Sunday Morning Press Blackout

I’ve been thinking again about the 3,000 or so ancestors I have (a great many of which are your ancestors as well) and that long imaginary line of men snaking back into history to ancestor number 1 who lived, had sex at least once, and died near what is now Ethiopia around 10,000 years ago.

And what I am thinking is this: I’ll bet that line of 2,999 men are pretty boring guys. If the world is as statisticians tell us it is then there were some a little taller than me, some shorter. There were some outliers on the smart side and some outliers on the dumb side, but most of the 3,000 were probably fairly undistinguished.

I don’t harbor any illusions that my genetic heritage is terribly interesting or noteworthy.

Maybe there was a fluke military hero or someone who discovered something, but that is just the law of averages. Maybe I’m the statistical outlier on some way, but I doubt it. I’m probably as unremarkable as the most unremarkable person whose genes reside in my mitochondria.

I get the feeling that out of the 3,000 or so men who muddled through pre-history, the bronze age, the renaissance, the industrial revolution that there were a bunch of middleclass plodders with maybe a dozen or so men who’s lives were noted in the history books.

The reason I think this is because the pull of bourgeoisie contentment has always been so strong for me. In fact, living a quiet life and being a good dad is really the only ambition I’ve ever had. I don’t say that with any showy Dr. Laura “I’m my kids Dad!” chest thumping kind of pride, because I don’t feel like I am a particular great dad it is simply the only job I have ever aspired to. That’s why I was so mad about our invasion of Iraq. “Shock and Awe” was bound to blow up a bunch of peoples fathers, sons, mothers and daughters which, even is Saddam was a bad guy, was not worth it. But I digress.

In this thought game I’m walking backward into history passing first my father at age 40, then his father at 40 (by the way, this man (my grandfather) does not know he is going to die at 41 from a ruptured appendix). We’ve never met, but he seems to know me and I smile at my grandfather and he touches the tip of his hat brim and smiles back. Now I’m passing his father at 40 and he is a complete stranger to me except for the fact that we look like we could be brothers. Now I’m passing some Irish men who look reasonably content for being rather dirty and damp. Like my grandfather, I imagine that they know me and if I stop to chat they can tell me about their lives. “Not much to tell really. I took a trip to Dublin once as a boy.” They say trying to think of what I might find interesting.

Then I’m passing men who lived in Scotland and men who were pushed around the edges of Europe for generations. They flowed like water here and there wherever it looked like they could find a spot to be left alone. Soon the men are not wearing woven clothes, but are wrapped in animal skins and these guys look lean and tough but still happy. And now it just takes a minute of two to get back to ancestor number 1.

“Hi.” I say.
“Hi” (He can speak English which is lucky for me.)
“You know, your children and their children are going to leave here and have families all over the Earth.” I tell him.
“Really?” he says. “Do they avoid getting eaten by Alligators and lions?” He asks.
“Yes. For the most part.” I say. “Lions and alligators are not a big concern in the future.”
“That’s good.” He says. “Are they happy?” he asks.
“I think so. “ I say. “They can be pretty terrible to each other from time to time, but they manage to be happy.”
“That’s good.” He says.
“Yes.” I say. “That is good.”