Rebel Blood

I know my mom must’ve lamented time and time again about my rebel ways.  Why can’t she just follow the rules?  The norms?  Must she always be pushing the envelope?

Well, after my most recent trip to my hometown of Pine Castle, Florida, I think the answer is it’s in the genes.  I’m just the latest in a long history of envelope pushers.

Probably the earliest was Robert Emmett.  My Irish relative who led a revolution against tyrannical British rule and also supported the American Revolution.  Unfortunately, this uprising in 1803 was unsuccessful and led to his arrest and eventual hanging at the age of 25.  He is a well known martyr in Irish history.  Sadly, he could’ve safely made his way to France but was determined to go back for the woman he loved.  A romantic martyr at that.

Then, there’s my great great grandfather, James Gardiner, from Tennessee who fought bravely in the Civil War.  But, after the war, he learned that the man left in charge of the safety of the town’s women and children had raped his wife.  James surprised him with a shotgun blast and surreptitiously herded his wife and children over the mountain into Georgia, settling in Banks County.

His son fell in love with Lizzie Emmett.  Her father was horrified as James, Jr. was just another poor dirt farmer.  But, Lizzie’s mother liked him and set fire to the barn to distract Lizzie’s father so Lizzie could elope with Junior.  They made their way to Branford, Florida where my grandfather was born and raised.

Then, there’s my other great grandfather, Maximo Suck (rhymes with book), a German aristocratic Jew who was an importer/exporter in Mobile, Alabama.  Legend has it that he spoke multiple languages, which makes sense in that business.  His parents disowned him when he married my great grandmother, Grace Kelly Dominique, who was of French and Irish descent.  The problem was that she was Catholic and the first woman college teacher of business subjects in Alabama.  Simply scandalous!  Evidently, his parents shipped all his belongings to him and he shipped them right back.  No love lost there.

And their youngest daughter, Lucille, would become my grandmother.  Very well off, private schools, outstanding student, very reserved and naive to the ways of the world.  She fell head over heels at a dance for returning servicemen when she saw my grandfather, the son of the dirt farmer from Georgia.

And, now it was her parents turn to be horrified!  After their marriage a year later in New Orleans, John and Lucile headed to Birmingham then Savannah, eventually settling in the Orlando area.  After a promising start as a salesman, they were whacked by the Depression, losing their cherished bungalow on Mariposa Street and had to move their four children out to the country to try their hand at poultry farming.

Years later, he found his niche selling concrete blocks for a local builder when, thanks to those pesky hurricanes, Florida turned to block construction instead of wood framed houses.  “John the Promiser” was his nickname as he spent hours nightly on the phone promising potential customers whatever they needed.

So, really, should anyone be surprised that I’m headstrong, independent, opinionated and determined to take risks?  Can’t help it.  It’s in my blood!