Today, a brief genealogical foray slid into an hours-long expedition culminating in Groton, Suffolk, a minor town once lorded over by Bury St. Edmunds, and currently the site of the remains of a twelfth-century fortification. Why should this matter? Because without Groton, there'd be no me. Thanks to the discovery of my mother's name on the Doggett Family genealogical site, I traced my ancestry back, at least in one line, to my great-great-great-great-great-great- great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Richard Doggett (d. c. 1540), whose wealth from the cloth trade and land made him the richest member of the village of Groton in the early sixteenth century. Would that some of his money had made its way to me!
To my horror, I learned that my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Benjamin Doggett (d. 1723 in Lancaster County, Virginia) owned slaves, a woman named Criss, and two men, Mingo and Tom. I also learned that my self-trumpeting over being the first member of my family to graduate college now needs modification, because I've just trapdoored myself by several centuries. Benjamin Doggett, father to the above Benjamin, entered St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1654/5, and his cousin Thomas matriculated from Queen's College in 1640. If the statute of limitations are still good, perhaps I can recommend my nephews for legacy admissions?
The point of all this? I don't know yet. I just found it an amusing coincidence that in a week in which I'm teaching the Wife of Bath I discover not just another enormously wealthy dealer in cloths, but the clothmaker as a version of myself. To be sure, Richard Doggett lived a century and some change after the Wife, and on the other side of the country...and he wasn't fictional: still, I felt some connection, as if my time, my memory, had been brushed by the inhabitants of an England that I had thought had been safely just an object of study, present only in the pleasures of playing with texts and the occasional, and perhaps feigned, horror at past catastrophes. Does the genetic path from late medieval Groton to this Brooklyn medievalist materialize these pleasures and griefs, render them something more than professional play? I don't know. I can say, however, that I'm another clerk distracted by a master of "clooth makyng." Let's hope I don't need a Griselda to set my head aright!
(photo from here. thank you!)