Today is the birthday of my maternal grandfather, born
in Branxton in the Hunter Valley in 1885, the son of a school master from
Yorkshire. His mother was the granddaughter of a convict.
My calendar lets me know the anniversary of the births, deaths and marriages of the donors of my genes.
Because these donors increase in geometric progression with the reverse passage of time, there are, for example, 256 donors by the eighth generation.
With 3 anniversaries for each donor per year (birth, death, marriage), there would be 768 calendar entries if records were complete.
My calendar lets me know the anniversary of the births, deaths and marriages of the donors of my genes.
Because these donors increase in geometric progression with the reverse passage of time, there are, for example, 256 donors by the eighth generation.
With 3 anniversaries for each donor per year (birth, death, marriage), there would be 768 calendar entries if records were complete.
Fortunately for my liver, ancestry records get a bit dodgy after 3 or 4
generations, but even so, I have plenty of anniversaries to acknowledge.
"Celebration" is a euphemism for a sombre or
celebratory wee dram, depending on the nature of the anniversary.
I should stress that this is not just a convenient
excuse to get blootered, but a heart-felt reflection on the debt I owe those
who, but for the urge for a bit of how’s-your-father at a particular moment in
time, would not have precipitated the events which ultimately lead to me
sitting here writing this rather pointless, rambling piece of tortured prose.
Tonight is a celebration for my Pappy. I have chosen the 25-year-old single cask, cask strength Port Ellen.
Happy birthday, dear old Pappy.
Slainte mhath.
(Tomorrow is the anniversary of my paternal grandparents’ wedding in 1904.
I think the 13-year-old
Rosebank, perhaps.
My life is just one party after another.)
