Every so often my dad consults his brother Wayne, the family genealogist, to find out if we're Irish yet. Wayne says no. We're still on the gene pool transplant list. The people on my dad's side are the same old English, Scottish, Welsh people we always were. This conversation inevitably depresses my dad because he longs to be Irish. Irish-ness suits him.
Anyhoo. We don't know a ton about my mother's non-Mormon side. There was a LOT of kicking-over-the-traces in that line. So who knows where they all came from? But one afternoon when I was bored, I googled her maiden name--Covey--and discovered that in some instances, Covey is an Irish surname. So I called up my dad immediately and said, "Guess who might be Irish after all . . . "
P.S. We're not related to the famous Coveys, according to my maternal grandfather. While those Coveys were busy founding Little America motels with excellent coffee shops and also writing books about highly effective habits, our Coveys could be found in the local saloons.