I am quite embarrassed that I had not properly prepared a post for this week. Expecting to be out of the States and across the pond at this time, I knew there would be little time for trivial story-telling.

You see, my dear fellow researchers, my mind has been focused on a more enlightening and royal event: The wedding of William and Kate. No, I am not describing a commoner's day set aside in front of the 'tele', watching a taped recording hours after the ceremony. My assumed plans, for the last several months, have included my presence at the royal parties of the week along with a prime seat at Westminster. But alas, after months of standing by my mailbox, anxiously waiting for that gold stamped envelope to float my way, I have sadly come to accept the truth: Elizabeth, the poor dear, forgot my address!

Yes, the queen is no longer in her prime and neither is her memory so it would be proper of me to forgive her forgetfulness. But then I wonder: 'Is Elizabeth still sitting on her high horse, snubbing my obvious blood relation to her family?' Having descended from my 11th great grandfather, Claude Hamilton, 1st Lord Paisley of Scotland, can the queen really be so petty as to look down on my Hamilton lineage, the one sent away to Ireland?'

Hinted in previous posts, I have always sensed I was born misplaced from royalty. Understanding this, I have come to accept there will come a time when the Windsors will discover my absence and send a carriage to have me retrieved. But as the months have crept closer to my dearest Wills wedding, I have been forced to face the reality that my carriage may never pull up to my door. And my tiara will continue to remain as always, under glass.

As a newby genealogist several years ago, I began my family tree on Ancestry.com. My list of ancestors grew and as I clicked further onto names of 'alleged' ancestors into the 1600's, then on to the 1500's, I began to see I was adding names with titles such as Duke, Earl and Sir. I began to sense a tingly feeling moving from my head down to my toes (my toes were most likely expecting to be instantly fitted with glass slippers) and I had an epiphany: 'I knew it!', I exclaimed. 'I knew I came from royalty!'

But after my romantic head settled, my very annoying practical sense took control and I realized without real proof, the Dukes, Earls and Sirs were ancestors only in theory. And as much as I felt certain my true blue blood heritage had been uncovered, I gave way to boring rationality and placed all royals aside.

As my common middle class days passed, I continued on my search, finding proofs of more recent and 'down home' ancestors and establishing a well-documented family tree. I became more grounded in the nuts and bolts of genealogy and developed an obsession with proving each ancestor with records. I even chuckled at others with trees full of unverified names and I became so bold as to delete un-established ancestors off of my own tree, actually reducing rather than adding more names.

But as I studied names unverified and sent them into the trash, I suddenly found myself looking straight into the Dukes, Sirs and Earls. As I reached to click on 'delete', my finger froze: 'What if the Duke really is my 11th great grandfather?' I thought to myself. 'And what if new records are uncovered tomorrow?' 'Besides, records are discovered every day and if dearest great grandfather Duke is no longer on my tree, how must I claim my rightful heritage?'

So with that, my romantic self won a valiant battle of wills and the Dukes, Earls and Sirs continue to sit regally on my family tree. The tiara is still sitting, untouched under glass and I have been composing a note to poor dearest Elizabeth with a reminder of my new address for future royal reference (Harry's wedding can't be far behind).

You know, I really must make my driveway more carriage accessible.

For a fun website to search for your royal genealogy, go to the Royalist.

Keep searching for answers,

My carriage awaits!


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