Husband No. 1 on his never-ending quest for enlightenment came across a phrase "pedigree collapse" that will be our Word-O'-the-Day until Niece No. 1 wakes up and starts with the calvacade of butt jokes that she's so partial to (for now). At first I thought it had something to do with the modern Republican Party, the meanest bunch of antediluvian, opportunistic Know Nothings I've ever seen in this country and believe me, growing up in Iowa, I've seen plenty. (And godknows there are stupider groups in this country, but for sheer cake-taking for being as mean as you are unctuous, the modern GOP and its trademarked subsidiary, the Tea Party, takes the win.) But, I digress.
It turns out that "pedigree collapse" doesn't mean the above, nor does it mean that there's been so much inbreeding that your line is rendered sterile (or am I being redundant?) it simply means that if one goes back far enough genealogically, you will find a relation. Yeah, yeah we are all descendants of Eve. Or, closer to home, there is the distinct possibility that I am related to a Beirne from County Kerry and don't know it.
Any excuse will do to find myself in Ireland one day in August at a Bunratty Castle, a 13th century fortress that's now a tourist attraction instead of a Viking or a Norman target. (I can hear some of my American brethren: "Doris, is it safe to go inside? How do we know there aren't terrorists there?) We, my in-laws, my husband and I bought tickets not only for a tour but also for that evening's meal compleat with mead ( a honey alcohol brew), the ubiquitous brown bread, soup and slabs of ribs. It's all in fun, what I imagine they do in places like Disneyland or on a cruise. You're packed in a banquet hall pretending that the young girl dressed in a low-cut, empire-waisted dress serving you is really a lady-in-waiting instead of the tight jeaned, bespectacled working girl smoking a filterless cigarette texting whoever as she passed you hours earlier on her way to work. The singers sing. The dancers dance. The master of ceremony cajoles us and invites us in on the game. (I am not one for sales pitches or organized groups. The minute I sense that a live being is trying to manipulate my feelings in service to The Cause my arms cross my chest either literally or metaphorically. A corollary: I hate the social convention of "give yourself a hand". Why should I clap? I didn't do nothin' but pay for the ticket and keep my eyes open for a performance. ) Once he's deduced that we are his, and not until then because he wants you to want to play, he appoints a King and Queen. With the typical Irish feck ya twist that night's anointed couple were English. And not top-drawer English either.
So we're eating. The only utensil you're given is a knife to spear the meat; everything else you eat with your hands. You can have as much mead poured in your chalice as you want. Puts you in the mood for the evening's business which is to catch a transgressor and have the royalty decide his fate. That night's sacrificial schlub was a newlywed. I don't know if being newly married mattered, but it certainly helps to have an inmate who's already poised for humiliation. I don't even remember what the jacked up offense was; what I do remember was his growing doubt about the wisdom of having consented to role playing, not knowing what was coming. Finally, the MC asks us, the lords and ladies of Bunratty to advise the King and Queen as to his fate -- the dungeon or death? Torture or mercy?
And without hesitation the crowd roars for his death. Husband No. 1 and I looked at each other with one raised eyebrow each as if to say: Didja see that?
It turns out that "pedigree collapse" doesn't mean the above, nor does it mean that there's been so much inbreeding that your line is rendered sterile (or am I being redundant?) it simply means that if one goes back far enough genealogically, you will find a relation. Yeah, yeah we are all descendants of Eve. Or, closer to home, there is the distinct possibility that I am related to a Beirne from County Kerry and don't know it.
Any excuse will do to find myself in Ireland one day in August at a Bunratty Castle, a 13th century fortress that's now a tourist attraction instead of a Viking or a Norman target. (I can hear some of my American brethren: "Doris, is it safe to go inside? How do we know there aren't terrorists there?) We, my in-laws, my husband and I bought tickets not only for a tour but also for that evening's meal compleat with mead ( a honey alcohol brew), the ubiquitous brown bread, soup and slabs of ribs. It's all in fun, what I imagine they do in places like Disneyland or on a cruise. You're packed in a banquet hall pretending that the young girl dressed in a low-cut, empire-waisted dress serving you is really a lady-in-waiting instead of the tight jeaned, bespectacled working girl smoking a filterless cigarette texting whoever as she passed you hours earlier on her way to work. The singers sing. The dancers dance. The master of ceremony cajoles us and invites us in on the game. (I am not one for sales pitches or organized groups. The minute I sense that a live being is trying to manipulate my feelings in service to The Cause my arms cross my chest either literally or metaphorically. A corollary: I hate the social convention of "give yourself a hand". Why should I clap? I didn't do nothin' but pay for the ticket and keep my eyes open for a performance. ) Once he's deduced that we are his, and not until then because he wants you to want to play, he appoints a King and Queen. With the typical Irish feck ya twist that night's anointed couple were English. And not top-drawer English either.
So we're eating. The only utensil you're given is a knife to spear the meat; everything else you eat with your hands. You can have as much mead poured in your chalice as you want. Puts you in the mood for the evening's business which is to catch a transgressor and have the royalty decide his fate. That night's sacrificial schlub was a newlywed. I don't know if being newly married mattered, but it certainly helps to have an inmate who's already poised for humiliation. I don't even remember what the jacked up offense was; what I do remember was his growing doubt about the wisdom of having consented to role playing, not knowing what was coming. Finally, the MC asks us, the lords and ladies of Bunratty to advise the King and Queen as to his fate -- the dungeon or death? Torture or mercy?
And without hesitation the crowd roars for his death. Husband No. 1 and I looked at each other with one raised eyebrow each as if to say: Didja see that?
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