So That’s Where That Joke Started

 “That’s not funny.  But don’t worry; it’s a running joke, so they’ll repeat it several times until you have no choice but to find it funny.” – The Nostalgia Critic, Suburban Commando review

                My father’s family has a history of people that are… well, liars.  And I mean this is the best way possible.  The funny kind of liars, you know?  For example, one of my uncles is a high school teacher, and he once seriously attempted to convince a class that cantaloupes are grown on terrace-style farms, and so the only way for the cantaloupe farmers to harvest the fruits is by harpooning them from the lower levels (the scary part of this story is that his class at least acted as if they believed him).

                The lying, outrageous as it is, adds to the family charm, and has done so for generations.  My grandma’s brother (FXR Jr.), I’ve been told, had the same sense of humor.  And my grandma’s father (FXR Sr.), though not quite as bad, is reported to have had a good sense of humor as well.  However, I really wasn’t aware of how far back this characteristic existed until I was going through a box of old photographs and documents from my grandma’s collection.  In an old folder I found some postcards and a letter sent by FXR Sr.’s mother’s brother, Francis Doonan (the name “Francis” is apparently another inescapable family trait) from his time in France during WWI.

                

                The first postcard, addressed to “Sister Margaret” (one of FXR Sr.’s sisters) in 1918 reads: “I was just downtown for a couple of hours for my breakfast.  They are in the wagon behind a load of eggs.  I sure have some appetite.  Love, Uncle Frank.”

                Next, a postcard addressed to “Master Peter” (one of FXR Sr.’s brothers): “I done this job – I lost my hat, I couldn’t find it, so I tore down this little shack.  I am standing looking over the job.  Love, Uncle Frank.”

                With his… unique, dry sense of humor, the comedic Uncle Frank managed to put a funny spin on the images of war he was sending home to his nieces and nephews.  The three-page letter he sent to FXR Sr., however, shows more of his humor, but also more of his personality as a whole:

                Sent from Gievres, France.  February 11, 1919.

                “My dear Francis;

Just a few lines Frank old boy to let you know that your letter is on hand and that I don't know how to explain how overjoyed I was to get it, it sure was a corker.  Thats the kind of letter I like to receive it sure was a big one.

Say Frank, that was a corking picture you sent me of you in the Sailor suit, you sure looked the goods, I'll bet your lady friend was crazy about it, I was so proud of it that I had to show it alla round the camp I sure did let them know that it was my nephew.

The letter that I received today is the second one that I have received from you.

Frank you ought to be glad that you are not over here, it is way below zero and still going strong water is all frozen and we cannot take a bath (The colored fellows are tickled to death) they sure like the Cooties, and we are still living in one story barrachs, it is just like putting your bed in the yard and going asleep, I wonder if little Peter would like that very much or Sister, what do you say about that Frank.

You mentioned about the Helmet well Frank old pal I am going to send one by mail tomorrow to you, and the gas mask I will bring home with me.

Things are slow over here, the boys all want to get home and so do I.  Tell Mother she will receive a card regarding my health every one had to send them home, it was compulsory and not to mind it.  Also tell Pop, that they mentioned about Larry Carrols death in the Paris papers, I was surprised to see the notice.

I am sure glad that all have recovered from that old Flue I had it a couple of times but I was too busy to notice it Frank this is the place for that stuff the hopsitals are filled.

I think that I will spend the winter over here it will not be long before I will get my gold stripe for six months overseas duty, we also get an insigna on shoulder it is, SOS that means help come quick, and it means that when the boys cried for food in the front lines we always answered and sent it to them we sure did some good work and nothing could stop us.

Frank that was some not Rose Catherine wrote to me I am just longing for a sight of her I bet she will be a regular lady when I get home, I sure have an aweful lot of stuff to tell you when I get home, yes, some of it is true.

You mentioned about a 1919 card Frank as soon as I go to town I will get some and send them to you how will that be and i want you to send me the Star I haven't had a Brooklyn paper in 6 months and I am tired of asking for it if you can't get the dough cop a few Magnesia bottles and if you get caught blame it on me you know me Buddie.

