DNA dramas and Halloween

Barry and I often watch those TV shows about searching out your relatives using DNA. The programme finds your long lost second cousins and off you go on a whirlwind trip around the world spending time with family and new friends in strange lands. So Barry did his thing and we waited for the results. Apparently, he is not related to anyone. Well not anyone we can legitimately call a cousin. There were a few far-flung tenth cousins five times removed who had connections to Barry that were lost in the midst of time. I spoke to a lady who had the same result .... well not exactly the same result because then she would be Barry's long-lost cousin. No, she was told there were only 5 people in the whole world that she was related to, distantly, and they were all Americans. Oh dear, maybe we should have gone with the vastly more expensive option of mitochondrial DNA search? No, that would have been silly. The results came on Halloween for Barry, which is quite serendipitous because we believe that it's the day our ancestors can talk to us through the veil of death. No, I am not saying they haunt us! Our ancestors are much too good-natured and well-mannered to do that. The whole idea of Halloween came about when the ten lost tribes left Israel and went into the wilderness. They took with them their Levite priests to keep them on the right path. Scota, the Jewish princess, took her people to Scotland and the surrounds and became the Celtic people. Each year the Levite priests would visit the families to make a record of their dead. They were clever these men because they timed their visit for when the harvest was in the storehouses and the families were flush enough with goods to pay them for their services. Taking the names of the dead, they would return to Israel to present the names at the Temple of Solomon and say the necessary prayers and ordinances for them. As time went on the Levites became known as the Druids and the names did not reach Israel, but rather, the prayers were offered at places with standing stones, like Stonehenge. All very boring I am sure, well not to me, I am fascinated by ancient connections to modern practices. Anyhow, here was Barry with the results that were no real surprise. Percentages of British and Scottish DNA, a smattering of European bits and pieces. All very vanilla. No African slaves or Chinese influences there at all. But then we got an email from a distant cousin, Andrew. Yes, also on Halloween. So maybe our ancestors were talking to us from beyond the grave but via a very normal man in London and using technology. Not exactly haunting as portrayed in the movies. He had come across Barry's family tree online and was interested in a story of a chambermaid and an Earl. Oh, look at that. Not so vanilla after all. The Earl and the chambermaid had a child .... and quite frankly it was no real love story at all, just lust in the dust as far as we can ascertain. He certainly did not pine with love for the lovely lass, no, he continued on his merry way fathering bastards far and wide. Isn't genealogy grand? Anyhow, another myth busted was that we had always believed that Barry's great-grandmother was a creole lady from Mauritius. But not as far as the DNA is concerned. No, she was vanilla as they come. The daughter of a British doctor who worked on Mauritius in 1870's, she married an Irish soldier from a very Celtic line of the landed gentry. Well, at least we now know that there are no surprises out there ... well, none of the DNA variety. The pundits say that one in every ten people is considered eccentric .... and so if all our ancestors are the vanilla variety, the eccentric one must be us. Good thing we like weird.

