans to set foot in North America. If I could somehow lay claim to being part of the lineage of that family, a good chunk of Newfoundland might belong to me.

Maybe my Welsh cousins were descendants of Romans. Julius Caesar would be an interesting relative to have. I do like pasta and Chianti a lot. And I took several years of Latin in high school and college. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Since Wales is hard up against England, it’s possible I could be kin to Willie Shakespeare or Charlie Dickens or Geoff Chaucer. Not that I come close to their league, but writing has always been enjoyable to me. (Actually, even if it were true, I’m not sure I’d like to claim Chaucer in my family tree. Never really particularly cared for Canterbury Tales. Getting some royalties for Hamletor A Christmas Carolwouldn’t be so bad though.)

I’d also like to claim somebody such as Thomas Jefferson as a relative. He purportedly came from Welsh ancestry. John Kennedy has been widely quoted as saying at a 1962 dinner honoring Nobel Prize winners, “I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered at the White House – with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.” Our third President is on a short list of people from history with whom I’d like to have dinner.

Perhaps there’s a famous athlete or entertainer whom I could call cousin. Or a king or queen or high office holder.

Of course, there’s also the chance that ne’er-do-wells populate my past. We always hope for the best, but somebody has to be related to robbers, murderers, and malcontents from every walk of life. It’s okay with me, though, if the ancestry people omit these names from my report. I really just want to prove to my sister that, despite her claims, I am not squirrely.

 

©MMXVIII. William J. Lewis, III  –  Freelance Writer