Apologies To My Ancestors

Dear Folks,

We've never met, but I feel I owe you an apology.

I'm pretty sure that when you boarded the old tubs in the old countries you were hoping for a better life for you and yours,  one that didn't involve stoop labor in a mucky plot of land.  If you imagined the life that your grandchildren and great-grandchildren might one day live, it probably involved pens and paper, accounting books, and more than one pair of shoes.

I'm happy to report that my own quite privileged life has involved pens and paper, accounting books, and more shoes than anyone needs.  I hope you would be proud of me, even if the idea of the internet made your head explode.  I think you would like my house with all its indoor plumbing, central heating, and upholstered furniture, even if it isn't covered with transparent plastic dust covers at all times.

But I think you would be appalled at how I spent Saturday afternoon: on my haunches, grubbing through the dirt with my hands,  to harvest a crop of spuds.

Spuds that I had completely forgotten about. Spuds that I cultivated in the most haphazard manner imaginable.  I didn't water.  I didn't weed. I left the poor things to their own devices. And neglected though they were, they made it to the harvest, although as you can see from the photo some of them were fairly stunted.

So, my apologies, for reverting to the peasanthood you were only to happy to leave behind.  I hope your heads don't explode at my incompetence or the idea that I planted this garden for fun, not because I needed to eat.

Your humble and grateful descendant,

Kathleen