Great-grandfather Brewster |
When Elder William Brewster herded his flock into the bowels of the Mayflower to come to America, he was a man of vision. Nowhere was his vision more in evidence than when he looked into the possibility of a world filled with Brewsters and concluded there was no reason to rush into things.
My ancestors have been deliberate to the point of sludginess when it comes to passing on the family genes. Only ten generations separate me from the Mayflower. Brewsters have been parceled out on an average of once every forty or fifty years, or only as often as necessary. Decades go by, and then someone finally points out that there should be someone to hand down the pewter tea set to; and if that didn’t sway, the suggestion is made that without a renewal of Brewster blood, the world will edge into a soul-corrupting sunniness. “All right,” the elder says. “Just this once.”
Grandfather Brewster |
They approached child production with the same gusto with which I respond to the frequent pleading emails from the Democratic Party. I know I must deliver; I give them what I have to and not a dime more, and there’s no joy in it.
My forepilgrims were a dour, gloomy and sober bunch, much afflicted with piety. The entire prospect of renewing the family line filled them with humiliation and distaste. One imagines that the Elder William Brewster would have been relieved to hand the job over to a solitary sperm with a winch and a work ethic. As it is, he and his progeny through the years managed to eke out a knob on the skinny family tree two or three times a century. One doesn’t sense enthusiasm.
He himself got the whole ball rolling with a starter set of five children of his own, each one representing a single horrifying episode of fleeting desire. Only because he sacrificed his body to produce the five originals do we have Brewsters to this day. Fewer lines and the venture would surely have fizzled out. He named his children Patience, Love, Jonathan, Fear, and Wrestling. I am, of course, a child of Love.
Father Brewster, clearly thrilled |
“Wrestling” was, according to my father, short for “Wrestling With God,” a losing proposition if I ever heard one. Talk about setting a kid up for failure. I’d like to think that if I had had children, I would have chosen less daunting monikers.
It’s a reproductive rate barely adequate to maintain a line in the phone book up till now, and then I slammed the lid on the whole undertaking. It’s a shame, too. I would have enjoyed meeting my children, Sloth, Elasticity, Flatulence, Torpor, and Twiddling. Twiddling would have been such a well-adjusted child.
I love this, especially the child named Flatulence! I have a coworker who should bear that name. Well, the good news is that the long latent gene for humor has finally found its expression in you.
Jonathan?
Torpor would have probably done okay in school; teachers have so much to deal with in the way of behavior problems these days. Flatulence would have been wildly popular in sixth grade, but high school would have posed a challenge and he wouldn't have stood a chance in the corporate conference room.
Sloth, I'd peg to develop video games, but not the blockbuster sort; more like the kind played by about 200 fanatics scattered across N. Dakota and Mombai.
My favorite sentence: "One imagines that the Elder William Brewster would have been relieved to HAND THE JOB over to a solitary sperm with a winch and a work ethic." (my emphasis) I'd betcha a mule that wording wasn't accidental, you wag.
No wonder you've slammed the lid. You've far exceeded the limit for that "soul-corrupting sunniness."
Nobody names their children cool names anymore. Where are the Sojourner Truths of today? Wrestling With God, that's a good one.
And is it just me and my bawdy sense of humor or is this thing rolling with double entendres?
Yeah, I thought so.
Oh Lordy, you've been exposed by your forecommenters. The smiles and grunts of appreciation that emanated from me might have caused my nickname "Sunshine" to surface. I think these days I would be called "Flatty." And not because of my lean lines, either. 🙂
Roxie Sez
Well, clearly the male line is reproducing with less than Xerox-ic capacity, but how about the females in your heritage? After all, men tend to choose women who are like their mothers, and evidently the Brewster mothers have been plagued with chronic headaches for generations. But are there no fallen daughters succumbing to the lures of the flesh? No fecund floozies cast out from the Puritan bosom? No, "That was great Aunt Gertrude. We don't talk about her."
I've got to jump in here. We are–all together, now–going to fervently wish dear DJan doesn't pick up the name "Flatty," because she is a skydiver. And Roxie? I do, indeed, have a great aunt Gertrude. She was four foot five on her best day, scary-looking, and remained a maiden till she died at age 104. Her younger sister Caroline had more spark and wanted to marry as a young girl, but her intended was Jewish, and that just wouldn't do. So she took care of Gertrude and died a day after her.
In light of your prior posts, I have a hard time believing Flatulence was never even a glimmer in anyone's eye.
