"My name is Cynthia McIntosh and I live in Pasadena, California. My story is about Tex Wolfe, my great grandfather. He wore a kilt, a McIntosh tartan, he wore a headdress, how'd like his Wolfe name, and told us that his axe was a tomahawk that he used for roofing. When I smell a tar truck, I remember to love my grandpa Wolfe. 

He was huge and tall with long black dress shoes. They were pointed so long a length, he was able to squish spiders and corners. He was a giant of kindness to everyone. He sparkled especially next to his wife, my great grandmother, who was nuts with being mean. One night, all four of my aging grandparents answered a few questions I had thought up. "Where was Grandpa Wolfe from?” “New York”, they chimed. 

"Oh, I mean, what tribe? What tribe was he from?" "Tribe?" He was not from a tribe, he was a Jewish man. He was a Jewish tradesman from New York. He was your grandmother's second husband. No relation. New York? What? He wore a headdress and a kilt. Tex Wolfe was a vagrant, a train hopper looking for a meal during the depression. He wound up in El Monte, California at my great grandmother's door. She was from the Sioux tribe. Grandpa Wolfe fixed her roof and trade for a few meals that lasted the remainder of their lives. Patched her roof, patched her heart, her life, her kids' lives, and so. He was Tex Wolfe with an E, W -O -L -F -E, not the howling kind, W -O -L -F. He arrived with his shoes, his shirt, and his pair of pants, and nothing more. He became my grandfather's tiny closet  full of kilts, accordions, underwear, headdress. I know with my own DNA test, my family would be 100 % fabulous. My brother's test came back 100 % Irish. 

We must not be related.