It is October 1^st, the first day of the bestus month of the year.

My wife’s birthday falls in October, our wedding anniversary does too. Leaves will reveal their truer nature in the branches above, the air will grow cool & crisp with each passing day, wood smoke will lace the air as chimneys are once again called into action and pumpkins color the hillside to announce that the only REAL holiday worth the wait is a mere 30 days away. October 1^st is also my dad’s birthday; he would have been 85 years old today. My dad passed away almost 18 years ago and what I especially miss the most about him, was his ability to craft an enjoyable yarn out of truth and bullshit; the true markings of a master story teller.

So for his birthday, I will set here a copy of a story I wrote back in January 2000, which relates to one of his tales that I still enjoy to this day. This piece was part of a short lived email series that I did for family way back before ‘blog’ was even a word (and I know that it is a word now because my spell check did not have a hissy fit when I typed it out). The series was called ‘The Vault’ and I would like to thank my cousin Sue for getting a copy of this to me (it was also written way back before I knew what the work ‘backup’ meant).

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The Vault

 Greetings Clan,

 Boy oh boy, it’s colder than a witch’s thorax outside. Hope you are all keeping warm.

 The next tidbit from the vault has a bit of a good old fashion mystery attached to the subject. The subject is one Gladys Reichley Oliver, who was married to Pop-Pops older brother Winfield. It was, and still is suspected by some that she played a hand in helping to put Winfield into an early grave.

 The story goes something like this:

 Gladys Reichley marries Winfield Oliver and they go off and live in NYC.

 Somewhere into this picture enters another man, who is not only a doctor, but who also likes to play doctor with Gladys.

 Gladys likes to play with the doctor.

 Unfortunately and not so mysteriously, Winfield begins to feel ill and gets worse each day.

 Unfortunately and not so mysteriously, Winfield is being treated by our overly friendly doctor.

 Winfield soon dies.

 Our doctor friend declares Winfield died from something more socially acceptable than poisoning.

 The family suspects he is done in by arsenic and the local mortician tries in vain to get Winfield’s father (Poppy) to have an autopsy done to check for arsenic poisoning.

 Poppy refuses to have an autopsy done stating “It will not bring Winfield back”.

 Gladys arrives at wake with doctor in tow.

 Gladys raises the back of her hand to just above her eyes and grieves mightily at the site of her late husband in the coffin.

 The Doctor is very supportive.

 Those present all agree that it was a great performance, worthy even of the great Katherine Hepburn.

 Winfield is buried.

 **** A nephew witnesses ‘Katherine Hepburn’ toss her wedding ring into the open grave when she thinks no one is looking.

 Family and friends disperse.

 Gladys and her doctor friend disappear into the swirling mists of time (sorry, I couldn’t help myself).

 

 Now, that’s the story as I have heard it for many years and from many different sources with the exception of the part about the nephew and the wedding ring. That part was told to me by my father who claimed to be the very same said nephew. One of the things I loved and miss about my father was the way he could embellish a story like no other could (or would), especially if it dealt with tragic deaths and murders (the waitress being decapitated while walking home late one night along the highway, being one of his favorites). Now while this part of the story will always remain a part of the lore, I’m pretty sure that this is his colorful addition to an otherwise already colorful story. For me, it works.

 So there you have it. Was it just a tragic and untimely death of a young married man (BULLSHIT)

 Or was it a classic case of wife-becomes-cold-blooded-murdering-psychopathic-bitch-monster-from-hell (OH YEAH BABY!!!!)

 I have done some poking around on the internet to see if I could find any trace of our elusive Great (wife-becomes-cold-blooded-murdering-psychopathic-bitch-monster-from-hell) Aunt and her very personal physician, but no luck so far. My wife wants to know why I would even want to bother. What can I say; I am what I am, and I need to know this kind of stuff.

 And since arsenic does not decompose with the body, I guess the truth will remain buried under six feet of Pennsylvania soil (sorry, I couldn’t help myself again).

 Love to all and keep warm

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD