This poem always makes me smile.

Stuart has a new book, Backwards Days, dropping on October 2. He is also giving a reading on September 27 at UNC-Greensboro. It will be awesome, and I will be there to witness it.

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Days of Me
by Stuart Dischell

When people say they miss me,
I think how much I miss me too,
Me, the old me, the great me,
Lover of three women in one day,
Modest me, the best me, friend
To waiters and bartenders, hearty
Laugher and name rememberer,
Proud me, handsome and hirsute
In soccer shoes and shorts
On the ball fields behind MIT,
Strong me in a weightbelt at the gym,
Mutual sweat dripper in and out
Of the sauna, furtive observer
Of the coeducated and scantily clad,
Speedy me, cyclist of rivers,
Goose and peregrine falcon
Counter, all season venturer,
Chatterer-up of corner cops,
Groundskeepers, mothers with strollers,
Outwitter of panhandlers and bill
Collectors, avoider of levies, excises,
Me in a taxi in the rain,
Pressing my luck all the way home.

That's me at the dice table, baby,
Betting come, little Joe, and yo,
Blowing the coals, laying thunder,
My foot on top a fifty dollar chip
Some drunk spilled on the floor,
Dishonest me, evener of scores,
Eager accepter of the extra change,
Hotel towel pilferer, coffee spoon
Lifter, fervent retailer of others'
Fumor, blackhearted gossiper,
Poisoner at the well, dweller
In unsavory detail, delighted sayer
Of the vulgar, off course belier
Of the true me, empiric builder
Newly haircutted, stickerer-up
For pals, jam unpriser, medic
To the self-inflicted, attorney
To the self-indicted, petty accountant
And keeper of the double books,
Great divider of the universe
And all its forms of existence
Into its relationship to me,
Fellow trembler to the future,
Thin air gawker, apprehender
Of the frameless door.

Long dead Jamestown colonist.

About four weeks ago I embarked on what can only be called an obsessive quest to discover my ancestry. I've always been interested, but each time previously that I started researching information, nothing was readily available. Finding out anything of substance meant having to go the archives in Raleigh and searching through census and land records. That really wasn't feasible.

Now, however, the internets make this all a lot easier. I knew that my mom's side of the family had already been pretty well researched, and her lineage was traced almost immediately.

My dad's side, however, is a different animal. The furthest I can go back is my great-great-great grandfather William Henry, who was born in 1820 in Franklin County, NC. All of my family lived in Franklin County until my grandparents moved away in the early 1960s. My triple-great grandfather is listed in the 1860 census as 40 years old, with his wife, Mary, and five kids (one of which is Jo Henry, my great-great grandfather). His occupation was a brandy seller, which fits in nicely with my previously-held belief that I come from a long line of alcoholics.

That's where the trail ends, though, and I have yet to make a connection going deeper into the past. I'm fairly certain that I am a descendent of the original J. colonist from Bere Regis, County Dorset, England who settled in Virginia in 1635. My problem is connecting the dots between him and my 19th century granddad.

What I do know so far about myself is this: my genes have been in this country a long time. Nearly every ancestor, maternal and paternal, immigrated to Virginia in the 17th century, most not long after the founding of Jamestown. There are two German ancestors, one French Hugenot, two Irishmen, and four Scots. Besides that, though, I'm nearly all English. That's pretty amazing considering my families have had 400 years to intermingle with other folks. Probably explains my Anglophilia, as well.