My Uncle Mark emailed me a note this week that read: “Morgan, I noticed that you haven’t slandered any of your relatives in your columns recently. What’s happened?”
You know, that’s really asking for it. The gall of my Uncle Mark. Can you believe that? Is he actually suggesting that I exaggerate in this column? The very idea. Besides, you can’t slander a person if your writing about them. If anything, I’ve libeled my family. You got to talk ugly about a person to slander them. But of course, Uncle Mark wouldn’t know that, he’s a lawyer.
Just for that insult, this column is going to be all about Uncle Mark. 100%, USDA approved, unadulterated, you-heard-it-here-first, story of MARK.
My Uncle Mark isn’t really related to me, you see. He’s adopted. That’s what my brilliant Aunt Pat told him in the third grade, and to this day he’s still a little insecure about it. Frequent readers of this column may be wondering if “brilliant Aunt Pat” and “mean Aunt Pat” are one and the same person. They are. After a somewhat non-violent discussion with Pat, the flying pots and pans not withstanding, she has convinced me that “brilliant” is a much better description than “mean.” Nonetheless, sometimes my Aunt Pat will whisper “Little Orphan Marky” at the dinner table on Christmas or Thanksgiving and it makes him get a bunched-up look on his face like he’s going to fling the cranberry sauce onto my aunt. Little Orphan Marky, understand please, is not to be confused with “Marky Mark” who can actually wear his underwear in public. But I digress.
Uncle Mark isn’t adopted of course, although many members of the family wonders where he came from. Tragically, he’s coordinated and athletic. He can fix things and he drives pretty good. Worse, he usually tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth (unless he’s telling a story about Aunt Pat, whereupon he resorts to just plain lying, according to Pat). He shows my cousins death-defying magic tricks using rolled-up napkins and a paper-plates. He can play the guitar and sing Arlo Guthrie songs from the sixties (albeit terribly). I think he may be the only human alive other than Arlo that knows all the lyrics to “Alice’s Restaurant.” Mark loves Andalusia, his mama, his wife, and his two sons–not to mention barbecue, Gant Lake, and Alabama football.
“Why, that sounds like a great guy, Morgan,” you say. Well, that’s what I’ve always thought. Until now. I discovered a dirty little secret of my Uncle Mark’s. I shudder to even put it in print, but of course, if it will help my career to become The Star New’s star columnist, I’ll sell my family down the Tombigbee. Mark recently filed an insurance claim. Yes. For an accident. For a stupid accident that you won’t believe. Apparently, he was embarrassed to tell the insurance company about it, but they requested more information before the claim could be processed, so thus I found the following letter attached to his email. I suppose he accidentally sent it to me.
“I am writing in response to your request for additional information, for block number 3 of the accident reporting form. I put ‘poor planning’ as the cause of my accident. You said in your letter that I should explain more fully and I trust the following detail will be sufficient. I am an amateur sailor and on the day of the accident, I was working alone on the top section of my new sailboat. When I had completed my work, I discovered that I had, over the course of several trips up the 30 foot main mast, brought up about 300 pounds of tools and spare hardware.
Rather than carry the now un-needed tools and material down by hand, I decided to lower the items down in a small barrel by using the pulley attached to the pole at the top of the mast. Securing the rope at the deck level, I went to the top of the mast and loaded the tools and material into the barrel. Then I went back to the deck and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow decent of the 300 pounds of tools.”
“You will note in block number 11 of the accident reporting form that I weigh only 155 pounds. Due to my surprise of being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rather rapid rate of speed up the side of the mast. In the vicinity of the 20 foot level, I met the barrel coming down. This explains my fractured skull and broken collarbone. Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley. Fortunately, by this time, I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold onto the rope in spite of my pain. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of tools hit the deck and the bottom fell out of the barrel.”
“Devoid of the weight of the tools, the barrel now weighed approximately 20 pounds. I refer you again to my weight in block number 11. What goes up, must come down: 4th grade science. Again, at the 20 foot level, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, and the lacerations of my legs and lower body. The encounter with the barrel slowed me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell onto the pile of tools and, fortunately, only three vertebrae were cracked. I am sorry to report, however, that as I lay there on the tools, in pain, unable to stand and watching the empty barrel 30 feet above me, I again lost my presence of mind. I let go of the rope…”
Do you think, Andalusia, I would make this up and libel my own family out of revenge or spite? Next time you see my Uncle Mark on the square, just check for those bruises. And if you don’t see bruises, just ask yourself, “Does he look like 155 lbs.?” You’ll see.
—Morgan Murphy