Columns
VALLEY: He can't be serious
About a year ago, I received a package in the mail from my cousin Jim McNally. Jim lives in the Geneseo area with his wife Shirley — they are two of the nicest people you could ever meet (I’ve been blessed with great relatives). The package had, among the contents, some information and pictures of my dad while he was in the Army during World War II.
Also included was a neatly packaged portfolio — that Jim had cleverly put together — of writings by our late uncle, Art Valley. Art was brother to my father and Jim’s mother. He had also served during the war, but with the Navy.
To describe Uncle Art as anything less than hilarious is an admission that you didn’t know him. He was a natural, with the unique ability to brighten anyone’s day regardless of the situation. For instance: When his father — my grandfather — passed away, he showed up at the funeral home while the priest was leading mourners in prayers; the rosary was being recited and those who could kneel were doing such. Not one to feel comfortable in a situation like that, he stepped back outside and smoked a cigarette awaiting the final “amen.”
My father, noticing this, got up and went outside to confront his brother, “How can you walk out on a prayer service for your own father?”
“Prayer service?” Uncle Art shot back in his lightning-quick style, “I thought they were shooting craps! And I wanted no part of that during my old-man’s funeral.” He flicked his Lucky Strike to the curb and strutted back inside.
You had to love this guy.
And knowing him the way I did, it was with apprehension (if that’s the right word) that I started to read his account of our family’s ancestry. I wasn’t sure if he had approached the project seriously or was totally incapable of such an endeavor. You be the judge.
He starts his paper off by mentioning that our relatives came from “early American stock — namely, Buffaloes.” With a written wink, he dismisses that and states our family “was one of the original groups that was revolting against King James. In fact,” he adds, “the whole bunch was revolting.”
Once in America — he goes on to mention — one of our ancestors was rewarded with a hand-painted tomahawk for showing an Indian chief how to smoke gun powder. Unfortunately, it was awarded to his forehead.
Another relative’s business failed, after word got out that he had sold General Custer a lucky rabbit’s foot from his Little Big Horn Tattoo and Souvenir Emporium.
Quite a bit of the family-tree-chronicles are not fit to be printed here, but he does mention Cousin Bob who “patented the four-cup brassier for bashful cows.” There was a great-great uncle, Frank, who was inseparable from his pal, Benedict Arnold: “They hung together all the time — even at the end ... literally.”
Also, in the Uncle Art collection was a letter he’d written to my cousin, Jim. It was apparent that he was responding to a letter that Jim had written. Jim had asked Art for some information on the Navy ship that he was assigned to during the war.
“All I can remember is that it was of ancient construction. I could tell it had seen prior action by the spears and arrows sticking out from the oaken hull. Other indications (of its old-age) were the Roman numerals on the sails and catapult affixed to the bow. Apparently, it was built for speed evidenced by the number of oars protruding from the sides.”
There’s more to this neatly packaged collection, but space prevents me from continuing. I thank my cousin, Jim, for sharing — and my Uncle Art for the laughs, the smiles and the comfort he afforded to so many of us. Perhaps, a time will come when I can relate more of his memoirs. But for now...
That’s the way it looks from the Valley.
Tom Valley is a Medina resident who writes a column every Wednesday for The Journal-Register. Write to Tvalley@rochester.rr.com.
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