Well Frank I will have to close and i will write you in a couple of days. Give my love to Mother, Pa, Peter, Margaret, Rose Catherine, Madeline, Charlie, Rita, and little Charles he must be some boy now I am longing to veryone, Good Night old Pall. I am going to break in 4 new blankets tonight.

Love to everyone.

                Your loving Uncle,

                                Frank

P.S.

I have your picture right on my desk besides Anna, Everyone wants to know if you are my son.  In a few days I will send another picture I had taken.

GOOD NIGHT SLEEP TIGHT DONT MIND OF THE COOTIES BITE. FRANK.”

                When I found this letter with the postcards, having not heard anything about this Uncle Frank before, I was practically giddy.  I photocopied them and brought them to my grandma the next day.  While she had, of course, heard of Uncle Frank, she had no idea that her father had kept these, so she was pretty excited too.

                She said that Uncle Frank lost a leg during the war, and returned home with a wooden replacement.  He didn’t let this dampen his sense of humor, however, and used to entertain the neighborhood kids by sitting on his front porch and sticking needles into his leg (with the pants on, the kids couldn’t tell that his leg was wooden, and were fascinated by someone who could so stoically stab themselves in the leg over and over).

                To just round off the story of Frank’s life, it appears that FXR Sr.’s father didn’t really approve of him, and so Frank wasn’t really welcome in his house.  Undeterred, Frank would simply wait until the man of the house was asleep, and would then climb in the second-story window to visit with his nieces and nephews.

                So, here’s to Uncle Frank Doonan, who managed to transform the family tendency towards humorous fibs into an honored century-old tradition.

How Did that Alligator Get into the Sewer?

“Alligators serenely paddling around in his sewers. The beam of his own flashlight had spotlighted alligators whose length, on the average, was about two feet. Some may have been longer. The colony appeared to have settled contentedly under the very streets of the busiest city in the world.” – Robert Daley, “The World Beneath the City”

                My grandma grew up in New York City, so I guess it was inevitable that at some point the classic sewer alligator legend would come up in stories of her childhood.  However, I wasn’t expecting her alligator story to be quite so… unique.  And almost completely unrelated to the New York sewer system.

                My grandma’s father (Francis Xavier Reilly, from here on out referred to as FXR Sr.)’s sister Marion, called Mickey, married a man named Eugene Clancy, who owned an alligator refining factory.  When I asked what the heck an alligator refining factory did, I was told that it handled the charming procedure of turning an alligator into a handbag.  This is important because, being so involved with alligators, Eugene often became frustrated with New Yorkers who bought baby alligators from Florida (in the 30’s, this was a fairly common occurrence).  Not only did alligators not make very good pets – particularly when you lived in a cramped NYC apartment – but when the family realized this, they had a tendency to flush the alligators down the toilet (this is according to the old urban legend, but I think it’s more likely that they tossed them down the storm drain… I just can’t imagine that an alligator, baby or not, could fit down a toilet). 

                As the legend goes, these alligators survived the trip to the sewer, and continued to grow, having adapted to life living off rats and trash.  Where does my grandma fit into this, you might ask?  Well, to find my grandma’s alligator story, you’d have to leave the big city and travel to my grandma’s family’s summer vacation cabin in Vermont.

                One summer, my grandma’s dad, FXR Sr., managed to procure a baby alligator for his two children (my grandma and her brother, FXR Jr.).  My grandma doesn’t remember whether he traveled to Florida himself, or if a colleague did and brought the alligator back for him.  Anyway, my grandma and her brother named the small reptile “Swishy”, and kept him in a nice box next to the fireplace, where he’d remain warm. 

                Naturally curious about the alligator, my grandma and FXR Jr. spend a good deal of time inspecting and watching Swishy.  Wanting to commemorate the occasion, they decided to take a picture of their new pet.  In those days, they were still using the camera where the flash bulb would burst after each picture.  So, when they leaned in close to snap a picture of Swishy, the flash was quite startling for the baby reptile.  In a panic, he jumped into the air, and landed back in his box, dead.  Literally scared to death.

               R.I.P. , dear Swishy.

(A note about my grandma’s Uncle Eugene.  Apart from being the father of one of my grandma’s favorite cousins, my grandma has many fond memories of Eugene, and therefore decided to honor him with one of her son’s middle names.)

