I saw an ad on CNN a few weeks ago in which a woman gushed about being related to George Washington. She found this out on Ancestry.com whilst compiling her family tree.
I had no illusions that I was related to Sir John A. or anybody else famous. But I decided to join Ancestry.ca just to clear up a few family mysteries.
Growing up in St. Catharines, Ontario, I was surrounded by ancient relatives of various shapes and sizes who would arrive at dinner, or a funeral, and fill my head with all kinds of weird and wonderful stories. Unfortunately, they all died before I reached an age when I was capable of documenting the stories, or more importantly, verifying them. So I thought now, during the age of the Pandemic, would be a good time to grow a family tree.
Boy did I get my money's worth.
I had always thought that I was a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) through and through. There were Crowns, MacPhersons, Bretts and Simpsons; there was no inter-marriage that I knew.
So I was quite surprised to discover that my Great-Grandfather (times three) hailed from Pointe-aux-Trembles, Quebec. That made me one-fifth French-Canadian.
My beloved mother would have been shocked. She was not a fan of the French, or of the Catholic religion, and let me know at an early age. She told me when I was dating a boy of Polish descent during his school that she would not approve of me marrying a Catholic. "They steal your children," she warned.
When I came home with a glow-in-the-dark rosary presented to me by my good friend Joanne, she made me give it back. This really spooked me and I had nightmares for weeks that by accepting this trinket some sort of spirit would come into my room, enter my womb, and steal my eggs.
Still, I cried about the rosary. I loved that it glowed in the dark.
Vera was equally unhappy when I married a French Canadian Catholic in the 1980s, though she had long given up telling me what to do. She was right, of course; it was a terrible marriage not because he was French Canadian, or Catholic, but because he was a douche.
But maybe Vera was right; I was cursed by that rosary, after all.
But at least, I made sure he didn't steal the children.
I'm quite sure Vera was never told that she was part French.
It was one of those dark family secrets that our family kept hidden under a basket in the barn.
Our heritage was further muddled by the fact that my dear old grandpère changed his name to Francis DuRusha from François Duroches.
Francis and Mattie had my great-great granny, Eleanor, and the family became well known wealthy landowners in Uxbridge.
But it seems that living a double life was too much for Francis who took a shot gun and blew his brains out at the age of 50.
I suppose that is why my family got out of Uxbridge and moved to Niagara.
Poor Francis. Back then, the papers held nothing back.
He was described as having been deranged before he met his end.
Just a boy, outstanding in his field, being eaten by birds.
I had no illusions that I was related to Sir John A. or anybody else famous. But I decided to join Ancestry.ca just to clear up a few family mysteries.
Growing up in St. Catharines, Ontario, I was surrounded by ancient relatives of various shapes and sizes who would arrive at dinner, or a funeral, and fill my head with all kinds of weird and wonderful stories. Unfortunately, they all died before I reached an age when I was capable of documenting the stories, or more importantly, verifying them. So I thought now, during the age of the Pandemic, would be a good time to grow a family tree.
Boy did I get my money's worth.
I had always thought that I was a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) through and through. There were Crowns, MacPhersons, Bretts and Simpsons; there was no inter-marriage that I knew.
So I was quite surprised to discover that my Great-Grandfather (times three) hailed from Pointe-aux-Trembles, Quebec. That made me one-fifth French-Canadian.
My beloved mother would have been shocked. She was not a fan of the French, or of the Catholic religion, and let me know at an early age. She told me when I was dating a boy of Polish descent during his school that she would not approve of me marrying a Catholic. "They steal your children," she warned.
When I came home with a glow-in-the-dark rosary presented to me by my good friend Joanne, she made me give it back. This really spooked me and I had nightmares for weeks that by accepting this trinket some sort of spirit would come into my room, enter my womb, and steal my eggs.
Still, I cried about the rosary. I loved that it glowed in the dark.
Vera was equally unhappy when I married a French Canadian Catholic in the 1980s, though she had long given up telling me what to do. She was right, of course; it was a terrible marriage not because he was French Canadian, or Catholic, but because he was a douche.
But maybe Vera was right; I was cursed by that rosary, after all.
But at least, I made sure he didn't steal the children.
I'm quite sure Vera was never told that she was part French.
It was one of those dark family secrets that our family kept hidden under a basket in the barn.
Our heritage was further muddled by the fact that my dear old grandpère changed his name to Francis DuRusha from François Duroches.
Francis and Mattie had my great-great granny, Eleanor, and the family became well known wealthy landowners in Uxbridge.
But it seems that living a double life was too much for Francis who took a shot gun and blew his brains out at the age of 50.
I suppose that is why my family got out of Uxbridge and moved to Niagara.
Poor Francis. Back then, the papers held nothing back.
He was described as having been deranged before he met his end.
Just a boy, outstanding in his field, being eaten by birds.
-
- 20 DEC
1844
AGE 38
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