The other night, just following the very welcome and final black-out on stage, I am informed that I have visitors waiting for me at the stage door.
Not being able to think of anybody I even know in DC, I am naturally curious.
I get outside and find a very pleasant looking middle-aged husband and wife expectantly standing there. Still can’t place them, but that does not rule out the possibility of them being related to me in some way. The truth is that I do have relatives that I would not even recognize were I to pass them on the street. Sad, but true.
I smile at them and distractedly wonder if I should feign recognition.
Thankfully, I am not in limbo very long since the gentleman jumped right in.
Hi Jessica, I’m Bill–your last name is Latshaw, right?
Yes, I respond, grateful that he isn’t a 2nd cousin of some sort that I should know.
And you’re from Pennsylvania? he continues.
Yeah, I am, I agree again.
And your father is the Reverend Latshaw? he asks, effectively hitting it out of the park with that one.
*cue violins and dramatic music as I am anticipating some sort of reunion here.
This man, this Bill, that I am convinced I must know, asks me one more question, having laid out all the evidence carefully and methodically and now going in for the verdict.
And you’re from Land…
(Yes, I think, Yes I am…)
…sdowne–You’re from Landsowne, PA?
*cue the abrupt scratch and stop of the dramatic music as the violin strings are held still.
Oh, I thought you were going to say Landenberg, because that’s where I am from, not Landsdowne, I break it to him.
Really? He says. So you are not the Jessica Latshaw whose father is a minister from Landsdowne, PA? She sings too…
Sorry, no, it’s not me, I assure him. But she may very well be related to me.
And considering how little I know of some of my more distant relatives, that probably is true.
But really, what are the odds?