A good tiara is hard to find. Not that I haven’t located one, the British armory just refuses to allow me to wear it despite my illustrious credentials.
How Fergie — who sold out to Weight Watchers and an undercover journalist — could be entrusted with the jewels but not me boggles the ol’ noggin.
Oh, bother. I didn’t want to announce this in such a way. Trumpets should be blown and proclamations decreed, but alas the official correspondence arranging for both must have been lost in the mail along with my Publishers Clearinghouse winnings and book deals with well-known publishers.
You see, I descend from royalty. Grade A royalty at that, a Scottish King to be precise. No need to curtsy or bow, although if you seek my favor, presenting a gift of Taco Bell before my gilded La-Z-Boy might be advisable. No onions, please.
Knowledge of my noble ancestors only came to light a few weeks ago. I’ve been researching my lineage through a paid Internet service in order to gain membership to the local Piankeshaw Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution.
Starting out as a desire to wear old period costumes, my quest quickly mutated in to a full out olden-days obsession. I can’t get enough. What great grandparents have I not discovered? Do they stir in their graves or look down from heaven when their forgotten names have been spoken after so long a silence?
As the Carl Sagan saying goes, you have to know the past to understand the present. DNA from these forefathers and mothers still replicate in my genes. Understanding their history, struggles and all, should help with the understanding of my own life, right?
So I chipped away at the hardened coat of neglected memories. As I started to delve further down the rabbit hole, I quickly realized that most all my ancestors are Kentuckians, many having arrived 200 years ago when Native Americans still owned the frontier. Being a proud Indiana alum, my stomach churned at the thought.