My family is a bunch of liars.  I blame my grandfather.  He was fond of saying that we should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.  Many of us took this advice to heart, so not only are our memories painted through our individual perspectives, they are also embellished with our personal creativity.  Trying to ferret out the truth behind my life stories has been further impeded by the passing of my father and my mother’s failing memory.  At nearly 88 years old, she has earned the right to forget a few things. 

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Debating family folklore has been a happy hour tradition on the decks of our Torch Lake cottages for generations.  The story I share here is my best recollection of how the events of my life unfolded, so for the cousins and other family members who care to challenge the verity of this tale, I encourage you to write your own rebuttal, and present it on the deck at happy hour for our consideration.

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