Folk-Lore is a wonderful thing. I always thought I was half Italian, a quarter Irish, and the rest was a mish-mash of good ol’ American. In my mind, being a quarter Irish answered a lot. After all, didn’t I have a grandmother whose maiden name was Margaret MacLaughlin? Didn’t I look good in Emerald green? Didn’t I believe in the wee people? I don’t think we need mention my fiery temper. Underneath this Claroil blond lives the soul of a redhead. But not much of my preconceived notions were true, and there’s the downside of doing your DNA. Yes, I am half Italian and I still look good in Emerald green. And my grandmother’s name is the same. Only the quarter is Scots, not Irish. Hoot man, I can live with that. Pass the haggis and hand me a kilt. But the truth? I so loved being Irish. The culture appeals to my sense of whimsy. Ireland has a charm all its own. I even hoped one day to go back to the ‘old country’ and find distant relatives. But maybe I’ll paddle my canoe from Africa to Tahiti because Ancestry dot com also said I was 1% Polynesian Princess. Alright, I threw in the princess part, because if I can’t be Irish being a princess makes up for it. But only a little.