Like many people in our area, I enjoy a humble existence in the countryside with nary a thought as to how I got here aside from one day hauling a bunch of belongings from point A to B. And then someone in our family, namely mom, gets intimate with the past and comes up with information richer than a Bombe Glacée Royale.

On the Swedish side, mom discovers Emerentia Christina Lundgren, a scandalously distant relative, born January 10th, 1734. “Emerentia was married and divorced three times. Remarriages were common but divorces were rare in those times,” explains mom casually adding, “Her mother Anna Catharina Beata von Krakewitz (1693 - 1754) was born nobility.”

My reaction? “Never mind Emerentia! Am I descendent from royalty?”

“Yes, traceable to the 1200s. Isn't that great?” mom replies so offhandedly you’d think she was commenting on the weather.

Nonetheless, the proclamation exhilarates and fills me with pride until I realize I won’t make any money from it. It does, however, cause me to inform my husband, who is busy brushing his teeth, that due to my new royal standing I can no longer jiggle the toilet handle when it starts running. He laughs heartily (how dare he!) causing a small spot of toothpaste to land at my feet. Someone will have to clean that up!

My neighbor suggests I start lessons on how to dress, curtsy, and wave—basically anything appropriate to royalty. “It’s an emergency,” she declares. I scramble around looking for that tiara I bought in the ‘80’s and the pair of opera gloves I was given as a wedding gift. I’m ready for this! But then I start thinking, will I have to give up cursing?

“Certainly in front of small children,” informs my scholarly neighbor adding, “But you probably don’t have to give it up entirely—at least not until some research is done.” Her wise council gives me great hope. Not that I curse a lot. It’s just that sometimes I need to use certain words for emphasis. I wonder if I have to start wearing dresses. I’m a pants gal. Not a pants-suit gal. Just pants. Plain ol’ soft-serve pants. Perhaps I could continue dressing casually, just add the gloves and crown. But what about a title?

My neighbor (now a minion of mine) suggests War and Peace or maybe Mice and Men. Of course, she’s only joking even though War and Peace sounds about right. I google Swedish royal titles and find they follow the British ala Downton Abbey, reruns of which I happen to be watching, but Princess, Queen, Empress and Duchess are all too stodgy for me. Lesser hierarchal titles include Marchioness, Countess, Viscountess, and Baroness—presumptuous and a bit of a mouthful, I’d say.

I become obsessed and uncomfortable at the same time. I like the idea of the ‘ring kiss’, but the titles so far are all too bombastic. I fall into a royal funk thinking of how my entire family somehow toppled from majestic heights and yet, at the same time, I’m happy to know there’ll be no more inbreeding, beheadings, or tower lock-ups.

To conquer one of the many supreme quandaries I’m now facing, I fashion a name and title that has nothing to do with Sweden and everything to do with glassware. Art glass developed at the turn-of-the-century in West Virginia was called Fenton Hobnail, a brand I’ve always found amusing and a tad haughty. Pairing it with a lower rank, courtesy title, I come up with Lady Fenton Hobnail!

While crossing the Callicoon Bridge, I imagine myself receiving a curtsey from each passerby and, in turn, extending my ring. Of course, none of that actually happens. Twenty-four hours later, I’m fixing the toilet handle and scrubbing the bathroom floor once again appreciative of my humble life in the countryside.