Yesterday I got a phone call from our local D.A.R. chapter (the Daughters of the American Revolution, as I’m sure you know.) I was somewhat puzzled at first because I’d had no contact with them for several years. Back then I had inquired about membership, but only because my kids had heard the D.A.R. offered scholarships to high school students. Since they themselves were parents just beginning to contemplate that gaping abyss known as college tuition, they had hoped to get a head start on the whole thing by having me be the point man for them. If “Memaw” can become a member in good standing, well then, we’ll have a foot in the door.
Prior to all this, I had found out through a distant cousin that one of my Dad’s ancestors had aided the “good guys” in the Revolutionary War. This is one of the necessary requirements for his female descendants to be allowed admittance into the D.A.R. It didn’t matter if his “aid” was in the form of selling meat to the troops. Jacob may not have been a Minuteman, but we all know an army travels on its stomach. So…Minuteman or Minute Rice….good enough! I had a lock on admittance.
After going through a lengthy online application, I spoke on the phone with the local chapter’s registrar. She told me about their regular meetings which were held on a Wednesday at 2:00 in the afternoon. At that time I was busy taking care of grandkids, which enabled my daughter to work parttime, so the meetings didn’t fit into my schedule. Also, it told me something about the members; that they all must be older ladies with a lot of time on their hands in order to be able to go to a meeting in the middle of the day.
Then I discovered my son’s daughters didn’t qualify for membership. Acceptance was passed down from mothers to daughters and then on to their daughters. Apparently, it didn’t work the same way with mothers to sons to daughters. At the very least, his girls had to come up with their own Revolutionary War meat and produce provider on their mother’s side of the family in order to get in. Since my daughter-in-law is a native of Scotland…well, I don’t think so. With that, I dropped the whole thing.
Then the phone call yesterday. It was a very pleasant older lady who said they had been going over their application records and saw my name and wondered if I was still interested. We had a nice chat about genealogy and the vagaries of relatives who unilaterally decide to change the spelling of the family name, forever lousing up any research done by their descendants.
She told me the date of their next meeting and that the speaker was a rather interesting fellow, well-known in these parts, who would give a presentation on the history of our town and surrounding area. This piqued my curiosity just enough to entertain the thought that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all to be a part of this group. They do have the scholarship program for deserving students and there are other good things they do for the community.
Then, I was abruptly brought back to reality.
The nice lady on the phone was saying it would be wonderful to hear the speaker talk about “our heritage and where we came from, since it’s really important to remember that.”…pause…“Especially now.”
Okay. There she lost me.
I know what she was saying.
Code for: “We now have a black President of the United States and things are all topsy-turvy and it’s good to know who the real Americans are.”
Particularly the ones who weren’t born in Kenya.
Why was I delusional enough to think that here, in one of the reddest of the red states, I would find a group of women with whom I would feel comfortable? I really kicked myself later for not coming up with some kind of snappy repartee, but all I had managed was a noncommittal “Hmm” at the time.
I admit it. I was caught flat-footed by the nice Southern lady on the other end of the line. Some of these seemingly “nice” little ladies are the same ones who’ve been flouncing around at the health care town halls and Tea Parties, brandishing signs and venting their spleens against Obama and everything he stands for.
I have given some thought to infiltrating their group, kind of like a spy for the Left. I could go all Barney Frank on their asses and ask what planet they’ve been living on, and tell them talking to their group is as productive as talking to the dining-room table.
But it probably isn’t worth the effort.
They would just smile. “Thet’s nice, deah. Would y’all lahk some ahced tea?”
And this is why I blog.