I come from a long line of liars.
My father set the example for his generation. When I was a young boy, I asked him how tall he was. He responded that he was 6 feet in height and that made me very proud to know that my father walked among giants. It wasn’t for some years—during which time I had, not only gotten older, but taller, that I realized he probably miscalculated. I grew to be just less than 5 feet 9 inches tall and couldn’t help notice that I could see the top of my father’s baldhead. Not to be out- done by this sudden change of events he simply explained “ you shrink as you get older.” Well, at least he was no politician. He stuck with his original story right to the bitter end.
And then there was 2-Toed Jimmy Skeen. Jimmy was an affable, roly-poly guy who was my uncle. He was so named “2 Toed” because he only had a big toe on either of his feet. He was quite a marksman who liked to hunt and claimed that he cut the rest of his toes off so that he could sit in trees and steady the barrel of his rifle using his 2, big toes. Made sense to me then and still does now. In reality, the toes went down with his ship somewhere in the Pacific.
Another family legend was “Twice-Dead Joe.” According to ancestral lore, Joe, who was a prodigious eater, dropped dead after consuming 2 pounds of spaghetti. Let’s forget about the real story, my father—the 6- foot tall guy—claimed that Joe blew up—I guess like a balloon—after ingesting this startling amount of food. But things got even worst for old Joe! Anyone who is Catholic and has traveled to Philadelphia knows that there are many majestic churches in this city. Many of those churches feature grand stairways that are outside the church and seem to climb into the Heavens. (This probably is the effect that is sought.) Well, Joe was buried in the wintertime after a particularly bad storm that left much of the ground covered with ice. It seems the pallbearers, 2 of whom were my father and my uncle, “2-Toed”—men who didn’t mind having a “wee- taste of God’s nectar” on such days and many others-- managed to loose their footing and, therefore, control of old Joe’s coffin. As the story goes, the coffin slid down the church steps directly into the path of an oncoming hearse, which was pulling to the sidewalk to provide Joe with more suitable transportation; and you can guess the outcome—Kaboom! Hence, “Twice- Dead Joe.” My father said that the best part was watching all the women who fainted and rolled down the stairs seemingly following Joe to the street. “Looked like the dance- around on the Lawrence Welk Show,” he would claim.
My namesake, Uncle Bill, once announced that his father, or my grandfather, had suddenly died. The family hurriedly gathered, put on our best mourning clothes, and rushed to their house where the body supposedly was. There was just one surprise, however. When we all entered the house there, seated in his favorite chair and clutching a quart bottle of Schmidt’s’ beer, was my grandfather. My Uncle Bill’s only response to this dramatic change of events was that he was misunderstood. It seems he thought the old man was dying, not dead. Bill didn’t know much about conjugating verbs.
We can’t let the supposed deceased off the hook, Grandfather Dave, that is. When he reached his 70’s he announced that our last name wasn’t “Comerford” but was “Comiskey.” Before anyone got a chance to pursue this sudden change of events, the old man died leaving all who carry the name with a rather large cloud over our existence: Just who the Hell are we?
This familial background has left me no alternative but to consider a career as a politician or writer. Or, better yet, how about a writer for a politician!
Now I’m really excited, no lie!
BillyP.
My father set the example for his generation. When I was a young boy, I asked him how tall he was. He responded that he was 6 feet in height and that made me very proud to know that my father walked among giants. It wasn’t for some years—during which time I had, not only gotten older, but taller, that I realized he probably miscalculated. I grew to be just less than 5 feet 9 inches tall and couldn’t help notice that I could see the top of my father’s baldhead. Not to be out- done by this sudden change of events he simply explained “ you shrink as you get older.” Well, at least he was no politician. He stuck with his original story right to the bitter end.
And then there was 2-Toed Jimmy Skeen. Jimmy was an affable, roly-poly guy who was my uncle. He was so named “2 Toed” because he only had a big toe on either of his feet. He was quite a marksman who liked to hunt and claimed that he cut the rest of his toes off so that he could sit in trees and steady the barrel of his rifle using his 2, big toes. Made sense to me then and still does now. In reality, the toes went down with his ship somewhere in the Pacific.
Another family legend was “Twice-Dead Joe.” According to ancestral lore, Joe, who was a prodigious eater, dropped dead after consuming 2 pounds of spaghetti. Let’s forget about the real story, my father—the 6- foot tall guy—claimed that Joe blew up—I guess like a balloon—after ingesting this startling amount of food. But things got even worst for old Joe! Anyone who is Catholic and has traveled to Philadelphia knows that there are many majestic churches in this city. Many of those churches feature grand stairways that are outside the church and seem to climb into the Heavens. (This probably is the effect that is sought.) Well, Joe was buried in the wintertime after a particularly bad storm that left much of the ground covered with ice. It seems the pallbearers, 2 of whom were my father and my uncle, “2-Toed”—men who didn’t mind having a “wee- taste of God’s nectar” on such days and many others-- managed to loose their footing and, therefore, control of old Joe’s coffin. As the story goes, the coffin slid down the church steps directly into the path of an oncoming hearse, which was pulling to the sidewalk to provide Joe with more suitable transportation; and you can guess the outcome—Kaboom! Hence, “Twice- Dead Joe.” My father said that the best part was watching all the women who fainted and rolled down the stairs seemingly following Joe to the street. “Looked like the dance- around on the Lawrence Welk Show,” he would claim.
My namesake, Uncle Bill, once announced that his father, or my grandfather, had suddenly died. The family hurriedly gathered, put on our best mourning clothes, and rushed to their house where the body supposedly was. There was just one surprise, however. When we all entered the house there, seated in his favorite chair and clutching a quart bottle of Schmidt’s’ beer, was my grandfather. My Uncle Bill’s only response to this dramatic change of events was that he was misunderstood. It seems he thought the old man was dying, not dead. Bill didn’t know much about conjugating verbs.
We can’t let the supposed deceased off the hook, Grandfather Dave, that is. When he reached his 70’s he announced that our last name wasn’t “Comerford” but was “Comiskey.” Before anyone got a chance to pursue this sudden change of events, the old man died leaving all who carry the name with a rather large cloud over our existence: Just who the Hell are we?
This familial background has left me no alternative but to consider a career as a politician or writer. Or, better yet, how about a writer for a politician!
Now I’m really excited, no lie!
BillyP.
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