The restaurant that my wife and I patronize almost exclusively is called Basilico, which of course is the Italian word for basil. Basilico was founded by two Italian immigrants who came here from Imperia, Italy in the mid 1980s. They worked for another Italian until they could establish their own place which has now gone on for about 12 or 13 years. The owners are gregarious fellows who tell some tall tales. Mario de Marco is one owner. When I called him this morning to inquire about the seating capacity of his restaurant and compliment him on the dinner we had there yesterday, he said that he was hoping that I was calling him from the hospital where I was laid up with food poisoning. Mario proposed that, in that case, I would sue him and that we would split the benefits flowing from the lawsuit. Being mindful of the Scooter Libby trial, I could only tell the truth, which is to say that we had a wonderful dinner. In the first days of my blindness, Mario is the same person who offered me some coffee or tea while we were waiting for a take-out order. When I declined his offer, Mario proposed that maybe I would like to watch a little television instead. I told Mario that because of his cheekiness, I would look into having his immigration papers cancelled.
His partner is Angelo del Becci, another immigrant from Imperia, Italy. Angelo has been known to stretch the truth from time to time. At the dinner last night, I introduced Angelo to our broker as the former owner and operator of the Legurian Sea. Angelo did not confirm or deny that introduction, so my broker went away under the impression that he had talked to a major maritime power.
Mario and Angelo laugh and joke their way through the seventeen-hour workdays that are the lot of restaurant owners. They are happy people and their patrons seem to sense that quality in them. If there is a moral in the Basilico story, it is that tall tales and story telling make life much more enjoyable and, for all I know, those tall tales and story telling might even prolong a good many lives. I have been involved in exaggerating the truth for more than 80 years, which is a strong endorsement of that philosophy.
This essay is about people who tell tall tales and also about story telling. My conclusion is that the people who engage in those activities may well enjoy life more and that they may live a little longer. Over the years I have told my daughters outrageous stories and they seem to have suffered no permanent damage from those tales. When Maureen, the first daughter, was growing up, I told her that I had found her at a fish market on the tray with the lobsters and the clams and the oysters. Actually, Maureen came into my life through the courtesy of the Illinois Children’s Home and Aid Society. But that is a straight story and even to this day, 53 years later, Maureen will probably tell you that her father discovered her at a Chicago fish market. No harm done.
A second story has to do with the beak of a pelican. I claim to have invented the thought that “the pelican’s beak can hold more than his belly can.” Shortly thereafter, one of my daughters was reading a children’s magazine and ran across the same expression. Obviously, I had to claim that the magazine had to have gotten that story from me as I never read children’s magazines. The girls did not believe me! However, those two disbelievers passed that story on to their children. So you see, my kids are addicted to tall tales and story telling as well.
When one of Maureen’s sons asked why we ate lobster instead of turkey on Thanksgiving Day, a story was invented. It held that cranberry trees grow to the edge of the ocean. When cranberry harvest time comes, the lobsters know about it in advance and crawl from the water to shake the trees so that the fruit will fall down. The best cranberries grow near the tops of the trees so the lobsters attempt to climb the cranberry trees. They have no pockets to put the cranberries in, so they eat them as they go and, as a result, they become top heavy and fall over backwards and hit the ground, breaking their necks. William, the son, seemed to agree that was a proper story but my friend in Sweden, Sven Lernevall, expressed great doubt.
I had expected Sven to endorse my story because I firmly believe that he is among Europe’s most active story tellers. For example, a few years back when the Russian Navy was found to have invaded the harbor at Stockholm, Sven treated it as a hilarious matter. Now when I send Sven a letter, I usually tell him that it has the blessings of the Russian admiral commanding the submarines in the harbor of Stockholm.
Then there is Jack, the youngest son of my daughter Suzanne. A few years ago, when Jack was visiting us, he saw a chipmunk outside the porch. Instantly, Jack named the chipmunk Nick, which was the name of one of his schoolmates. For all the years since that occasion, I have written Jack occasional letters from Nick describing his life underground. According to the letters, Nick has become romantically involved with a bluebird. Jack has shown those letters to his brother Kevin, who has inquired as to when the nuptials will take place. There may not be any nuptials in view of the fact that the bluebird will feed Nick only worms and seeds. Nick has an underground apartment near our bird feeder and it may be a bit of a problem getting the bluebird into the marital apartment to enjoy her marriage to Nick, the chipmunk. So you see that the fellow who tells the story gets as much satisfaction from it as the child it is aimed at.
Now, to shift gears for a moment, I will observe that I worked for the Bell System for an extended period of years. As a general proposition, the Bell System hires engineers, mainly electrical engineers. Those folks place a high premium on such things as Ohms’ Law and humor is a scant commodity in the telephone business. It may be that people who smile and joke a little are suspect, but I will tell you about one fellow, an engineer, who seemed to break the mold. His name was Beverly Swango. No one called him Beverly. They called him Bevo.
In 1950 and again in 1951, I was a representative of the union who bargained with AT&T executives. One of those spokesmen for the company was Bevo Swango. In those days, the representatives for the AT&T company were serious-minded people who gave no hint of any humor at all in their conduct. To find Bevo on the company’s team was refreshing.
On one occasion I made a presentation for the union that should have been a slam dunk for the company to concede. But the powers that be on the 26th floor of 32 Sixth Avenue in New York had ordained that the company would oppose the proposal that I had put forward. As it turned out, my main antagonist was Bevo Swango, answering on behalf of AT&T. Bevo had no compelling arguments but he was forced to defend the indefensible. And he did it with great skill. After an hour or so of this colloquy, I stopped the debate and turned to the union chairman, Carl Peters. In a reasonably loud voice, I told him that the company in the person of Mr. Swango was “beating me to death with foot work.” The company representatives were sitting on the other side of the table, but I asked them to pay no attention as I was addressing my remarks to my chairman. Obviously, they followed every word I said.
