Telling Tales

I called my father early this week (about topics unrelated to flatulence, I assure you) and he told me this story:

“I was at this new pizza place having lunch, and I had gas. The music there was pretty loud, so I figured I could get away with it. Half an hour later, I’m feeling much better but, when I look around, everyone is staring at me. Then I realized I had my iPod on.”

“You did not!” I replied, giggling.

“No. I didn’t,” he confessed. “But it’s a good story.”

We Bramhalls adore a good story – the best kind being those we can tell on ourselves or our loved ones. And while we appreciate veracity, precise accuracy is optional; humor is king. One time my uncle tried to correct his mother’s telling of a well-worn family tale, and my grandmother waved him off, saying “don’t bother me with the facts; I’m telling a story!” This was an idea the whole family could get behind, because there isn’t a single member of Dad’s family who doesn’t have some ripping yarn about a bear at a campsite, a dog named Lancelot, or the car they called “Leaping Lena”. My father still laughs ‘til he cries telling the story about Uncle Din buying him a $500 surfboard because he thought it cost $5 – and he’s been telling that one since the 1960s.

The characters in these tales become part of a permanent pantheon I’ve been relating to most of my life – take Flossie, for example. When my parents were on their honeymoon, the legend goes, there was a waitress named Flossie at the diner. She was… friendly – my guess is she flirted with Dad. And so it became a running joke that Flossie was my father’s other girl – the woman he’d wind up with if my mother died or left him. (You’ve got to appreciate a family that has honeymoon stories – there’s another one about my father water skiing, then waking up the next day convinced he had Polio.)

So Flossie’s been around longer than I have. I’m rather fond of her, in fact, though it’s true to say she’s a grabby little bitch; my mother has no time for her. “I’m leaving my jewelry to you,” she would say. “For God’s sake don’t let Flossie get it!” On the other hand, I never met my father’s Marine Corps sergeant, but I’ve thought poorly of him ever since I learned he took Dad’s watch off his dislocated arm. Admittedly, some family anecdotes need polishing to bring out the Funny.

The family folklore masterpiece comes from Uncle George’s visit to Bramhall Hall in England. His knock on the door of the stately home was answered by a butler. Uncle George explained that his surname was Bramhall, and he wanted to explore the land from which his ancestors had come. “Yes,” replied a bored and snooty butler as he closed the door on my uncle “many of the serfs took the family name when emigrating to America.”

I once told this tale to an Englishman with a plummy sort of accent and an attitude to match, but I’m not convinced he appreciated it properly. He seemed embarrassed for me, as if I’d told him some great confidence. Mostly, I was patting myself on the back for working the word “serf” into normal conversation. Let this be a lesson in knowing one’s audience. Here’s another:

My father and Ron, a friend from his office, were dropping me off at college. The campus was dotted with charming streetlamps – old-style black poles with a base that rose above knee height and a cross-arm just below the light. As a fire precaution, the lights were built to go off for 5 minutes if the bulb came in contact with the panes surrounding it. As we parked in front of one of these lamps, I was regaling Dad and his colleague with tales of drunken escapades, most of which involve head-butting the lamps.

“Head-butting?” they asked.

“Yes,” I explained. “The base is the perfect height to stand on and grab the cross arm, using it as a handle to propel one’s head into the lamp, knocking the light out temporarily. Here, I’ll show you.”

I got out to demonstrate. Watching me through the windshield, Ron says gravely, “you must be very proud.” As I climb back into the car, he adds “I’m gonna let you tell this one at the office.”

This one's for you, Daddy.