I have spent a lifetime making new acquaintances. With that comes the unenviable task of answering queries in regards to friends and family. The question I am most frequently asked is, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Normally, I try to avoid getting entangled in a long-winded discussion on the subject and offer up a single word answer, “Yes.” For some inexplicable reason this succinct, affirmative response never seems to satisfy the inquiring person’s curiosity. Instead, he or she develops this unquenchable thirst for my genealogical background and digs deeper.
A heavy sigh usually accompanies the disparaging look on my face. There is no escaping it. For the one-billionth time, I will recite the lengthy lineage of the notorious Bartlett family. I can only hope and pray that the person pays close attention so that I don’t have to repeat anything along the way.
By the time I conclude the scrupulous guided tour, complete with names, numbers and nothing short of my favorite color, an astonishing fact is ultimately revealed – I am the youngest of seven children. The knee-jerk response to that awe-inspiring detail is as quick as it is syrupy-sweet. “That makes you the baby of the family!”
I despise clichés. As far as I’m concerned, baby of the family is right up there with tits on a bull. I don’t like anyone messing with my mental imagery, especially when it comes to things I hold so dear! I have better things to do with my time then conjure up images of forty-year-old men in diapers or bulls in wet T-shirts.
Did you know they have support groups for babies of the family? I kid you not. I stumbled upon them, while looking up baby names on the Internet. I may loathe the tag, but I’ve never seen it as debilitating or felt the need to cry on anyone’s shoulder because of it. What’s next? Defense cases for heinous crimes built around the baby of the family syndrome?!
While we’re on the topic of lineage, do you want to know what else bugs me? People that try to make a buck on other people’s vanity. At least once a year, I receive an offer in the mail from some outfit in Deerbutt, Kentucky. For $29.95, they’ll trace my family tree right back to the frickin’ Vikings. And if I respond within 30 days, I’ll receive a free coat of arms, in addition to the 36×48 inch poster of all my descendants’ names, painstakingly attached to the tree branches of a budding elm in mouth-watering calligraphic script.
I love that. You can descend from apes and somehow they’ll manage to come up with a coat of arms that, supposedly, adorned the horse blanket of your great, great, great, great grandfather’s noble steed. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I find myself questioning the historical accuracy of their reported findings. The research department probably consists of these two pimply-faced teen-agers tucked away in the spare bedroom of a double-wide trailer. The snake oil archivists reluctantly spend a minute or two between games of Call of Duty and contests to see who can stuff the most Cheetos in their mouth to play eeny…meeny…miny…moe on a computer clip art program. In less time than is required to take out the garbage, the thought provoking symbols of grandeur are complete and ready for shipping.
The paying customers, starving for veneration, are not the least bit skeptical in regards to the product they receive. In fact, many have already taken down the painting from above the fireplace mantel to make way for the impending coat of arms. Upon its arrival, they orchestrate elaborate dinner parties with the sole intention of showcasing their aristocratic roots. It quickly becomes a night of eye rolling and behind-the-back whispers. (I guess some people have a hard time believing that guys with names like Hirschel Goldman or Ludwik Potrowski would have a descendant in King Arthur’s Court.)
I have a confession to make. I happen to be the proud owner of one of these medieval masterpieces. That’s right…the Bartlett coat of arms in all its glory. And it’s not on a flimsy scroll of paper, either. Mine adorns a three-foot shield, carefully handcrafted out of the finest wood.
Now, I know I just got done making fun of people that spend their hard earned money on such frivolity, but the elaborate crest I own didn’t cost me a dime. A bus driver friend of mine approached me one day and asked me if I was interested in having the Bartlett name researched free of charge. He told me it was a hobby that he’d enjoyed for years, and that I could expect to receive a shield bearing the family crest. Who was I to deny him recreation? I readily accepted his offer. To tell you the truth, I was quite anxious to see what the Bartlett coat of arms would look like.
Three months later, he arrived carrying the completed work of art beneath his arm. It was wrapped tightly in foam and brown paper to protect it from getting scratched. I cupped my hands and began rubbing them together.
“Is that what I think it is?” I squealed.
He gave the package a fleeting glance.
“Yeah…this is it all right”
“You don’t sound very enthused. What’s the matter? Did you have trouble tracing the regal Bartlett name?”
He shook his head and sighed, “No. It was easy enough to find. It’s just that...” He paused.
“…that what?” I cried.
He held out the parcel and said, “Here…see for yourself.”
I snatched it from his hand and began tearing away the paper.
Meanwhile, he started rambling on about having made hundreds of crests, and how people normally raved about his craftsmanship, and so on and so forth. To be honest with you, I was so self-absorbed that I only heard half of what he was saying. I pulled off the last piece of tape and removed the foam covering.
I fully expected to see a ferocious lion, surrounded by an intimidating ring of spears and swords. Surely, the Bartletts had been great warriors, defending England with uncommon valor for untold centuries. Or better yet…a fair maiden with outstretched arms, representing the hundreds of vestal virgins that were daringly rescued from their tower imprisonment by my valiant ancestors. There might even be a jeweled crown or two, indicating a link to royalty! I held the shield at arm’s length. I wanted to take in all the majesty and splendor with a single glance.
Before me, lay a crest-shaped piece of wood with a blue painted face. At the top, in a script right out of the Middle Ages, was the name Bartlett. The only other adornment on the three-foot shield was the family coat of arms – three white circles, two side by side about an inch apart, and one by itself, just below the other two.
I looked over at my friend. He was standing there, shoulders slumped, head down. Even he was ashamed of such a drab family crest. I glanced again at the plebeian hunk of nothingness. The stark reality clashed with my fervent expectations. Where are the lions and the swords? Hell, I’ll even take a cuddly koala bear or a lousy sling shot! The three characterless circles stared back at me without mercy or compassion. My mind wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t they at least be all different colors and overlap like the Olympic rings?
I turned the shield over and inspected the back. Perhaps, I had been looking at the wrong side. Beneath numerous coats of thick, clear lacquer were the flowing waves of natural wood grain… nothing else. I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit it was more intriguing than the front.
Suddenly, I caught myself. Hey, this guy made this thing out of the kindness of his heart. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?! I decided to put on a brave face and express my sincere gratitude.
“Thanks buddy. I love it!”
“You do?!” he cried.
I propped the shield against the wall and stepped back to admire it. The three white circles hung lifeless in the solid blue backdrop. I swallowed hard, before impersonating a man that was overjoyed to find out his family name was represented by three zeros.
I held out my arms and cried, “Are you kidding? What’s not to like?”
My friend scurried over and stood beside me. He brought his head close to mine and gave the shield a concerted second look. It was as if he was expecting to see something he hadn’t before. He stared so long and so hard, I thought he was going to melt the varnish right off the thing. I saw beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. I thought I’d distract him before he hurt himself.
“You must have spent weeks making that thing!”
His gaze remained fixed on the insipid block of wood, as he delivered this matter-of-fact reply, “No. I had it done in a half-an-hour. I used a stencil for the letters then traced a can of Beefaroni to make the circles.”
I closed my eyes. My heart ached. Haunted by the shield’s Spartan face, the three white rings became fluorescent in the darkness behind my eyelids. I struggled to attach meaning to the unpretentious bands. What the hell? What were my descendants doing while the real knights were storming the castle...playing ring toss?! Sir Lancelot and his son, Sir Galahad were scouring the earth for the Holy Grail, and the Bartletts were pumping out three ashtrays a day! Oh…the pain of it all.
I never showed the crest to a living soul outside of the family. It hung for years on the door to the woodshed of our summer lake house – a fitting home for such a modest keepsake.
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