I told Carl Peters that Mr. Swango was beating me to death, and when I had him cornered, he slipped under my arms and began verbally beating me on the back of the head. I told Pete, with the company listening of course, that this reminded me of a quotation from a Senator from North Carolinia. Bevo Swango would have known this Senator, who was called McDermott, I believe, because Bevo came from that part of the country. With the company listening, I told Pete that bargaining with Bevo Swango reminded me of a recent remark on the floor of the U. S. Senate from that Senator. In a similar situation, this senator said that the proposition at hand was like “a mackerel in the moonlight. It shines and stinks.” To clean it up for the delicate ears of the AT&T representative, I said that it smelled rather than stunk. When Bevo Swango overheard that remark, he simply laughed out loud and hit the table and said, “That is a good one.”
As a teller of tall tales and story telling, Bevo Swango could hold his own with the best of them. Later he asked me whether I would have any objection to his using that line in speeches that he would make in the future. I told him, “Please, be my guest.” I suppose the rest of the company bargaining committee took no umbrage at what I said, because when the bargaining was finished, the company promoted me to a management position. Four years later, I was sitting at the same table on the opposite side, representing AT&T, bargaining with the union. For my former comrades on the union side of the table, I tried to make it clear that I still believed that a little bit of humor would go a long way.
Calvin Tuggle is another one of the former AT&T executives who broke the mold. For all of the more than thirty years I have known Cal, he has enjoyed telling outrageous tales. There was an occasion when, with my family, I was attempting to drive from Orlando, Florida to Richmond, Virginia. I started shortly after midnight and was within a few miles of leaving the state of Florida when a local trooper stopped me, at two in the morning, for my alleged speeding. The New Jersey plates on my car told him that I was a Yankee and he decided to impose justice on the spot. He said that if I wanted to hang around with my family until nine or ten o’clock in the morning, the judge at Yulee, Florida would come to work and would fine me $50. To save me this delay in my travel plans, the officer said he would take my $50 and give it to the judge that morning, and that I could be on my way to New Jersey. What Cal Tuggle knew was that the police around Yulee were famous for traffic stops. Yulee is within a few miles of Cal’s home town. For the better part of 35 years or thereabouts, Cal Tuggle has wanted to know why I didn’t go before the judge and demand justice.
There was another occasion when Cal Tuggle, Howard Pappert , and I were in Kuwait City, Kuwait. At that time, condemned prisoners were beheaded by the Kuwaiti authorities. These beheadings occurred in a central plaza in downtown Kuwait City. When we arrived in that city, there was confusion in getting to our hotel because of the crowds coming to watch the execution. Of course we did not witness the execution, but according to the English language Kuwait City News, the condemned prisoner asked to be read several verses from the Koran. Then he asked to be read several more verses from the Koran, until it became apparent that the prisoner was trying to avoid the inevitable. When the deed was done, Cal Tuggle contended that the report of the execution was carried in the sports section of the Kuwait City News. The fact is that the story started on page one and, because of the delays caused by the prisoner, the story went on and on and finally ended on one of the back pages of the paper. There was a story of a football game on that page which made it plausible for Mr. Tuggle to contend that the execution was reported in the sports pages.
Over the years, Cal Tuggle has gotten no better. I believe that he maintains a summer home in the northwest suburbs of Yulee, Florida, and that his winter home is in the southern suburbs of that great international city. He may deny this but I know this for a fact. Otherwise, I would lose my standing as a teller of tall stories.
It is probably true that tellers of tall tales and story tellers are not entirely meritorious. But, on balance, if I had my life to live over, I would want to be acquainted with men of humor or women of humor who stretched the truth now and then. I can’t imagine going through a humorless life. Such a life might not be worth living as far as I am concerned. Story telling and tall tales have a special place in humor. Moreover, I am firmly convinced that people who indulge in such humor may enjoy a longer life. So bring on the Cal Tuggles, the Bevo Swangos, and the Sven Lernevalls who have made my life more enjoyable.
I leave it for my readers to decide whether laughter prolongs life. While my readers are considering this proposition, I am going to call a lawyer to bring suit against the owners of Basilico so that after a successful suit the profits may be shared with Mario and Angelo. I will distribute the award: $50,000 for Angelo, $50,000 for old Edgar, $50,000 for Mario, and $50,000 for this old essayist. My children have always complained that my method of distribution of one for you and one for me and one for some other guy and one for me violates the rules of arithmetic. But I am not much of a mathematician and I will take my loot cheerfully and humorously to my checking account.
E. E. CARR
March 12, 2007
Essay 241
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Kevin’s commentary: Jen read the last paragraph of this essay and immediately remarked “well that’s how he lived so long.” I’m inclined to absolutely agree. To me, Pop’s defining characteristics are his intelligence and his sense of humor, vulgar as it may be. Both of these he imparted onto his daughters, and ideally some of that has trickled down to me.
Spooky Suze, for instance, raised her children on an assortment of random decrees. One could not exit a tunnel without saying “ibbidy wibbidy yib yib yib” If one did not say such a phrase the tunnel would go on forever. Cartoons only aired on Sunday mornings in Dallas Texas (my father’s family lives there) and nowhere else. Etc etc.
Incidentally, any updates on Nick’s whereabouts and daily goings-on would be much appreciated by my younger brother, who absolutely still remembers him.