An Atavistic Apologue…

When I was fifteen, the most fascinating thing in the world was history. But not just any history–my family’s history. I was on a quest to find adventure, and the most feasible option was to live vicariously on the tales of my forefathers.

I discovered a family history of bootleggers, railroaders, immigrants, and much much more. Even better, I discovered that my granddad sailed to Brazil on a steamboat, trapped in the Yukon, ranched, farmed, and couldn’t enlist in the military because he didn’t have a permanent address.

Yep. I like to think of him as the family hobo (if you overlook the negative connotations of that word [ehem, rotten teeth]), traveling the world and working any trade that was handy. His mother died of the Spanish Flu, he ran away as a twelve-year-old (got work on a certain steamboat I’ve mentioned) and he’s been going strong ever since.

One day, I will really write his story.

*Atavistic Apologue

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