My dad was born in Philadelphia to Thomas Francis Wilson, Sr. and Anna May Kelly. I will now discuss the long and treacherous journey the Wilsons made into the new age, and how the implications of this slime-covered trek through the muck still affect our daily lives today.
Thomas Francis Wilson, Sr. and his life are the subject of many mystical and fantastical tales, which are somehow entirely verifiable and true. He was born in 1924 to a blonde-haired WWI Sergeant named George, and an Irish mother named Lelia. He had 4 siblings: George, John, Mary, and Joseph. They were a regular Depression-era Catholic brood if you ever did see one, residing in the riverside town of Bristol, PA. The Wilsons, those being George's siblings and parents, by all accounts were fair-haired and not very nice. They were originally Irish as well, with a history of fathers abandoning their families or otherwise being troublemakers. Great-grandfather George did not intend to be an exception. He ran a small store, which held gambling in the back room. In the cellar at home, George put young Tom to work bottling grain alcohol, or "root beer". George took his wife Lelia on trips into the city to transport this grain alcohol, during the time we know as Prohibition. Yessir, this fella was a bootlegger. Well, it came to be that a wife and five kids was too much for the slick George Wilson. He skipped town, leaving Lelia with the children. After looking to the other Wilsons for help and being roundly turned away, Lelia resolved to leave her kids in the care of Catholic nuns at an orphanage, with the exception of young Mary and Joe. Mary went from one foster home to the next, where she was not treated with much care at all. Joe simply went to a different place before being old enough to go to the parish with George, John, and Tom. Such was the fate of many fatherless children during the Depression.
Tom did not hate the orphanage. Everyone was equal there; black, white, whatever. Your peers were your "chums", in orphan parlance. Of course, Christmas and your birthday were not bountiful in terms of presents. You would receive a washcloth and a toothbrush for Christmas, and, well, nothing for your birthday. Tom had his first birthday cake at age 21. That, he bought himself.
Anyway, Tom made his way through high school, and wasn't quite sure what to do next. His brothers served in WWII, but he was 4-F due to an issue with his ear. He did, however, serve in the PA National Guard. I forgot to mention that Grandfather was tall. For his Nat'l Guard uniform, he had to wear officer beige, as they had no green uniforms in his size. Everyone kept saluting him.
Tom's brother George, upon coming home from the war, went to work for an interesting man named Marcel Viti. Viti was a lawyer, and a professional of the caliber you might only find in the Old Guard. Tom went to work for Viti as an apprentice, and soon became interested in studying law. Marcel Viti convinced him to pursue this, convincing which included paying for his education.
Law school was hard, but Tom persevered and became a practicing attorney. Around then is when he met Anna May Kelly (our Nana). She was an Irish girl, and 12 years his junior. He said to himself, she's too young for me. Time went by, and they started dating anyhow, and got married in 1958.
Nana was born in 1936 to an Irish carpenter named Edward Joseph Kelly Sr., and a German-Irish mother, also named Anna May. She had two siblings: a sister, Kay Kelly, and a brother, Edward Jr. She grew up in Reading, PA, then eventually moved to the city of Philadelphia. She liked to go into the city on an elevated train and visit the corner bakeries and other shops. These are usually termed "the good old days". Edward Sr. grew up in the mountains of Pennsylvania, working in coal mines and rat-infested factories. In his adult years, he was tough and had a short temper. He was known for throwing things in a pure Irish rage. Anna May (the Elder) was an expert seamstress, saintly, and also called Nana in her later days. Anyway, young Anna May was a talker from the very start, and never had trouble finding friends, the wrong type though they may have sometimes been.
So we come to the year 1958. Tom and Anna May are married and live in Philadelphia together. In typical "Baby Boomer" fashion, they proceed to have five kids and move to Villanova, a nice little residential area off the Main Line. My dad was one of these youth, and he had four siblings: Tom Jr., Brian Marcel, Anna May (III), and Jane Marie.
Tom Jr. was a skinny and nerdy youth with asthma. In school, he was a tuba player (with asthma), and bullied quite a lot. After high school, he developed the acting bug and went to school for theater. Then, he started doing stand-up comedy. Then, he was in a number of notable films, including the entire Back to the Future series. Then, he was in Spongebob. Anyways, you can just read his Wikipedia page for his other credits. Today, he visits about once a year with his blonde Californian wife & four, blonde Californian children by his side. They are named Anna May, Emily, Gracie, and Tommy (III). Uncle Tom and I speak with deep voices about deep stuff, then we laugh and joke around. Then, he goes home and paints big paintings.
