Everything's Gone Gray

I came in to work this morning, like I normally do. It did not register that everyone else was wearing green. I am not a morning person. I don't trust morning people. I think that if you looked into it, you would probably find that all fascists are morning people. I mean, I could make the trains run on time too, as long as none of them ran before, say, 10am.

The subject of green came up quickly, though. I hadn't been here long before someone asked why I wasn't wearing green. My first response was "Hnh?". Then I remembered the memo yesterday re: St. Patrick's Day Activities. My second response was a more coherent "I am Irish. I don't have to wear green."

Tell me to wear green, will ya? I've gone gray and if you don't like it, you can lump it.

It is at this point that I must confess to having an old ladies' hobby. I've somehow, through no fault of my own, become the family genealogist. I call it an old ladies' hobby, not to be sexist or ageist, but in pursuit of accuracy. When I go to the archives, I am the only male there who was not brought there to fetch things for their wife, and I am the youngest researcher by at least a couple of decades.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I also know how to play Canasta.

As the family genealogist, I can conclusively say that we have a genetic predisposition toward jackassery. We can't help ourselves. We are, as another researcher described us, "secretive and contentious". I'll elaborate later, but for now, an Irish highlight for St. Patrick's Day:

Engage the Wayback Machine, and you'll find my Irish several greats-grandfather, who fought in the Revolutionary War essentially because the English told him not to.

How'd that work out for them?

The English brought over a Scotts mercenary who, coincidentally, was a colossal dick (and, not-so-coincidentally, is probably also distantly related to me) and was hated by the local Scotts-Irish farmers. (Oddly enough, Ferguson once fought against Casimir Pulaski, of the eponymous Illinois holiday.) The British had crushed the Colonial Army in the south, and in the process, had massacred a group of colonial soldiers who were trying to surrender. With no one to stop him, Tarleton, the British general, split his forces into three groups and marched north toward the undefended capital to finish off the rebellion. Before setting off, Fergie the Merc threatened the locals that he would bring fire and sword down upon them if they got involved. This did not have the intended effect.

Being Scotts (who knew and didn't care for Ferguson) and Irish (who didn't much care for the English in general), they didn't like being told what to do. They raised a militia called the Overmountain Men. They sallied forth. Moving from west to east, they kicked the English army's ass one, two, three, and saved the Revolution.

You're welcome.

The Overmountain Boys caught up to Ferguson and his Loyalist militia at Kings Mountain and killed him stone cold dead. A week and a half later, they caught up to Tarleton and crushed him at The Battle of Cowpens, taking more than half his army prisoner. They then fought a war of attrition against the remaining English forces, culminating in the Battle of Eutaw Springs, where Irish Ancestor was finally wounded. After Eutaw Springs the English scurried back to Charleston with their tails between their legs, having lost so many men that they could no longer go on the offensive, despite having won most of the battles after Cowpens.

Irish Ancestor recovered and eventually came west to Illinois. Among his stubborn and contentious descendents is one deadspot, who will not be wearing green for St. Pat's after all.