People have been known to ask me who in the hell I thought I was. Nobody wants the answer.
You do not care about my name, unless you or your name is connected to a Delany, or even a Delaney, or even a Ó Dubhshláine, which sounds like it should be spelled differently. While it really just means “Descendant of Delany,” it sort of means, “the black middle finger of defiance.” More favorably, it suggests a bold assertion, for instance. That is MY lineage. Mine personally, yes. Our family coat is of several fish. No doubt three or four days old.
Even the way we spell our name is defiant. It is the Protestant spelling. In your face, that! Based on a consistent lifetime average nearing 100% of the time, people have never spelled or written down D-e-l-a-n-y as a first attempt. The truth is, Protestants can’t spell.
It came as a shock to read a letter from my own son, announcing that my mother’s father’s side built the first Roman Catholic Church in some county in southwestern Ohio in 18-ought something. It was an Orange family, but the eldest brother got confused and picked the Green. The family abandoned the church within a couple of generations, but the church was rebuilt at least three times, and may still stand. I’m proud of them, and the anecdote summarizes the man who was that “mother’s father.” He died a decade prior to my conception, but I “remember him well,” through stories, photos, and reminiscences of old-timers throughout my youth.
People often told me I looked like him, and sounded like him. I hope so. I read his books, and much of his library. (We kept that library in our attic.) My only excuse for failing such a great man’s character is that we had different last names. Though Charles is common to us both.
Going back just a couple of generations, though, we can add a lot more family names, starting with Archer and Barnes, and maybe Crowe. (ABCs of Delany.) But not now. You know almost everything I know. I’m eager to learn more, but would be delighted just to remember what I once knew.
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