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Any Black Sheep In The Family?


Avalon
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Family lore has it that there was a cousin Walter who was a teenager at the time of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and that he and some other teens were arrested for looting. That's on the paternal side.

 

My maternal grandmother's father killed a man and spent 14 years in prison. This was in Kansas in the 19th century. He and my great grandmother divorced but remarried after he was released.

 

There was a creek that a man kept damming. And my great grandfather kept tearing down the dam. This went on several times. My great grandfather finally told him that if he dammed the creek one more time that he'd kill him. The man did so my great grandfather killed him.

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Lemme see:

My paternal heritage (since 1601) is:

Allen

Allen

Timothy

 

Joseph

Joseph

Joseph

 

William

Henry (seventh son of a seventh son)

Ernest

 

Sanford

 

My aunt tells me "They didn't come to America to do good. They came to make a buck!"

 

There's a hill in Boston ... well, it's got a monument ... and it's for the Battle of Bunker hill, but that's not where the battle was fought.

 

Damn, I'm too Yanqui for my own good.

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Supposedly my grandfather came to the US because he had thrown a potato at an English cop in Ireland, but I sometimes wonder if that's just a story and more went down. A number of my ancestors were active in the fight for Irish independence, including a great-great-aunt who staged a prison break.

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Family lore has it that there was a cousin Walter who was a teenager at the time of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and that he and some other teens were arrested for looting. That's on the paternal side.

 

My maternal grandmother's father killed a man and spent 14 years in prison. This was in Kansas in the 19th century. He and my great grandmother divorced but remarried after he was released.

 

There was a creek that a man kept damming. And my great grandfather kept tearing down the dam. This went on several times. My great grandfather finally told him that if he dammed the creek one more time that he'd kill him. The man did so my great grandfather killed him.

 

It lends a virtual slant to the expression "well, I'll be damned."

 

My bad. I couldn't resist. :p

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My great-great-great grandfather was considered a hero in the 18th century, but would probably be considered a black sheep today, because he was put in charge of suppressing a slave rebellion on the sugar plantations in British Guiana, and his methods--as one would expect--were pretty brutal.

 

My grandmother, on the other hand, was considered a black sheep by her family in the late 19th century, because she had an affair with a much older famous man, but today she would probably just be considered a feminist.

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I used to think that my uncle was a deadbeat until I thought things through recently. He never worked very much and his family got by on a small disability pension from a WWII injury. He was hit by a truck as a young man and seriously injured. He was hospitalized for months. One of his legs was so badly injured that his doctors wanted to amputate. He refused to let them remove the leg. That leg gave him problems for his entire life. He wore a leg brace and even with the brace had a bad limp. One time, he got a union construction job that paid very well. He had to quit after a few months because he just couldn't handle it. Everyone thought he was lazy. And it occurred to me like a thunderclap only recently that he was handicapped and that he may have been doing the best he could.

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My uncle *was* a deadbeat. He rarely worked, when he did find work he'd quit because "they weren't what he wanted to be doing", despite having a wife and five kids. My grandmother (his wife's mother) supported them quietly until she died in the early 80's, and he ditched a few months after that, saying his family would be better off without him. A few years ago I asked my cousin, his daughter, if she knew where he was. "Not sure, presumed dead" was her brief answer.

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My mom's oldest brother (he was 20 years older than my mother) was usually so drunk he could not recognize the difference between his daughter and his much younger sisters. I never knew his family. On his widow's 100th birthday, my mother decided not to attend her party. And my grandmother died at age 82, with no visits from my uncle or his family.

 

Irony: he was old enough to work on construction of the Panama Canal.

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