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.