Originally Posted by Rochard

My father died in 1969 when I was nine months old. I was never close to my father's side of the family and barely kept in touch with them. I was raised thinking I was Polish and Russian.

In 2004 my grandmother - my father's mother - passed on. Being as I was the last person with the family name, I returned home and was welcomed with open arms to a family I hadn't seen in nearly two decades. At the funeral I got to catch up with family I had long since forgotten about and some I never knew existed, who wanted to meet the bastard child born in the late 1960s that no one knew about.

Seems I was the missing piece to the family history. Turns out I had a second cousin who is a freakish sort of chick; The family historian who works full time at Princeton teaching genealogy. She had always wanted to meet me because no one was really sure of my personal history because it all happened so fast and so long ago. We had a long discussion about my family history, about "my family" being police officers in NYC, etc and etc.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered my father's side of the family is Irish.

Well, that explains a lot huh?

I'm told there is a drink called the Irish Car Bomb. I need to try this.

Yeah, count me in.