February 2004 Issue - Essay # 2
Genetic
Brew
By
Charly Makray-Rice
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Years
after my ancestors have been buried and their memories have turned to
ether, now it matters, now I find myself yearning for my past, to know
those dozens, hundreds, thousands of people that molded my genetic self--the generations lost and forgotten, the genealogy never gathered. Like
most children, I swore that when I grew up I would not be like my parents.
I would not make the mistakes they made, I would demand my own
destiny and live my own success. I
did just that, I did manage to avoid my parental mistakes. I managed,
instead, to make several dozen irrational ones of my own, errors my
parents could never comprehend. I
developed into my own person, and I really see nothing of my parents in me,
other than similar physical features like slacking jowls and wrinkled
hands. But
if I am not my parents, who am I, really?
Is it truly a conscious act of will that makes me debate an issue
at the drop of a hat, that forces me to look beyond the obvious for the
pitfalls, to pass the good and sniff out the shortcomings?
If not my parents, who made me play with words, and who gave me the
micro-sight that lets me look for nature’s smallest herald? Who gave me the skill to color between the lines and go on to take
all the artistic honors in school? And
how did I manage to wear a perception of arrogance like a silken cape when
I had, in fact, nothing to be arrogant about other than a sturdy cellular
sense that there was more to me than met the eye.
No one ever knew me the way I knew myself.
Except for my husband, no one ever cared to look. Late
in life, I came to the conclusion that most people really only thought
about what I could do for them--and how often and at what time. As long
as I circled around their sun, all was well in their universe. If there
was a life form in mine it went unexplored.
Unexplored in a human wasteland, a barren dry-bones existence
bereft of surprises. Knowing that we all need human interaction, I still
turned inward and became stubborn, self-sufficient, and depressed. I
searched for exceptions, for the people who wandered off, isolated
themselves, and still accomplished something miraculous.
I couldn’t recall anyone of merit who did successfully withdraw
permanently, although several came to mind who cocooned regularly and
returned, moth-like, to complete their cycle. If
we don’t know where we come from, we are going to have a hell of a time
finding out! Recently, I
discovered that a goodly portion of what I proudly thought was
self-development, was in fact, ancestral genetics playing out their
life-song. My love of nature
is inherited from both my paternal grandmother and my maternal
grandfather. They both
maintained beautiful city gardens and nurtured plants in their homes.
I inherited my creative and artistic skills from my paternal
grandfather--a master cabinetmaker and creator of furniture of exceptional
beauty from the rent fabric of ancient oak and walnut. Several sources in
my genealogical hunt have pointed to the possibility of his ancestors
having been nobility, and historical data verifies its possibility.
Has arrogance been bred into me?
Grandfather also regularly participated in a discussion group
where, I have no doubt, his stubborn opinions often challenged the group. If I know and understand my past, can I begin to know and understand my future? Will the behaviors bred into me allow me to take corrective actions to avoid my ancestral mistakes? And what were those mistakes. Sadly, it is true that if we don’t learn from our past history, we are doomed to repeat its errors. It sounded like a load of horseshit in seventh grade, but now I’m beginning to smell it. I only hope it means there’s a pony in my yard! Previously
published online:
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Author's Biography Charly Makray-Rice is a native of Chicago, now making her home on a precious bit of restored prairie and oak savanna in central Wisconsin. She
and her husband, Don, spend time creating furniture with wood made
from recycled old desks and garage-sale finds. She enjoys nature photography,
cooking and loving up her critters--Connie the red Doberman, Chan the
marmalade cat, and Mardi Gras, the calico-kitty with a raccoon-like mask;
also, a few miles away, live Cinnabar and Amigo, the family's
appaloosa horses. She retired recently, after developing fibryomyalgia. Charly, is looking forward to re-starting her essayist dreams. E-mail
Charly at chardon@maqs.net
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Essay
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