| Spearin Surname Project |
Where & When ... Temporal & Geographic Distribution SKELETON IN THE ATTIC Things were quiet for a while. Uncle Distaff became a disciple of the
famous Russian castrator, Ivan Knackanickenemoff and with the
appropriate surgery he was soon able to cycle his bike in the in the orthodox
way and sing in a much higher key. My father pulled out fuses, disconnected plugs and turned off lights
which got him the sack from his job at Air Traffic Control. Then he went
missing. I looked for him in the attic. He wasn't there, just a load of old junk,
a few mummified bodies, some whips and handcuffs, a suit of armour, a medieval
torture rack and a human skeleton manacled to a crossbeam. All relics, I
supposed, of some long-forgotten childhood Halloween. I found him later in the Spotted Dog and I asked him about the items in
the attic. He went pale and began to speak in German. "Ach, ziss iss ze fault
of Fritz, der fugen bollo. I told him to get rid of zatt stuff. Now you will
have to be told the whole story." He staggered home. "Pen and paper," he demanded and by the light of an
old tallow candle he began to write. I tried to look over his shoulder. "Piss off and go to bed," he shouted. I fell asleep but I woke up again after a while and I crept downstairs.
He was sprawled across the table. The candle had burnt out and there were pages
of handwritten script everywhere. I called him and he shot upright, grabbed all
the pages and stuffed them in an envelope. The dawn was breaking. "Come
on," he said, "we have to go. This is how it has to be done." He brought me down to Steamboat Quay where an assortment of marine
crafts lay in the water. "It all started here," he said, "and this is where it has to end." He hopped on board a currach and I jumped in after him. He put the
envelope under one arm and used an oar to push us away from the quayside. The
tide was going out and the wind blew us westwards. The waves were high and
whitecapped as we passed along by Tervoe and as we approached Foynes the rain
pelted down. "Where are we going?" I asked. "It won't be long now," he said. "We're nearly there." We reached that point in the estuary where the river meets the sea. He
stripped down to his waist and thrust the envelope into my hand. "When you
read this you'll understand why I have to leave you now," he said. Then he
jumped overboard. The wind howled, the rain lashed and I could see a swirl of circular
movement ahead of me. It was a whirlpool and I was heading straight towards the
vortex. I knew I was a goner but I had to find out what was in the envelope. I
tore it open and I looked at the first page. My hands were trembling and just
then a sudden gust of wind swept the papers from my grasp. Up and up they
soared high into the sky until they reached a point where they became saturated
and heavy which caused them to fall back again as pieces of soggy pulp,
plopping into the water. As the boat was being sucked into the rim of the whirlpool I cried out
in terror. "fie, fie, cruel tempest, thy fury doth upset the even tenor.
Alas I fear, all is lost." Shakespeare
always had the words to suit occasions. Round and round I went in ever
decreasing circles, faster and faster, sinking all the time. Then I heard my father's voice. "Are you going to get up at all today?" I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. God, what a nightmare, I thought. "Will you come on," he shouted, "we have to go somewhere." "Where to?" I asked. "Steamboat Quay," he answered. "Oh bollocks!" EPILOGUE As like the mystery of our origins, the exact whereabouts of our final
resting-place is unknown. Biographies might argue that it is somewhere between
the coordinances of 10 degrees north and 52 degrees west in global geographic
terms. There have been unconfirmed sightings of my father in Ballybunion
selling perrywinkles. A figure resembling myself has been seen by passengers on
the Tarbert to Killimer ferry. I appear as Neptune, complete with trident and I
guide them away from whirlpools and icebergs. My visage is surrounded by Saint
Elmo's fire. There has been a worldwide upsurge in interest in the Spearins and this
has prompted the establishment of a special body to raise funds in order to
finance further research into the origins
of the name. The Spearin Heritage Information Trust can be found at www.shite.ie. (it's good shite though and
no donations necessary) ADDENDUM Misfortune also befell poor Uncle Distaff.
Whilst on a visit to Siberia he contracted a rare tropical disease, frostbite.
Then he was attacked by a rabid dog and he had to be put down. His body has
been donated to medical science. Per procurationem Joe Spearin, October, 2011
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Last update: Dec 2011
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