I guess it’s in the blood. . .


you know, there is something to be said for what you are made of, or where your ancestors come from, that affect and direct you in ways you don’t think of, or about.

Take music, or more precisely, celtic music, or Irish music. Since a young child, I have always found it just absolutely fascinating. The speed, rhythm, intricacies, just the sheer soul of the music touched me in ways that surprised me, considering that I was from a Swedish family in the midwest. Not much of a gregarious group, since they gave up pillaging, raping, plundering and whatnot in the days of old. Anyway, every time I’d hear a jig, reel, or whatever was played, I couldn’t stop my feet or my excitement. Kinda like a car wreck. . . Didn’t want to look, but couldn’t help it. . . .

My parents had divorced when I was a very small child, around my third birthday. As in the Harry Potter stories, there was a name you didn’t mention. “He who must not be named”. My Lord Voldermort was my father. I knew his first name, and sort of the last name, but we never talked about him. Then, later in my life, I learned something. I learned by chance, sort of, that he was as Irish as someone could be without living in Ireland. a member of the Irish Marching Society, clubs, and all that. . . Here I thought that I was Scandinavian, but, to my surprise, I find that I’m three quarters Irish. . . Though , he died tragically, without ever meeting me as an adult. But, that’s another story. . .

Anyway, to take the long way ’round to the point. . . Something inside me knew that I was Irish, though it took most of my life for me to realize it.

Sometimes you know things that you didn’t know you knew. . .

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