Brian Marcel is the tallest Wilson child. As a youth, he played lots of lacrosse. He married once, had a daughter named Kelly, then got divorced. Brian is a frugal and shrewd gentleman (and thrifty), always looking for crafty ways of making his life easier and more efficient. He was also one of the "fun" Uncles during childhood, who drove you around or took you to the Zoo. Today, he's a part-time lacrosse coach who takes care of our Nana.
Anna May is the tallest Wilson daughter, and third Anna May in a row. As a teenager she sang in rock bands, and was compared to Anne Wilson from Heart. I mean, they have the same name and both sing in rock bands. She married Paul, and had a son, Paul. Paul Sr. proved to be emotionally and physically distant as a father, so Anna May left him after a short marriage. She later married Uncle Chris(py), an outdoorsman and deranged chaser of fun. They had Danielle and Benjamin. Danielle is the same age as me and goes to the same school that I do. In this way, we are cousin-counterparts. I'm better. I always have and always will be.
(skipping dad for a minute)
Jane Marie is the shortest Wilson daughter. Jane was a professional singer for some time, starting in college. She's got a big voice. She has an iron resolve and commanding personality (the good kind), brought about from her essentially taking care of her parents (and grandparents) in just her teen years. "Aunt Janie" also works at Microsoft, and will crush you.
So, we come to G. L. Zippy O'Rourke O'Shoughnassy Wilson.
PAPPY
My dad, Geoffrey Lawrence Wilson, is a Great American.
Geoffrey was the Odd Child. He was scrawny, with dark (nearly black) hair in big, dopey curls. He jumped off roofs, hit his head multiple times, and cultivated a gap in his front teeth which would be forever his greatest physical distinction. That, and his type I diabetes. Yes, at an early age Geoffrey was diagnosed with diabetes, and was from thenceforth powered by insulin and controlled, in part, by sugar and his intake of it. It is a terrifically inconvenient disease, one that draws much water in the conception I have of my father, yet one that holds no water in my father's conception of himself, life, fate, or truth. This is not borne (entirely) from eternal wisdom, this clear-eyed optimism and iron resolve. Nor is it borne from oppressive and visceral experience, like a nascent star is formed from spinning clouds. Nay, my father's will to endure, my father's survival against all odds, my father's steel-plated spiritual armor comes from one thing: his shining, golden, relentless sense of humor. My father is a natural comedian. He's a dork, a goofball, a barrel of monkeys; a barrel of monkeys with no bottom. He's humorous to a fault. In fact, some people just don't get him. Many people (government workers, etc.) simply ignore his attempts at comedy. But no one likes government workers anyway.
Anyway, let's get back to Geoffrey's timeline, soda speak.
Geoffrey got in many fights at school, seemingly at the drop of a hat. Once, he broke a kid's nose. He had it coming, of course. My father is no bully. Anyways the fighting got to be a bit of a problem, but come high school Geoffrey straightened out and flew right. Only thing is, he stopped going. He stayed up all night, slept in, and was late pretty much every day. The towering diplomat, Grandfather Tom, stepped in, and brokered a deal with the school which gave Geoffrey a chance to go to school at night and get his diploma. Geoffrey did well at night school and bade the academic system a fond farewell.
Misfortune seemed to strike the Villanova Wilsons with one thing after another, resulting in what has been referred to as the "Fall of Saigon". One day, while driving home from a Temple football game (Grandfather's alma mater), the Wilson boys got into a minor accident. However minor the accident was, Grandfather sustained a knee injury when it smashed into the dashboard. This was score one, mortality's first notification, the first strike against Grandfather Tom.
The knee injury took away Grandfather's ability to walk properly. While in the hospital, a doctor (who shall remain nameless, if only because I do not know his name) decided that he was suffering from an overactive pituitary gland, citing his large, nay, gigantic hands. Much to Grandfather's chagrin, the medical powers that be zapped his brain with gamma rays to destroy the pesky gland. Grandfather often complained of never being able to think straight after that. In an apparent attempt at further humiliation (or apologetic levity), the radiation procedures left a perfectly square bald spot on the top of his head, among the "shock of white hair" he maintained in his later years.