Ten years ago, when we moved to Te Kuiti, we bought a grand old house with lots of space and large rooms to accommodate a family of twenty. Of course, there was just Barry and me to rattle around in the place. But there was a method to our madness. We wanted to offer our family in South Africa a safe haven if things got too difficult in our home country. But they didn't come. And soon we realized that they never would. We held on tight to the beautiful home until Barry got cancer of his eye. Suddenly our focus (excuse the pun) changed. No longer worrying about the family on the other side of the world, we decided to do what was good for us. And sadly that meant selling up and downsizing. I thought I would feel sad, but I didn't. I thought I would miss the large rooms, and I do. But there are more important things than big houses and three garages. There is peace to think about what we need. And what we needed was a house and garden that didn't overwhelm us. As Barry struggled with his disease and I battled the anxiety that the situation created, we noted that sometimes we have to be selfish. Now if any family visit, they will have to put up with what we have. Maybe it's good to know that people visit us and not our house. I was talking to our daughter who lives close to the New Zealand ski fields and discovered that I had passed on my nature to her. She had bought a house with the idea that family would visit on their trips to the snow. And they didn't. Maybe it's time for her to be a bit selfish and think of what she needs? Maybe we all need to put ourselves first at times? Tomorrow is my 65th birthday and family ask me what I want to do to celebrate. Actually not much at all. I will have to don my selfish hat to answer that one and I am not too fussed about getting stuff for myself. I did get an early gift. My favourite perfume ... thanks, Chad for the gift which I opened early because I just couldn't wait. I walked around sniffing my wrist all day yesterday. Yes, I was being selfish and it felt good. Maybe a piece of decadent cake with lashings of cream? I don't drink alcohol, so that is not an option. But realistically at my advanced age, I need very little of the material things in life. I hear your query if 65 is an advanced age. Well yes, at the moment it feels like I am 100 years old and everything is aching. So humour me for the moment. I go to have scans for my own cancer journey on Monday. Yes, the 5th of November. Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the houses of Parliament in England many years back on 5th November, so let's hope there are no fireworks when I have the scan. And it all ends with a fizz. A damp squib or a faulty firework maybe? I remember well those Guy Fawkes nights of my youth when we would stuff an old pair of overalls with straw and assorted squibs and throw him on a bonfire in the backyard. Lots of duds, lots of surprises and lots of underperforming rockets. And maybe even a few wayward ones too. This was usually due to some person not stabilizing the rocket and it would take off across the grass and straight for the gathered people ... sounds dangerous, and it was, but we thought it was fun. One thing I learned. Never put your squibs in your pocket. Ever. A stray spark could ignite your hoard and give you a nasty surprise, and a burn to remember.

This week we babysat some of our grandkids. It was Halloween and their Mom was away with their big brother on a camp. We went into the cul-de-sac where they live and laid out a bowl of sweets/candy/lollies ready for the onslaught of masked marauders. Troy and Raisa dressed up in their costumes and we took the box of chalks and started writing on their wooden front fence .... Happy Halloween .... lollies here ..... and lots of pictures of pumpkins and ghosts. Troy is a dab hand at the scary pumpkin and Raisa drew pictures of pretty candies. Three children arrived and took their treats .. and then we waited ... and waited. This did not worry the kiddies and they started playing ball ... Evanna (the 3-year-old) started singing 'Let it be' with all the dramatic hand movements and I sat on a stool and smiled. In the end, we did get a few children to visit and relieve us of the sugar overload. We took our bunch inside and gave them a proper meal, which they hardly touched because they were too full of lollies. As the sun was going down we then told the grandkids that it was time to wash and get ready for bed. And that is when everything turned to custard. I said the 'magic words' of 'No more lollies.' Evanna, who had been a laughing, giggling, singing child let rip with the tears as if her world was ending and timed it just as her father walked in the door from work ..... it looked like she had had the worst time imaginable with her grandparents. Ever. The moral of the story? Keep a tight hold on the goodie bag and only hand out a little bit at a time? No? Eat all the candy yourself so that you have enough energy to run after said grandchildren? No, not an option as a diabetic. No idea what the proper response should be. I realize that there is no good way to take candy from a baby. There will always be tears. Maybe I should learn the words to 'Let it be' ... maybe not with all the drama of a 3-year-old, but certainly the sentiment behind the song would be good.

As you watch your pumpkins rot and decay after Halloween, remember that the ancient Celts carved turnips, not pumpkins. The druids were never given any lollies by the families they were serving and ancestors only haunt those who disrespect them ... oh dear, I might have to watch that penchant for bad-mouthing the Earl and the chambermaid then or else they will be paying me a midnight visit. Look after yourselves and be a little bit selfish at times. It feels good. I have rambled on about sweet Fanny Adams today and hope you will forgive my muddled memories.

Lots of love

Pat