Uncle Roscoe started each day with a generous helping of oatmeal.

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After 40-some years of hanging out on the planet it finally occurred to me to wonder where I came from. I knew quite a bit about my immediate genesis of course, but I knew nothing about the deeper roots tangled in the obscurity of time.

What primordial blood ran through my veins? From what far-away shores had my people come? What wild tribes had bequeathed their DNA to me.

There’s no way to really answer such questions. The records, if any, crumbled to dust long ago, but that didn’t stop me from speculating.

I knew that my cousin, Donna, and my Aunt Maudine had researched the more recent history. They managed to trace Shipleys and Hamiltons as far back as 18th century colonial Virginia. Apparently, our Hamilton relatives had been in residence early on. Early enough, in fact, to qualify succeeding Hamilton ladies as D.A.R. material. (Aunt Maudine is now a certified, meeting-attending member).

I also know that some Shipleys played a small role in the birth of the American Revolution. Franklin wrote most of his unfinished autobiography at the Twyford home (near Winchester) of the pro-America Bishop of St. Asaph, Jonathon Shipley.

Was he a relative? It’s likely, even if at considerable remove. I’ve learned from a genealogy source that the Shipley name can only be acquired by blood or marriage (or, in the special case of some Afro-Americans, by slavery).

Moreover, I learned that Shipleys had hit the beach with William the Conqueror in 1066. For which service Duke William granted them a listing in his Doomsday Book – along with titled holdings in the northern midlands of England. The town of Shipley is still there, curiously close to the ancestral home of the Hamilton’s, in Scotland, proper.

Now I realize that all of this (except for the serious research done by Donna and Aunt Maudine) amount to little more than spurious connections and specious conjecture. I also realize I’ve not taken into account the bloodlines provided on my mother’s side by the Billups and Hammacks. Nor have I reflected at all on the many complications mixed in by centuries of marriage – the totality of which has probably added most of northern Europe to the family tree.

Nonetheless, when I look at the faces of my Grandma Ollie and my Grandpa Joe, I see a Scot and a Norman, respectively, with personalities to match the visual impression. I know there were other nationalities in them, and I know there are other nationalities in me, too, but I’m equally sure that Scot and Norman predominate.

It has nothing to do with science. It’s pure intuition. I can feel it in my bones. At the very least, I imagine it in my bones.

In any case, as a result of my musing I developed an interest in Norman and Scottish history – mostly Scottish history.

I read about: Kenneth McAlpine, first king of Scotland; the endless clan warfare; Sir William Wallace & Robert the Bruce and the bloody battles to free Scotland from England; and so on, right up to King James and his famous bible; then on to the Jacobites and beyond, well into modern times. In between the great events I read about the daily life, the culture, the ballads, and even the food of the region.

Which brought me to oats.

I discovered that it’s impossible to read about Scotland without reading about oats. So it has always been. When Dr. Johnson was compiling his great dictionary he slipped in this wry entry for oats: “A grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people”.

Dr. Johnson never missed a chance to slam the Scots.

You can’t really quibble with his point though. A Scottish meal without oats is like politics without graft: possible, but not probable. Oatmeal is the anchoring ingredient in almost everything they cook, from innocent cookies to the detestable haggis (sheep stomach stuffed with a loathsome mixture of oatmeal & minced viscera). But most of all they eat it as oatmeal – lots and lots of oatmeal.

All that oatmeal gave me pause for thought. The Scots are known for their hearty constitution. Could it be the oats? This possibility seemed to tease some association of health & oats in my memory. What?

By-and-by it came to me: Uncle Roscoe.

My Uncle Roscoe is built along the sleek lines of a small refrigerator. If he has ever been sick a day in his life it has escaped my attention. I can recall my mother telling me tales of him scampering up and down the Rockies with his granddaughters – at an age when most folks huff and puff at a brisk walk.

I also recall that Uncle Roscoe started each day with a generous helping of oatmeal. That settled it. I had foregone this wonderfool long enough.

I immediately went to the grocery store. Once back with my prize, I cooked up a batch. The result was less than I had hoped for: a grey gruel, glutinous and turgid. Maybe I had made some mistake in preparation? I checked the direction again. Nope. This was it, even though it looked more like wallpaper paste than anything edible. I ventured a taste.

It also tasted like wallpaper paste. Perhaps a little sugar? Yes, the sugar helped, but not enough. I added cream – better yet – not exactly tasty, but decent enough to eat.

I persevered, certain that I was improving my health while getting in culinary touch with some part of my heritage.

By ongoing experimentation I eventually found a combination of condiments that actually made the stuff delicious: sugar, brown sugar, cream, butter, maple syrup & a light sprinkling of raisins.

I wondered what Uncle Roscoe ate on his oatmeal. A couple of years later, when he & Aunt Maxine came to Ohio for a visit, I had an opportunity to find out.

At some point during their stay I steered the conversation to oatmeal. “So, what do you put on your oatmeal?” I asked with the casual confidence of a fellow-in-spoons oatmeal eater.

“Oh, nothing”, he said.

“Nothing?” I asked in disbelief. “Well... sometimes a little salt”, he replied, “Just a pinch”.

It was devastating news. I was a gastronomic fraud. I had been eating oatmeal like a wussie, pitifully deluded by some mad illusion of communion with my rugged Scottish forebearers.

Needless to say, I lost all enthusiasm for oatmeal after that. Even so, my certainty of Scottish roots remains undimmed.

Obviously, the blood has just thinned a bit over the years. I may not have much to back up my conviction, but that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

You can take it with a grain of salt – maybe a pinch.

By K. L. Shipley

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