Saturday, March 21, 2009

Pedigree



When my father was seven, he dug up a dead body.

What?

I know.

But when he was five, he also stole some cigarettes from his father, who blamed the hired hand, who was fired on the spot. And my dad never said a word about it.

This is the gene pool from which I spring. Which is why, I would imagine, I took the family car for a joyride (which ended in an unfortunate crash) when I was four and set ten acres ablaze when I was five. I stole my first cigarette when I was eight, but, fortunately, nobody lost his livelihood as a result.  However, when I was five I did leave my "boyfriend" lying on a cold rock after he took a nasty 20-foot fall from a bluff we weren't supposed to be climbing.  I thought he was dead.  I simply walked home, ate my supper, went to bed, and hoped he would be on the bus the next morning.  He was.  Phew.

Graverobbing, thieving, lying, joyriding arsonists. What a lovely family crest I could hang on my wall.

C'mon, then, make me feel better.  What's in your closet?

5 comments:

Brandon G. said...

When my dad was a kid, he made contact explosives with stuff he stole from the chem lab at his high school. He spread it on the floor in the entryway to his parents' furniture store. When someone stepped on it, it was like stepping on those little paper things that you throw on the ground that pop. He also put it on the tips of pens.

I re-wired an elevator in college so that it would go to the basement when the third floor button was pressed. Also, there's Dogs on Skateboards:

http://brandon.pulpexplosion.com/index.php/2008/02/dogs-on-skateboards/

womaninblack71 said...

Thank you for visiting me and for being so kind - hugely appreciated! I shall come back and plunder your files when I don't have one child upstairs in a massive rage after being unfairly asked to empty her lunchbox (I am a tyrant, I know) and the other screaming for food/juice/entertainment/my last vestige of sanity.
As for my roots, I can offer nothing quite as extreme. My mother once encouraged her brother to drink his bubble mixture and then sat back watching him blow his own bubbles, and later blow his own chunks. My Dad was a relentless over-achiever and had probably manufactured his own bubble mix aged six months. No fire, crashes or dead bodies. I feel I've missed out.
See you soon, WIB

Beverly Hamilton Wenham said...

Thanks to your peep talk I am back and promise to blog more lightly and more often. Your so wise for one raised so wildly. That is why we shall always be friends. Because we both don't know how to get to normal. We have no map. But then why buy one. It's so crowed there.

Beverly Hamilton Wenham said...

Yes, that's right I said peep talk! And I meant it.
Why do the Gods of typing and dexterity fail me so, when they know I am so weak in spelling.

Eva said...

I'm afraid I'm a goody two shoes (sorry for the spelling... My brain has magically turned to mush) but my father has quite a lot of stories of his own to tell.... Maybe he'll be my guest one day on my blog... Actually, maybe I should do a bio of a few salient characters from my family...

BTW, you are my role model forever. And I mean this honestly.