I had no idea that I had a second cousin in Rocky Mountain House. I had assumed my distant relatives were still living down east in New Brunswick. Apparently we weren’t the only Marstons who hadn’t stayed home on the farm.
We could easily go. It was only a three hour drive from Edmonton where my mother now lived. An easy trip.
I’d wanted to learn more about my family for a long time. I didn’t remember my first cousins, let alone second cousins, third cousins, or cousins once or twice removed. I’d been too young when we moved west. I knew next to nothing about my ancestors, and I didn’t know the family stories.
I was achingly curious. What kind of people were we Marstons? What did a generic Marston look like? How did an ordinary Marston talk? What did a garden variety Marston do for a living? Maybe some had had distinguished careers or were fabulously wealthy or had devoted their lives to the poor and suffering. I’d heard about a few of our black sheep, but I was hoping that some of our stories would be better.
We arrived on a Saturday morning at the community hall where a gaggle of Marstons (75 to 100) had gathered. We mingled and we talked. Nothing in the conversations stood out in my mind though I was paying close attention. Nobody said anything brilliant, though nobody was rude or crude or foolish either. We were, I suspected, only middling conversationalists.
We ate salads and beans and chicken and cookies. The usual. Little kids played.
And I looked around at my new-found relatives. I was on a mission to find out who my people were and fix that knowledge in my mind. Everyone here was a Marston or married to a Marston or had been a Marston before she got married. I could find out what we had in common, what set us apart from the other families of the world.
I wondered if any physical characteristics were typical of our people. Noses. foreheads. chins. butts. But nothing stood out.
Nobody was extremely tall, nor very short. No one was very heavy or very skinny, No one was super fit either.
No one had jet black hair or red hair or pale blond hair. Every last one of us had brownish hair. Dirty blonde, light brown, medium brown, almost–but not quite–black. Some of the men were bald. What’s the expression? Typical male pattern baldness? That’s it.
No one was ugly and no one was beautiful. In this and every respect, we were all…average. As a clan, in every measure I could think of, we were medium.
We dressed the part too. None of us had worn anything fancy that day. No flashy jewelry. No ultra stylish clothes. But no green hair or visible tattoos, either. Conventional to the core..
All in all, we were not bad. Could be worse. Nice enough. Every last one of us–eminently forgettable.
And so were our kids. No doubt all the parents thought them special and beautiful, and maybe they were. But the specialness was not visible to a casual observer.
No, wait. I did spot one little girl, four or five, who stood out from everyone else in the room. She was strikingly adorable. Piles of curly hair around a lovely face. A wonderful smile. She didn’t look medium at all.
“I said to someone near me, “What a beautiful little girl.”
And the woman answered, “Isn’t she, though?!
She added, “She’s adopted.”