My paternal grandfather's family wandered out of the woods and started farming turnips and dirt sometime before the Mayflower landed. One of my ancestors managed to become a wealthy farmer, and somebody (one of his kids, we think) bashed in his head and left his corpse in a ditch. Because he was also a dick.
Another of my distant relations (and one of said farmer's sons) was Ransom Clark, one of the survivors of Dade's Massacre in Florida. The Seminoles decided he was "dead enough" and left him there to die, and the miserable bastard crawled back to the fort. I mean that -- he crawled back. It took four years for his wounds to kill him, and he had like three kids in the meantime, if memory serves.
My paternal grandmother was a 50/50 Italian/Irish split (and suuuuuuuuuuuuuuper Catholic... though she married a Protestant... go fig). We're still Irish enough that we get invited to the McGuire family reunion every couple of years, I guess.
There's some Seneca in there too, somewhere. I have no idea where. I've had people I've never met look at me and ask me if I was part native. I don't see it, but apparently they do.
My mother's family is a 50/50 split between Scot and German. Grants, actually. One of these days I plan to get a tattoo of the clan crest. My great-grandfather on my mother's side bailed on his family by hopping a train. If anybody's ever heard of a "Red" Grant that showed up out of nowhere, let me know where he's buried, I need to go piss on his grave for my grandfather.
In other words, I am a complete mutt and I turn as red as a lobster with minimal sun exposure.
