My Family in Comic Books
Me in Comic Books:
My Family in Comic Books
It's probably worth saying something about myself and my relatives in this fiction...
which may or may not differ from my relatives in real life. But first, there's...
Me, Wyatt Patrick Ferguson. I am part British, part German, part Irish, and one sixteenth Mashantucket Pequot Indian. Yeah, the kind of Indian that owns casinos. 1/16th share of my ancestry is enough for them to consider me part of their tribe. (Boy, they must be desperate for recruits.) And they spread the wealth, as far as me. I'm relatively well off, enough so that I can spend time writing when I should be looking for contracting jobs.
- Speaking of which, I'm really not much of a writer or a reader. I think most books would be much more fun if I could read them in ten minutes. So, that's the way I try to write my records. But this seems to fit nicely with modern-day short attention spans.
- Amazingly, I actually get paid for travel writing on occasion, on the "Encyclopedia Galactica" web site.
- But I still take work assignments to write software, because freelance writing doesn't pay much.
- Physically, I'm thrilled to be six feet tall... when I wear high-heeled biker boots. I'm also thrilled to be physically fit... when I'm not on the verge of a heart attack.
- Back in 1988 I used to be a tough-ass martial artist, until I was diagnosed with that heart murmur.
- After that, I exercised just to stave off collapse... until I took drastic treatment to strengthen my heart.
- But now, I've got arthritis. And scoliosis. And diverticulosis. Growing old sucks. But doctors still say I'm healthy.
- Mentally, I'm a loner. Years ago I swore off things which interfere with nine hours of sleep a night. No alarm clocks; no phones; no loud neighbors; especially no children. Also, no long term leases, and no long term girlfriends. People tell me I'm afraid of commitment. They're right. But I get around a lot, and I see lots of stuff.
My big brother, Calvin Luthor Ferguson. Among my ancestors, the eldest son is always named Calvin. Don't ask me why, but there's another bloodline that did this too, including U.S. President Calvin Coolidge. In my bloodline, my brother got the privilege, and all the attention that goes with it. And he never stops reminding me.
- He's taller than me, too. He's six foot tall for real, and an Army-trained warrior force of one to boot. He did the full twenty years there, which is at least 19.99 more years than I'd ever tolerate.
- Since he's older than me, he's always been bigger than me. Which was no help to me when we were little. He'd beat me up regularly, not because he hated me. No, he just wanted a sparring partner.
- Still, it's fun to see how he's grown up. Now he's a company vice-president, looks like a senior professor, and has a lovely wife and two children. And he's happy, which doesn't necessarily follow from the other stuff. Good for him. Now, if only he'd stop tormenting me...
My little sister, Lauren Katherine Ferguson. When I was young, a man was ranting about Indians in a Texas courtroom. So my sister insisted on going down to the local jail and having herself arrested, if being part Indian was all that bad. That's my sister: impractical, but morally superior to the end.
- She's the kind of person who can't just buy a Christmas present, it has to be the perfect present. Also, she can't just go to church, she has to be a preacher. "Obsessive-compulsive" might be a cruel phrase for her, but I think it's accurate.
- She's not a vice-president, she's divorced, her children developed their own behavior abnormalities, and she's been through great times of unhappiness. But she's found a new husband so she's happier. The kids have left home, so they're happier too. Don't tell her I said this, but (aside from the new husband) it makes her more like...
My mom, Elizabeth Barbara Ferguson. She's dead now. But she still keeps coming back to bedevil me. Death tends not to be a Final Barrier around me; it's more like an air conditioner that can't quite filter out those outside smells.
- Mom was never particularly evil, and I was never particularly bad, but we still never got along. We just seriously liked different things, and she never understood why. I'd be watching the national news, and she'd break in to try to get me to watch the dog drool on the carpet.
- Mom was also never particularly happy, especially for someone who likes cute things so much. And let's face it, all children stop being cute eventually, so it was pretty obvious to me and all my siblings at one time or another that we'd stopped making our mommy happy. Mom's the one who convinced me that the desire not to have children is hereditary.
- Still, having raised us, she could never let us go. My siblings and I all moved across state lines, as far and as fast as we could, to get out of her neighborhood. But she'd still act all hurt when we couldn't just show up for the weekend.
- She smoked, just like Dad. She died of cancer, just like Dad. I can't say life isn't fair.
- But having died, she still couldn't let us go. And her timing always sucked. I was actually fleeing killer robots the first time I had to deal with her ghost. She promised she'd stop after that, but she keeps finding excuses to drop in. Some things never change.
My dad, Calvin Merle Ferguson. He's presumed dead. But he rose out of the coffin after he died. He says that males of his bloodline can enter into a healing coma after their first mortal injury. But not their second. I hope he's finally given up cigarettes.
- By the way, his power works for me too. Or it did, once. I had to cash in on that power in 1995, when I got caught in the big tidal wave in New Jersey.
- After Dad rose, he did the right thing and went back to say Hi to Mom. Mom, however, was having none of this resurrection crap out of him. She told him to go away, if he had to fake six months of cancer just to get away from her, or try to make her believe that death wasn't real, or whatever.
- I never did get a good story about that particular argument between them. Hey, why should that be different from all their other arguments.
- Anyway, Dad's departed for parts unknown. He told me he was going to Hebron, Labrador. But I don't know if he was serious, since Hebron is uninhabited. Supposedly.
My grandpa, Calvin Fremont Ferguson. He's still alive, and out there somewhere. In fact, his birth certificate says he's been alive since before the American Civil War. I don't really believe it... but the Mashantucket Pequot Indians do.
Me in Comic Books:
- According to them, Grandpa was born quarter-Indian... in New England, where the last full-blooded Indian married a white man in 1845, according to town records where I live.
- That means the very last half-blood was born in roughly 1875, and the last quarter-blood in 1905. (No wonder the tribe lowered its admission standards; otherwise, nobody would qualify for their tribe.)
- The point is, I guess Grandpa is old, if he's a New England quarter-blood. Maybe he's the very last of the quarter-bloods... but maybe I'm missing something. Because I know...
- Dad was born in 1928. He and Grandpa both went to fight in World War II. Grandpa was in North Africa and Italy. Dad learned Japanese just in case the U.S. Army needed 17-year-old translators with the invading army in Japan.
- My point is, Grandpa may have been a really late quarterblood, but he and his brood got a lot of vigor from somewhere.
- Grandpa has, from all appearances, had a full life. And his stories sound like he wasn't born in 1905.
- For one thing, he says he was running across Amazons at the turn of the century. In fact, he blamed women's suffrage on them.
- He's also done his share of treasure hunting. He blames World War I on one of his artifacts. (Grandpa may be a bit paranoid.)
- I only met Grandpa long enough for him to give me a copy of his birth certificate, about the same time the Mashantucket Pequots built their casino. I guess I owe him for my relative wealth. Thanks, Grandpa, I suppose. I never asked for it, but it ill behooves me to whine about it now that I have it.