At the height of Grandfather's various illnesses, a choice few of his business partners abandoned investments and left him penniless, despite Grandfather's Marcel Viti-esque professionalism and the financial help he seemed to grant everyone around him. He could no longer work as an attorney to pay the bills. The Wilsons had to leave their Villanova home, and during this tumultuous process, a choice few family members took more than their fair share of Grandfather's belongings, in the stated/requested interest of lightening the load. Doubtless among these plundered treasures were some of Marcel Viti's artifacts and antiques, left to Tom at the occasion of his death. These glorious, dusty vessels and paintings still haunt, or grace, the halls, storage rooms, and attics of the Wilsons, like stolen and incredulous yet silent monuments from an Egyptian tomb.
Following Tom's lead, Brian and Geoffrey drove west to California, the hot and arid coastal land of Hollywood, gang violence, and free homosexuality. Jane, the youngest child, was left to head the Wilson ship. She was fine with that and never resented the Wilson boys at all. It was a somewhat naive but necessary venture for the Wilson boys (now big & tall men) to follow, yet one which opened my dad up to the world of neon shorts.
My dad lived in California in the mid-1980s. I can only guess at what kind of world this was, but my vision includes lots of cocaine, Hispanic people, and racial hatred. It was a fun, easygoing time in America though, and I'm sure overall it was a pleasant environment to be around. Ahem. So, the three Wilson boys gallivanted a bunch and worked at many, many bars and restaurants as bouncers, bartenders, and food prep guys. My dad met countless celebrities, and even bunked with a few. These included Howie Mendel, Andrew Dice Clay, and Blake Clark, renowned player of every unintelligible Southern man in a comedy ever. I don't know. It was the '80s.
Geoffrey returned yet again to a place called home, and sort of hung around like the curly-haired dope he was. He eventually met my mom through the spunky, youthful game of volleyball, facilitated by the local church and single moms' club, where my mom and Anna May Wilson became friends. I won't do too much stuff about my parents meeting each other, it gets a little soapy. The Matzik children were shocked to see a new and often annoying man in their life, but eventually grew used to him. Geoffrey would be forever named "Mr. Zip" by the Matzik children, upon reading his Pizza Hut name tag, which read, "ZIPPY". I guess this was because my dad was full of energy and always zipping around and stuff. Either way, it's better than "Step-Dad". Step-Dad, can I borrow the car? Step-Dad, will you buy me that RC car?
Mom & Dad married in 1994, and bought a lil' blue house in Phoenixville, PA, with the help of some very wealthy distant relatives & family friends, particularly the late Great-Uncle Abe and Olga Kralovec, a client of Grandpa Wilson with a cool Slavic name. These being two folks who kicked the bucket and left a large sum to any and all living descendants or friends. I don't mean to deal with this subject so lightly; these two wealthy benefactors basically ensured that I had a place to live for my first 18 years of life. Such a thing like that should not ever escape your mind, nor has it mine. There's a spirit of commemoration to this Bildungsroman, in that I wish to get these names, biographies, and events down on paper (ha) while I still can and keep these people alive.
Ah, Phoenixville. A thriving steel town filled with promise (and ethnic factory workers), once heralded as a war machine for the Union, was by the 1980s a hub of prostitution, alcoholism, and drug use. Why raise me here, you ask? Tales are told that family pioneers Aunt Sue and Uncle Joe moved there and blazed the trail for the Geist family. After Sue and Joe came the grandparents. Then, a few Aunts & Uncles moved there. Soon, it became a regular hub of Wilson and Geist kinfolk. You see, it was a time of renewal, the 1990s. The Baby Boomers were having kids of their own. The untold violence of the early '90s was over, and people could finally settle down and have little babies without having them being stolen and sold for their organs. It was a delightful time to be born. Although, it would seem that toys went downhill after the '80s. Maybe it was a Japanese-American trade agreement or something.
Anyway, this leads me to my birth and my subsequent revenge on those who had betrayed me in my Shirley MacLaine past lives as an elephant, cicada, and baby alligator. The circumstances of my creation are still being investigated by anthropologists around the globe, but I'll tell you what I know to be true.
