For many years when I had to wear neckties for work, I joked that the reason I so hated wearing them was that one of my ancestors must have been hanged as a horse thief.
I repeated the joke so often that in addition to boring those close to me I had some people believing it might be true.
At least I began to imagine it might be true.
In recent years I've begun to explore my family history in hopes of finding that thief. There are a number of online resources that helped, as did that fact that a good friend began in middle age to try his hand at genealogy rather than fast cars and fast women. I believe his wife is grateful for that.
Alas, in exploring centuries of my forebears or current relatives I found no horse thieves, and except for a few church elders, barons, and knighted individuals, no real disreputable sorts. Oh, there is one distant cousin who actually inherited the family title who went to prison for fraud and embezzlement. I am also apparently distantly related to Prince Harry, but we avoid talking about that. And there is a direct ancestor who deserted his wife, moved to a different city, and begat children with another woman. I am descended from one of those begats.
On a positive side, one of my ancestors fathered 18 children with two wives (the first one died). That's an accomplishment, but not one that gained him fame.
Still, there's nothing really colorful about those whose blood still trickles through me.
At least not that we know of.
So it's always possible there may be a horse thief hanging somewhere on the family tree. Or maybe some other individuals who had some colorful adventures.
Take Uncle Hugh of Edwinstowe, Nottinghamshire.
Hugh was a baker's apprentice. He was close to completing his apprenticeship, and flirted frequently with a comely maid declaring that when he had his own shop he would marry her. But one day while he was flirting he failed to keep an eye on the oven as his master had left him to do, and the baking breads became burning breads. Hugh rushed in and pulled out the flaming loaves, but didn't pay attention to where they were flying. One flaming loaf landed in a some kindling, which kindled, and soon the kitchen was on fire. Hugh managed to get out in time to see the flames engulf the entire bakery, and to see his master rushing toward the engulfed building. The maser then turned his attention to Hugh.
Hugh soon found himself released from his apprenticeship, and covered with bruises and sporting a black eye,
He also found the comely maid had turned her attentions to a middle-aged widower butcher who had a potbelly and a hair growing out of a wart on his nose, but who had a nice home and a good business.
In the days that followed the penniless Hugh tried to find work somewhere, but no one would hire him given his carelessness and out of fear of offending the still irate baker.
Despondent, Hugh set off down the road hoping for better luck in a new town. The road lead him through Sherwood Forest. Suddenly, several acrobatic men clad in green leaped down from the trees and aimed arrows at him.
One of the green clad, acrobatic men stepped forward, and said, firmly, but with a hint of laughter in his voice, "I am Robin Hood. Your money or your life."
"I have nothing," stammered Hugh.
He told his sad tale, then added, "You might as well take my life."
Robin Hood - at least that's who Hugh claimed to his dying day he had encountered - felt sorry for him and gave him a small bag containing gold. Then the green clad acrobatic men all laughed and disappeared into the woods.
Hugh continued on his way until he came to a tavern. Thirsty and tired, but now with money, he ordered an ale. Then seeing the downtrodden looks of some of the men carefully nursing their drinks, he offered to pay for a round for everyone.
Much levity ensued.
While they were regaling each other with tales and ballads and riddles, two armored official oloking types barged in.
Several of the regalers muttered under their breaths, "Sheriff's men."
Hugh tucked the bag of gold under his armpit.
"There was an attack on tax collectors on the Edwinstowe Road. There's a reward for information."
The men in the tavern said they knew nothing, and assured the sheriff's men that they had all been there all morning.
After the sheriff's men left, Hugh bought another round for everyone.
More levity ensued.
At that point, there was a loud crash and a comely lass came running out from the back room.
"Help. Father is hurt," she yelled.
Hugh, the most sober man of the group, ran into the back room, and saw the tavern owner lying unconscious on the floor covered with debris from fallen shelves.
Hugh moved aside the heaviest items, and pulled the owner out from under the debris. He carried him to a bench in front of the fire in the main room, and held on to him until he awoke and could sit on his own.
The comely daughter smiled warmly at Hugh.
In the coming days, Hugh repaired the fallen shelving in the back room, and helped the comely daughter serve customers while her father recovered.
It was not long before Hugh and the comely daughter wed, and Hugh became the heir to the tavern. With money that mysteriously always seemed to appear when needed he had a kitchen added to the tavern, which became well known for its fine baked goods. They also put on an addition with rooms for travelers to spend the night. He and his comely wife had six children, and they lived long, happy lives together.
The tax money was never found.
And until his dying day, Hugh told the story of meeting Robin Hood.
Then there's the story of Cousin Jacob.
Jacob lived near Concord, Massachusetts, in the mid Nineteenth Century. One hot day he stopped by a local tavern for some cider. He spotted a three men sitting at a table. One of the men looked familiar, so Jacob asked the tavern owner who he was.
"That's Herman Melville. He's with Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry Thoreau."
Melville was lamenting his financial situation and the fact he was experiencing writer's block.
Jacob approached the table.
"Sorry to intrude. Mr. Melville, I just wanted to say enjoyed your book Typee. It was a whale of a tale."
Melville suddenly sat up. A golden gleam came into his eyes.
"Whale," he drawled. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. I must leave gentlemen."
And he rushed out.
Jacob was startled.
Hawthorne smiled.
"Don't worry, friend. He can be like that."
Hawthorne pointed to Jacob's shirt.
"It looks as if you spilled something."
"Ah, yes. I was painting a barn and some of the paint dribbled on me."
Thoreau squinted. "It looks almost like a red letter A."
Hawthorne put down his drink, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he stood up.
"Henry, if you will excuse me." He turned to Jacob, "A pleasure to meet you sir."
And he hurried out of the tavern.
Thoreau shrugged. "Alone. I always did find it wholesome to be alone in the greater part of the time. If you will excuse me, I have a dinner engagement at Emerson's later, and I'd like to take a walk in the woods first."
And he left.
Jacob went back to painting the barn. But years later when he spotted certain books on display he recalled that incident and shared the story with family and friends.
I'm not saying those two family tavern tales are true. But they might be. And there's a long history of questionable stories being repeated so often some people think they are true.
Washington and the cherry tree.
Vikings and the horned helmets.
Marie Antoinette and eating cake.
Mrs. O'Leary's cow.
Joe Biden and, well, there are too many to list
So I'm going to stick by my stories. Maybe my claim to fame among my descendants will be my recording such "true" tales.
In fact, I think do some "research" and add others.
It's better than being known for focusing on fast cars and fast women.
Pax et bonum
