There is a name for people in our lives that bore us with stories about famous people they know. My friends and family call that braggadocios blowhard, Steve.
It turns out most of my friends can’t be bothered to sit still and listen to my incredible tales of sharing a Tony Packo’s Hot Dog with Jamie Farr, ala “Lady and the Tramp”- spaghetti style; or my riveting recounting of my dog Sherman getting overly-friendly with Barbara Bush’s pooch, Sadie, during my days of walking the beach with the former first lady in Kennebunkport Maine; or the time I shared a crowded elevator ride with the late National Security Advisor Brent Scowcroft, and on a dare turned to him and asked out loud if he had just passed gas. What could possibly be worse than stories like those? How about being stuck listening to someone who was misled into believing you wanted to learn everything about their family lineage.
We explore the stories of those who came before us, those who once blossomed on the branches of our own family tree, to garner a keener grasp of our sometimes spicy past, in vain efforts to prepare for our cautious jump on the future.
Every person who shares their family history with me seems to have come from someone famous, be it entertainment, the military, politics, science, sports, or royalty. One friend’s ancestor was supposedly a King who led an army that conquered 2,000 heavily armed bad guys, with just a handful of underweight misfits tossing dirt clods and twigs, underhanded.
Another one swears his great-great-great grandmother was some one-legged albino Princess who could read minds, from a country that I don’t think ever existed. And don’t we all have that co-worker who had a second-cousin once removed that had a great grandfather that played poker with General George Washington after he and his boat-mates finally docked in Delaware? I have a former girlfriend who tells me her great uncle on her mother’s side was responsible for the creation of bread. She also said she’d love me forever after I paid for her car repairs, but what can you do?
Then one day, I found the answer to my own family’s curiosities. It was December 23. I remember the date because, as per tradition, I had just started my Christmas shopping. There, in the middle of the mall’s common area, near the food court, sat a kiosk, selling a good looking official document in a handcrafted plastic frame that told you all about your family’s name, its history, and displayed your family crest. Right there, near a small mall kitchen that wreaked of scorched lo mien I discovered, finally, for $15.99 I can find out the truth about that Scottish castle of Burnet. “I must be related to some very famous Scotsman.” My money was on Melchior, who I believe was the Scottish King of the trio of Kings that brought gifts to the Christ Child. Or maybe I’m kin to Ronald McDonald, the red-haired, lipstick wearing heir to the restaurant that hurts my tummy, every single morning.
I approached the ancestral kiosk vendor near the burning lo mien in my normal jovial manner, asking if I needed to take a blood or urine test first, because if I did, he needed to know that I didn’t study for either one. One of us chuckled, and it wasn’t him. So then I queried, just how accurate his little ancestry contraption was, and his response was, “Fifteen nine-nine, no Anglash.” Well, with an answer like, that I knew it was time for me to shut up, pay up, and learn.
This being a Christmas gift for my parents, and for no reason at all except a poor choice, I decided to be just as surprised as them with these long-awaited answers haunting our family for lo’ these many years, so I chose not to read the official plastic-framed document, not just yet. Instead, I took my purchase to a nearby wrapping station operated by some group that wanted to raise money to buy a dolphin a wheelchair or something, then brought my present home, all excited for Christmas Eve.
The big night came, Mom and Pops unwrapped the package together, and were both…steady in their response. Not overly excited, but certainly not disappointed. Both thanked me and said, “Well that’s not something you see every day,” so of course they were grateful for the history lesson about our name. I offered to mount it on the wall for them, and both replied immediately and simultaneously not to worry about it, they’d make sure to display it, later.
Now it was finally my turn to read and learn. “Burnette” was a clan that dyed yarn, also known as net burners. And sometimes, when supplies ran low and things got tight, we plied our craft with, wait for it, human hair. Great. We burned netting, we dyed yarn, and we colored hair, yet we were not hair dressers.
The crest displayed on that official document that spurted out from the ancestry contraption’s cold, plastic lips at the kiosk near the lo mien inferno, resembled that of a pregnant duck, riding a unicycle, while smoking a cigar. In closing this emotional chapter on our family, there was one last lingering question waiting to be answered. Where did I leave that receipt?
Steve Burnette is an occasional contributor to the paper when space is needed to fill. He also serves as the executive director of the historic Murphy Theatre in downtown Wilmington, Ohio, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Ohio Arts Professionals Network.
