A Leprechaun with a Kilt?

I married an Irish man—an American whose ancestors came from Ireland. We even have the ship records when his ancestors arrived, but with a last name that’s not so rare, no telling if we have the right records, and nobody really cares. He is Irish, red cheeks and all.

Last year, for Christmas, when Ancestry.com had a special, I thought it would be fun if we both sent our DNA kits. I bought two, but didn’t expect mine to be interesting at all, but knew Terry’s ancestors’ region would be very interesting. When he was little, his mother shared what she knew: he and his brothers had Native American blood in their veins, not much, but enough worth mentioning.

When it arrived, we spit in the tubes, sealed the boxes, sent the kits in, and the waiting began.

Weeks later, when the email with my husband’s DNA results arrived, we opened it, and his face got longer and longer.

“What? I am British?” I looked at the analyses in disbelief as well and giggled. “Baby, you are Scottish,” I joked.

“I am not going to tell my brothers,” and I understood. I felt terrible.

The native American ancestor was not in the picture either. Which was perhaps the biggest disappointment.

…

I felt so bad. “Where the heck is Cornwall?” He asked, and I shrugged my shoulders.

He is over it now, but I still wish I hadn’t ordered the ancestry kits. Sometimes not knowing is better, so the tales our grandparents and parents tell us as children can live on.

Today, like every year, I wished my Scottish man “Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” and created a picture of a leprechaun wearing a kilt, which made him laugh out loud.

He has adjusted nicely to his new, old roots (still won’t tell his brothers) but jokes about being British.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all Irish (and not so Irish)!