She's a Real Mother

Mutha's got eyes in the back of her head.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

I have never tired of hearing the story of how I am related by blood to gypsies.

An interesting wrinkle to the story is that it involves my father's side of the family, but he never told me about it. I only ever heard it from the Outsider, my mother. I remember my father rolling his eyes occasionally when my mother told it, but I never heard him deny it. Here's the story:

When my mother first saw the gypsies it was 1943 -- she was my father's girlfriend and fresh out of high school. Sitting in my father's house in Camden, NJ, she spied a woman who "had long hair, was wearing a big ring with a huge stone, had pierced ears and no shoes on." When asked for further details, my mother concedes that she was "dirty," but in fairness, Camden was dirty and if one chose to walk around barefoot, I'm not sure you could avoid it. My mother mentions that there were others, but this lady was clearly the "leader." My mom is 82 and does not remember the Gypsy's name, but always adds that she was my father's cousin by blood, as opposed to the many cousins who were actually pals and neighbors -- but had, perhaps, been raised in the same household as my dad.

Being related to this mystery woman has always made me feel exotic and unique. There were a heck of a lot of characters in that family, but none carry the weight of the Gypsy. She is linked to my grandmother's constant wish for us to wear shoes always, even around the house ("What are you, running around bare foot? Some gypsy?"). And my mother's response when I pleaded to get my ears pierced ("And look like some gypsy? No!"). Or when I went to college and to my parents' horror, I had my mattress on the floor ("Who raised you?Gypsies?!").

As a kid I imagined her with a crystal ball and a tambourine. As a teenager I imagined sex and opium. But what interests me know is the last bit of the story.

My mother says that she was over my grandmother's one day after she and my dad were married, for a extended family meal. Someone mentioned that the Gypsy had died and my grandmother and her sister asked in unison:
"Who gets the ring?"

I was shocked by that response when I was a kid, as my mother is to this day. But now I find myself with the same unanswered question as my grandma and it is for purely selfish reasons: I wish I had that ring. Not for the potential pay-off of selling it -- it could have been glass for all I know. I want it for all it's gypsy intrigue. It would be my claim to a blood-line not easily traced by my features. It would help me believe in what makes me exotic.

There's also a story about brothers (two more cousins) who robbed a mailcar on a train, got themselves in federal prison and were allowed to attend their mother's funeral, in shackles.

I'll save that one for another time.

8 Comments:

At 8:25 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Welcome back! Hope the time away was all that you hoped. Your story is fascinating! It would certainly add a sense of mystery and intrigue to one's background, come to think of it, I wish I were related to a gypsy...although my grandfather told me once that we were related to the outlaw Jesse James...guess that counts for something.

 
At 6:14 AM, Blogger Doug The Una said...

Very good story. There has to be a good gypsy blogger joke. Let's try,

What do you get when a gypsy writes a blog? Rings on your fingers and bells on your prose.

How do you surf gypsy blogs? Your mouse disappears and the links click themselves.

What do you get when you cross a gypsy with a blogger? A nomad who never leaves home.

 
At 6:25 PM, Blogger FirstNations said...

how was the beach? beachy?
i uced to clean for the gypsy families that would travel to the St. Annes celebration in Canada every year. Oh my God, the men. The beautiful, glorious men. Grandma in paisley velvet with a black lace shawl, big daddy with his silk suit and a diamond ring that would choke a horse. The coolest damn people...? The last day they stayed they'd cook US up a huge meal of dolmas and stuffed cabbage and all kinds of hot spicy things and leave a huge tip.

 
At 7:20 PM, Blogger Mutha said...

Joel: Did you ever see the Brady Bunch episode where Bobby idolizes Jesse James and they wheel out the old man that tells him Jesse James shot his father?! TV classic. But you are cooler.

Doug: I am shocked I have never heard a gypsy blogger joke before when it is clear the material is so ripe for the picking. The last one made me laugh so hard, I choked on my lemonade.

FN: The beach was beyond beachy. It was beacherrific. It is so funny you mention stuffed cabbage -- it was a specialty in my grandmother's family. There is some deliciously goofy word for it in Polish that I must now track down. But anyone who leaves a maid a tip is a friend of mine.

 
At 7:49 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

but does a Gypsy Fortune Teller see the future in her crystal blog?

that was a great Gypsy tripsy down memory lane. my mom used to say the same stuff to me, but it seems doubtful there are any Swedish Gypsies in her family closet.

welcome back from your Beachy trip!! lucky girl!! we haven't been on a trip to the beach in i don't know how long. oh wait, i do. 5 years. that's when we got Sophie (our first TT). still, i did take a trip to Hawaii with my sister last year, so i guess that counts for something! xox

 
At 5:46 PM, Blogger Mutha said...

I think Hawaii ALWAYS counts.
I'm off to google "Swedish Gypsy."

Maybe ABBA and Stevie Nicks will come up...

 
At 5:57 PM, Blogger Mutha said...

No Swedish Gypsies, eh?
Check it out:

www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/entrez/query.fcgi?cmd=Retrieve&db=PubMed&list_uids=5889239&dopt=Abstract

 
At 5:59 PM, Blogger Mutha said...

And FN: Polish stuffed cabbage is called GOLUMPKI! No lie.

 

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