The Two-Tragedy Quota

“There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.” – Oscar Wilde

I started my family research project by talking to – of course – my grandma.  She’s the real story-teller of the family, and even though she insists that she can’t remember what she had for breakfast, she hasn’t forgotten a single family event, story, or drama.  So, only a few days after arriving home for the summer, we sat down, I with a pen hovering over my brand new “research notebook”, and she started outlining her family history.

               I’m not sure what it says about our culture, or even just human nature in general, but it seems to be the tragedies that stand out to us in our memories, so it’s fitting that this blog start off with one of my family’s tragic stories.  My grandma’s maternal grandmother, Mary Bradley, was a seamstress, and worked tirelessly to support her five children.  As far as I can tell, her husband Thomas Gorman was hardly ever in the picture, and was drunk whenever he was.  My grandma’s mother, Marion, worked hard as well to help her mother keep things together, even harder after her older sister Georgia left home.  Edward, the youngest of the children (born 1917-ish), was mostly Marion’s responsibility, and so always had a special place in her heart afterward.

    

            When Ed grew up, he wanted to be a journalist, and so study journalism in college.  However, he was strongly encouraged to attend Fordham University instead, mostly by his sister Georgia and Marion’s husband (himself a Fordham graduate).  Edward relented, and attended Fordham.  For reasons that are still today a complete mystery, he was expelled, and enlisted in the army in 1942 (by the way, I don’t think I need to tell you how badly I’d like to find out why he was expelled… not sure if it’s possible, but I’m looking into it).  He was engaged to a girl named Florence, but while stationed in San Francisco fell in love with another girl.  He’d planned on leaving Florence to marry the second girl, but Florence told him that she was pregnant.  So, Edward went through with the marriage for the sake of his child.

      

          Florence turned out to be… eccentric, to put it extremely nicely.  The baby, named Thomas, was eventually taken into foster care.  According to my grandma, Florence reportedly drank the baby’s urine, claiming it was good for her teeth.  Florence and Edward had four or five more children after Thomas, however, and her mothering skills didn’t seem to improve.  My grandma can specifically remember one day when she and her mother drove to Ed and Florence’s apartment (they lived in a Welfare Housing project in Flushing, New York) to deliver Christmas presents.  When they entered the room, they found one of the children, then just a baby, sitting on top of the radiator, where Florence had left him.

           

          Edward ended up an alcoholic for the majority of his adult life, like all his siblings except Georgia.  He remained very close to Marion, though, and she often mentioned him, his letters, and his phone calls in her journal as the highlights of her days.  Edward died in 1996, and was buried at the Calverton National Cemetery as a 1^st Lieutenant.  Interestingly, in 1993 my grandma’s husband had lunch with Edward’s first son Thomas.  They’d discovered, quite by accident, that they worked for the same company, and made plans to meet for lunch during one of my grandpa’s business trips.

         

       (A word about family legacies.  Marion always said that her son Frank reminded her of her brother Edward.  Edward was the favorite of his mother, and Frank was often viewed as the favorite of Marion.  My grandma, Marion’s daughter, has often mentioned that her youngest son reminds her of her brother Frank, and there are often claims amongst her children that this youngest son is my grandma’s favorite as well.)

Welcome to the family - and my summer project

So, summer is here yet again, and I've managed to barely escape getting a summer job.  However, to make myself feel less useless, I've adopted a summer research project - exploring my family history (with the substantial help of Ancestry.com).

Genealogy's always interested me, but I was still surprised by how quickly I became addicted to it.  So, now I have this lovely blog to vent about researching frustrations and gloat about new discoveries.

Since, by nature, a family tree begins at the end, my family history "begins" in San Diego, California.  The majority of the story, however, takes place in other parts of the US, especially Detroit, Michigan, Buffalo, New York, and New York City itself.  Eventually, if things go well, I'll hop over the pond and spend some time in Ireland, England, Poland, and Germany.

My family's 50% cliche and 50% black sheep, so when you take into account the old photographs, family rumors, and old stories, it should make for a pretty interesting summer.  Based on how obsessed I am with this project, I'm sure I'll be posting something once a day, or at least every other day - wish me luck!