Welcome to the Woody Allen club. You have mastered the double entendre. I wasn't sure at first whether it was coincidence. My hat's off to you. Bravo!! I wish I were that good. I'm a blatant person. Well, you're my current muse. Do more like this.
I'm putting myself up for adoption right now, Murr. Can I be Twiddling, please?
Also, I had a great-grandma Gertrude. Just a few memories of her, but every single one of them was fun! She once lived in a shotgun shack overlooking Morrow Bay with her goats and chickens. Her husband was allowed to visit once a month or so, but she usually kicked him out before the weekend was over. You didn't mess with Gertrude, even though she was less than 5 feet tall and had a heart condition. If I can't be Twiddling, maybe I'll just change my name to Gertrude…
Well, while we're at it, Kat, I also once had an Aunt Gertrude, but she changed her name to William. I'm not making this up.
No mules about here, but I'll pony-up and join Nance(and others who read it thus!)
Love it. My brothers went to school with a child who rejoiced in the name 'wrath of god'. Never heard what became of him later, but I am betting that a name change was all he wanted for his eighteenth birthday.
In honor of my friend Max's birthday today, I'm going to suggest Roth Of God.
LOL! OH MY GOODNESS!!!! WHAT WIT!!!!!
hahahahahahahahaha!!!
Fascinating family. Cheery sorts, the lot of them. But they did their duty. Commendable. And maybe they had more fun than you know. Nudge, nudge. . . .
About Wrestling — with God. The only person I know who did that, won. I'm sure there's a message in there, but I'm not sure what.
So are you going to write about Aunt Gertrude cum Uncle Bill? We would all love to be enlightened.
I hope science finds a way to do a brain transfer from you to some worthy recipient before you leave this mortal coil, Murr. It would be such a shame to have all this funny die out.
My sister was really disappointed that I decided to get "snipped" after having two daughters. She (who adopted her daughter) was really worried about who would carry on the "family name". I reassured her that I would be dead and wouldn't give a damn. Oddly, she wasn't reassured.
I've committed the phrase "a single horrifying episode of fleeting desire" but I'm not sure when I'll have an opportunity to use it in conversation.
Your kids could have formed a law firm and made millions! I can hear the telephone operator merrily saying "Sloth, Elasticity, Flatulence, Torpor and Twiddling, how may I direct your call?"
I've committed the phrase "a single horrifying episode of fleeting desire" but I'm not sure when I'll have an opportunity to use it in conversation.
Your kids could have formed a law firm and made millions! I can hear the telephone operator merrily saying "Sloth, Elasticity, Flatulence, Torpor and Twiddling, how may I direct your call?"
Yes, please! We'd all like some more stories from your familial skeleton closet! Elaine
OK, so Jonathan Brewster is my 10th Great-Grandfather, making Elder William my 11th GG. Does that mean that I have one more generation of separation from the Mayflower?
And obviously, my line was sexier?
I'm rather concerned that Jonathan got such a boring name. Wonder why?
Still snickering over Tom's law firm of Sloth, Elasticity, Flatulence, Torpor and Twiddling.
Hi cousin Angeluna! No, two generations. I have eight greats plus a grand–you have eleven. And clearly, Jonathan was sexier. On the other hand, he had way less to overcome.
Hey Murr! Good grief, these names are as odd as my family. Uncle Idaho and black-sheep Uncle Jericho, Grandma Juno, and further back great^N Grandpa Abednigo Roth. My nephews? Dingo, Jingo and Ringo; a little too Disney for my taste. But what do I know? Indigo
Oh yes, way sexier, cousin Murr. Woohoo! Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that my bunch got into a philosophical dispute with Elder Brewster and got the hell out of "Dodge". Went to Salem, Gloucester and New London CT, with the Welsh Rev. Blinman.
Really hoping for some charming stories about Aunt Bill.
Close your eyes and think of Oregon!
Snortworthy, Col!
Aunt Bill… I remember one of the last times I sat in the Farm with Margaret in Sydney, she told a tale of Aunt Bill Riding a horse from my Grandfather's house on the Point into Downtown Brunswick. Much to my grandparents dismay, Aunt Bill decided to go on this ride topless… I don't suppose this is the same Aunt Gertrude/Bill? I shall pick your mind sometime dear cousin.
One and the same. I heard about that from your dad, so ask him. The second time I asked him about it, he allowed as how there mighta been a little exaggeratin' going on. See if you can dig out the real story.
Not sure how I came across this blog, but I love your humour.
Welcome aboard, Adam. There are about three years' worth of posts after this one, so now you have something to do when you're procrastinating.