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The Lord of the Ryngs

Tristan and Victoria
Tristan and Victoria at Stadium HS, Tacoma, in 2003

My great-grandfather Josef Ryng immigrated to the German Empire just before the First World War from somewhere in the east. He never told his descendents where he came from, nor the circumstances that prompted his move. Rumour and innuendo can only carry you so far, but Josef's point of origin is thought to be what was then Russian Poland.

He married twice, both orphans. This love of mystery and secrecy has been carried by his descendants, among whom are

Rudolf Ryng, my grandfather, was drafted into the German army in 1941. He survived the winter of 1941-42 on the Eastern Front, and spent the rest of the war being shot in various non-vital areas so he could rest in hospital, sometimes for six months at a go. He was awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class for an incident that can be charitably described as desertion. Exactly nine months after his release from a US POW Camp, my mother

Karin Janowski (neé Ryng) was born. She immigrated to the United States in 1970, her GI husband Timothy Janowski and two small children in tow.

Oddly, one of those children turned out to be myself, and the other was my younger sister Melanie Janowski. Why she got my step-father's last name and I got my mother's is a great story that, however, I'm not about to tell you.

Melanie is now married to a fine, upstanding gentleman named Scott Hunt. She took his last name (just to add further to the naming confusion) and the two of them are now expecting my very first niece.

I married Beverly in 1985, and we soon had two bouncing baby Ryngs: Tristan (born 1987) and Victoria (born 1991).

Though they sometimes doubt it, my children are one of the great joys of my life. Tristan is a fantastic artist, both in glass and digitally. His young life has been surrounded by tragedy, but it has hopefully taught him some wisdom.

Victoria is reads, writes, and talks nonsense. She is, in short, pretty much what I was at her age.

Beverly and I divorced in early 2004, and we remain friends. I'm still very close to my (ex-) brother (-in law) Theo Moriarty.

Life is a funny thing, and it moves on before we notice. I married my Muse, Francine, and we now share a funny old pistachio-coloured foursquare with three cats, a bunny, and the beginnings of an urban farm.


A family without a storyteller or two has no way to make sense out of their past and no way to get a sense of themselves. (Frank Pittman, 1994 )