We were in Walmart this afternoon, picking up some garbage bags. There were two other women in the aisle, looking for Ziploc bags. I smiled, and told them that the Ziploc bags were down a few aisles. The younger woman nodded, and headed off to find her bags. The older woman, a grandmotherly type lady, smiled at me. “Oh, my,” she said. “You must be very English. You have an accent. It is English, right?”
I laughed, and said yes, it is.

By all means, I shouldn’t have an English accent. Especially not as strong of one as I do. If I concentrate, it is not always quite as noticeable, but when I get excited, or nervous, I talk a little faster. And the accent comes out a lot stronger.

Not everyone assumes it is an English accent. I’ve had people ask if I was Norwegian, Danish, and a couple other random countries. And it’s not just me. My sisters, brother, and mom all have the same accent. So does my grandfather on my mom’s side, I assume. I don’t know; I can’t hear it. We all just sound normal to me.

This accent has caused me years of frustration. I was forced to go to speech class from kindergarten through 7th grade. Which I didn’t much care for. Only recently have I thought about how messed up that whole scenario was. I have an accent. Let’s fix it by spending years telling me that I am saying all of my ‘r’ sounds wrong. Because I wasn’t already shy enough. Now I find it nearly impossible sometimes to talk to strangers. It’s like my tongue swells up, and I can’t get any pronunciations right.

My family comes by the English accent honestly, though. On my father’s side, we can trace our ancestry, to England, back a few hundred years. On my mother’s side? Well, that’s where the real story is.

The year was 1912. April was an exciting month in England. The safest ship ever built, a luxury ship with all the finery high class members of society could hope for, would be launching soon. My great-great grandfather had already arrived in New York some months before, setting up a home before sending for his wife and young children. Life was tough in England, and he was hoping to make a new start. My great-great-grandmother bought tickets for the Titanic, and prepared her family for the voyage. On Wednesday, April 10th, they awoke early to get down to the boarding docks.

As things often are when you have a young family, something or another held up my great-great grandmother and her children, and they were too late to board. Or, perhaps, they were just not early enough. Either way, there was no more room. There had been more tickets sold than there could ever possibly be enough room for. As it was, the ship was packed fuller than it ought to be. Great-great grandmother led her children back home. Another ship was leaving before the end of the week. They would catch that one.

Five days later, on April 15th, a day after hitting the iceberg, the Titanic sank, taking most of her passengers with her. Most of them the poor passengers who were kept beneath the main level. Like my ancestors would have been.

When the news of the tragedy reached New York, my great-great grandfather was beside himself with grief. For days, he wandered the streets, half out of his mind. As far as he knew, his entire family had gone down with the great ship, my two month old great-grandmother included.

A couple weeks later, my great-great-grandmother, along with her children, arrived in town, all safe and sound. My great grandmother would grow up in the same town I live in now, become one of the first female graduates from SUNY Cortland (she went to become an English teacher), get married, and have several children, my grandfather included. She died a few years ago, at the age of 92, after years of battling Alzheimer’s disease.

My great-great grandfather met a much earlier end. Every year, Cortland celebrates New Year’s Eve by having our own miniature ball dropping event. A illuminated ball is hoisted up to the top of the clock tower (which burned down a couple years ago, but is now being rebuilt) and half of the city’s residents show up to celebrate.

My great-great grandfather was there one year, ringing in the New Year, when a drunk driver ran over the curb, and hit him. He died on the sidewalk in front of a men’s clothing store. The corner is pretty much the same today, even though the store now has a different name. It’s always weird walking down that part of Main Street, knowing that he died there. And, incidentally, now a few blocks are closed off for the festivities, making sure no one else gets hit.

And, there you have it. The most interesting story I had to tell. It all goes downhill from here, folks…