Tinker

I went to my Mom's for dinner and my brother said, after there was some hilarity over my clothes (okay, I haven't done laundry in a while, also I have to always wear pants or long skirts to my mother's so she won't see the tattoo on my left leg, and all this family togetherness is straining my wardrobe, not to mention my waistline, to the breaking point) "Mom thinks you're a tinker."
"What?" I said
"She sits up at night worrying that there's some tinker strain in the family and you're a tinker."
"I can't be a tinker." I said. "I'm terrible at sharpening knives."
"Well." said my brother. "The women tinkers don't have to sharpen knives anyway. They do other things."

And so some strange 200 year old family story full of weird ancient prejudice keeps right on getting updated. I can just imagine - County Clare, circa 1700: "The girl's a tinker! It was your grandmother's fault when she ran off with the gypsy laddie! Alack-a-day! Lock up the silver and change the will!" Can't they come up with something new to worry about? She might as well be worrying about that druid strain in the family or something. Anyhow, I probably am a tinker. And if I am, it's the best news I've heard about the family in a while. It beats the hell out of being a deeply melancholic somewhat paranoid political junkie, right?

So I said, "Okay, I'm a tinker. I'd like to be a tinker, I'd love to travel around in a painted pony cart."
"Oh no dear." said my mother. "Those days are gone, I'm afraid."
"They might be coming back." I said. "Peak oil, and all."

Which neatly tied together both strains of the family DNA.