Growing up in Calgary, I remember spending a lot of time with my extended family. My mum had seven brothers and sisters, most of whom lived in Calgary or Claresholm, so I had a lot of cousins; 21 to be exact, on that side of the family and another seven on my dad’s side. He only had two brothers.
Mostly I remember spending time with the Amundsen side of my family; that was my mum’s maiden name. My cousin Gail and I would concoct all sorts of odd perfumes and lotions from things we’d find in the medicine cabinet, while my cousin Sherri-Lynn and I loved to go shopping.
We all had Christmas dinner together each year, except for my Aunt Iris, Uncle Pete and cousins Karon and Joe who lived in Toronto.
That’s 14 inlaws and outlaws (as the first generation liked to call themselves) plus 19 cousins all somehow jammed around the Christmas table.
Yes, I dreamed of someday moving up from the ‘kids’ table’ to the big table, but as the third youngest of those 21 Amundsen cousins, it never happened.
One of my mum’s cousins was the keeper of the family tree and had traced our ancestors back to the 18th Century in Norway.
We are related to Roald Amundsen, who beat the Briton Robert Scott to the South Pole. And the candy store at Heritage Park?
That belonged to both my maternal great-grandfathers in Claresholm.
But I didn’t know much about my dad’s side of the family.
I knew my great-grandfather had the amazing middle name of “Cleveland,” my grandfather was born in Glasgow, and my Great-Grandma Peggy once lived in the Devonish Building on 17th Avenue in Calgary. And I was forced to take Highland dancing lessons when I was about six.
That was about the extent of my knowledge of the Simpsons.
Recently, though, I’ve started looking into my Scottish roots. I attended the Calgary Highland Games in Springbank on Aug. 30 and I swear I could feel the pull of the “Old Sod!”
My mum and dad are both gone now, but I still have an uncle who lives in the Crowsnest Pass who is helping me learn more about my heritage.
For instance, recently I found out that my grandfather, George Weston Simpson, was indeed born in Glasgow in 1904 and moved to Canada when he was 10 to escape, what my Uncle Dave calls, “grinding poverty.” According to Uncle Dave, his dad didn’t retain much of an accent, but there were a few words he pronounced in a very Scottish way for the rest of his life.
Eventually, Grandpa Simpson ended up in Claresholm where he ran a Chevrolet dealership/garage.
During the height of the Great Depression, Chevy kept my grandfather employed, an amazing testament to his worth as an employee.
The Simpsons are part of the Fraser Clan, which explains the tartan of the kilt I inherited from my grandma. And I’ve always liked the sound of bagpipes and the taste of oatmeal. Hagis, though? Forget it!
I guess it’s no accident that I’m owned by two West Highland White Terriers with very Scottish names, Stuart and Aberdeen.
Watching the athletes toss the caber and throw the Braemer stone at the Highland Games in events in Springbank that reflect Scotland’s fighting past made me wonder if any of my ancestors had ever worn a kilt and gone into battle.
Maybe they were at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314 during the First War of Scottish Independence when Robert the Bruce defeated the English army of Edward II or at the Battle of Flodden in 1513 when King James IV of Scotland was killed by an English army commanded by the Earl of Surrey.
My grandpa died before I was born and I’m sad I never got to meet him.
I would have saved him a place at that Christmas table.
