Who am I? Who are you?

There's something I've wanted to do for quite a long time, but I'm far too stingy to pony up the $100 it takes.

I want to have my DNA examined in The Genographic Project.

As the National Geographic web site says, this is not traditional genealogy. It's deeper than that. In my case, the project will look at my Mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA), which will tell me where the ancestors on my mother's side came from.

While some people who know me may suspect that the correct answer to this question is Mars, I believe that most of my ancestors were from central Europe in the grand and beautiful country of Bohemia. Don't bother looking for it on a map, since it isn't there anymore. A few other stragglers may have been Danish - which would mean origins somewhere near a Krispy Kreme - and some may have been German.

Nobody really seems to know for sure. On my dad's side, there is also Bohemian and Swiss, neither of which can be traced in this project because, alas, I do not have a Y chromosome. I have flat feet instead. The interesting thing about this is that a friend of mine (Jenny to your right in the links), my source to all things European since she lived there for one year as a teenager, says that I look quite Swiss. Couple this with the fact that a very nice Swiss man named Yves once befriended me and he looked a lot like my dad, and I think Jenny is pretty accurate.

With my luck, I'm sure that the test would come back and completely discount all of this. I would be a cross breed with roots in Ireland and Tibet. Come to think of it, that would be pretty cool, too. Alas, then I'd have to find new teams to root for in the Olympic curling and luge events.

I find all of this fascinating. I was reading up on this project and it has come up with some startling results. The article was about an "African-American" man who turned out not to be African at all. In fact, he even had Jewish roots. I think it's interesting that, on one hand, we completed discount our roots. Our ancestors came to America only a few generations ago, and yet we know very little about our own ethnic makeup. At the same time, we embrace broad cultural definitions of ourselves without really understanding what they mean. I would love to know more about my genetic roots. It probably wouldn't explain a whole lot about me - okay, I share DNA with Otzi the Iceman, now what? - but it certainly would be interesting.





I like thinking about ethnicity. Not in any sort of Aryan race sort of way, but just in enjoying the wide variation in humanity.

Where have all the cowgirls gone?

Earlier this week, I happened to interview a real life, genuine cowgirl. Who is married to a genuine roper. For those of you who are not up on your rodeo and cowboy terms, he uses ropes and does this show and rides around standing on the backs of horses. His wife Annie, my interviewee, currently sings, does a similar whip act and is chief bottle washer.

I found the entire interview entirely delightful. First of all, I love to meet people who are making a living at doing what they are passionate about. And, of course, the fact that they are riders and ropers and whippers is a bit unusual in itself. For those who want to learn more, you can visit their web site at www.vincebruce.com.

I also like the fact that they are sustaining a bit of American culture that is mostly in our past.

This got me to thinking. And now I am going to start to sound like an old fart in a rocking chair with my tobacco and a spitoon, but there were many things that were better in in the good old days. I cringe a little when, in the context of my good old days, "good old days" means 1970s (I associate this decade with Burt Reynolds, orange shag carpeting and songs like"Afternoon Delight") but there were indeedy good things that I do miss.

The non-proliferation of fast food. I remember starting any good, long car trip with a full stomach, an empty bladder and some sort of bag lunch. This was part frugality, but it was also due to the fact that most small towns didn't have a fast-food restaurant. They didn't have gas stations with sad little hot dogs rolling away post-mortem. Most local places closed on Sunday. If we were lucky, we'd find a Hardees. We used to stop at waysides to use the bathroom - "Don't sit on the toilet seat!" "Don't worry, Mom, I don't want to fall in the pit!" - and sometimes to eat. If I was truly hungry, my dad would buy me beef jerky at the gas station. It was good times.

Family TV shows. Yes, there's still the family hour on TV, but I grew up in an era where we regularly watched Lawrence Welk, the Donny and Marie Show, Sonny and Cher, Hee Haw and, if my dad was in charge, Benny Hill. Mr. Hill was not so much family entertainment, but I didn't get most of the jokes, so it was okay. Sitcoms are vile and I find that modern "family entertainment" is more risque than Benny Hill ever was. It's true that I was weaned on some pretty hokey entertainment, but it was entertainment. It took talent. It wasn't cheap humor.

Real family vacations. We are currently in the process of planning a two-week or so car trip to the Grand Canyon in homage to our heroes, the Clark Griswold family of Chicago. We have no plans to hibernate at any waterpark in America as part of this trip. We are going nowhere near Disney. We will not eat fast food (see first paragraph). We will not bring along a portable DVD player for the car. We will talk. We will see America first hand. We will take lots of boring pictures. We will eat what the "natives" eat, though I draw the line at Rocky Mountain oysters. I'm thrilled to think that our Grand Canyon room - already booked - comes complete without a television.

Modesty. I will be the first to admit that the fashions of, oh, say, the ladies of Lawrence Welk were quite atrocious. Full-length polyester dresses are and always will be fugly. I had this big wide pleather belt with faux silver grommets on it that I thought was all that, but now in pictures just looks really stupid. I wore smocked, bandeau tops that turned my chest skin into an accordion. My husband's First Communion outfit included vertically striped pants, white pleather shoes and a burgundy colored button-down shirt. It was bad. But not as bad as what people wear (or really, not wear) today.

But I am tired of seeing skin. I'm tired of explaining to my seven-year-old why she can't look like a whore while dancing around the definition of what a whore is. Moreover, I'm tired of seeing people who shouldn't wear those types of clothes wear them in public. They are blinding me and turning me into a pillar of salt. Cover up, for God's sake.

The loss of our American heritage in pop culture. I wish people were more interested in what it means to be an American. The days of storytelling in music are over, except with the surprising exception of Eminem. I've been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash (and I started before "Walk the Line," which I finally saw last week). and he was a great storyteller. I wish people were more interested in the past, in being things like cowboys. I wish people were more engaged in what it means to be an American, and I don't mean in any patriotic sort of way. History is not hokey.

One of my favorite songs, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot is a prime example. My daughter thinks it is a dirge. I think it's classic. A bit of trivia for you: It was the first song I ever peformed live in middle school band. My part was the triangle. I had two notes and I miscounted and missed the first one. I loved the song and the part so much that I stole the music and still have it somewhere. I have quite a history with this song and it makes me tear up whenever I hear it. Listen to the Chippewa. They didn't mess with Gitchehoomie and we shouldn't either.