The following tongue-in-cheek article was written by local humour columnist Ray Smit and previously published in the Parksville Qualicum Beach News.

My maternal uncle was an unpretentious kind of guy despite his prestigious upper-management job. His wife was also very nice but nowhere near as down to earth. The source of her pretense was an odd fixation with genealogy  – especially her own. She was convinced that her side of the family tree was majestic and proud whereas his was full of squirrels and nuts.  Her sometimes lofty manner exasperated everyone except my uncle, who found her affectations amusing.  She often commiserated with my mother, expressing her regret that mom’s children had inferior roots.

“Ray, you poor boy, you don’t even have a family crest, do you?”

“No, but we do have a family Colgate and sometimes Pepsodent, if it‘s on sale.”

“You misunderstand. I mean that, unlike you, I know all about my forefathers.”

“You had four fathers? Wow, how come I only got one?”

“No, silly, I’m suggesting that you learn about your ancestors and their peccadilloes.”

“I don’t think Mom would let us have a peccadillo, but she might let us get a gerbil.”

My aunt’s condescension continued unchecked for years. But given the fact that my uncle and his ten siblings had been orphaned, she hypothesized that our family tree must be filled with stable hands and dustmen. After many years, my uncle hired a firm to examine our roots.

We assumed that the report would at the very least show us to be 100 per cent Dutch. After all, there are certain key physical characteristics that Netherland natives share and we have them in spades.  We are tall and blonde and have rather prominent noses.

Anyway, a few months later my uncle presented us with a summary of our genealogical history. Much to everyone’s surprise it turned out we were both Dutch and French. Moreover, our side of the family was related to the French aristocracy right back to Henry the IV, the Bourbon King of France. My aunt was stunned into complete silence.  After the initial shock passed, my aunt began telling anyone who’d listen that her children were ‘aristocrats’ and proud descendants of the House of Bourbon.  As time passed I began to wonder about the genealogical investigation my uncle had commissioned. Surprisingly, no one in our family could ever find an actual copy of the report. Moreover, whenever any of us would ask about our royal lineage, he’d just give a noncommittal smile.

My uncle and aunt have both passed on now. So I guess I’ll never be sure whether my ancestors were barons or bathroom attendants. I might well be the rightful heir to the French throne. Or I might be more suited to cleaning it. Either way, I am the proud owner of my own toilet brush and, whether it be scrubber or scepter, I’m not afraid to use it. So what’s the moral of the story?  If you delve deeply enough, every family tree has its fair share of root rot.

Source:  Parksville Qualicum Beach News,
Thursday, March 30, 2017