I was the second-born among my brothers, number two in a limited collector’s series of four variations on a theme of Bubba. Our household was about as masculine as your average third century Hun clan.

Even our dogs were guy-dogs. They were terriers with little masculine beards. Life in our domicile was organized around football, pizza, more football, and intra-fraternal pillaging and smiting. It didn't matter whether we were fighting for the front seat of the car or the final pork chop—a whole lot of smiting was going on. One visitor observed that the Middle East seemed like a gated retirement community after a weekend in our house.

Looking back, I'm only amazed that none of us cashed in on the professional wrestling boom. We'd have made a great four-guy tag team if a pork chop were thrown into the ring.

Age, of course, brought certain advantages. Being at the bottom of the birth order, on the other hand--well, that other hand was something you met going and coming. Joe, last of the series, came along nine years after me and eleven after Jim, the firstborn and rightful war chieftain. Joe was on his own from the beginning, though he does tend to embroider his remembrances.

For example, I want to make it as clear as possible, before Joe writes his own book, that Jim and I never put him in the washing machine and to enjoy observing him toss back and forth through the little round window. He adamantly insists, to this very day, that he remembers seeing our two smirking faces going 'round and 'round. The laundry episode never happened; it's only his--well, his spin on things. Besides, he gets the washer and dryer confused. We would never have exploited his fear of the water. So much for airing your dirty laundry in public.

We have to humor Joe a little bit. It's not surprising that he's the most thoroughly deranged of the bunch, which by the way is no small feat. I'm impressed that he survived at all. I'll offer one example of what the poor kid had to encounter on a daily basis.

We were sitting around the family room one evening when I was in high school. Dad was holding court with an amusing account of a radio show he'd heard that day. The local disc jockey’s stock in trade was creating hoaxes and hiring actors to make them convincing. One of these purported to be a spokesman for a movement that wanted to put clothing on all animals to promote decency. "A nude dog is a rude dog" was his call to civic action. Another guest claimed, very credibly and with layers of historical detail, to hail from "one of the first families of Methodist vampires to settle in northern Georgia." It made for amusing radio, and listeners were constantly taking the bait. It was amazing how often the host of the show fooled the same gullible listeners.

On this particular day, the show's guest was proclaiming that "there is No Montana." That alleged state, he explained, is one big government ruse. There is no such place. I know, you've seen pictures of it, but they were all actually taken in South Dakota. Who would know? Have you ever actually known anyone who lived in Montana? (When callers claimed they had indeed, the guest nailed them with, "Did they show you any proof?" Nearly everyone had to admit they'd seen no validation.

We were all having a good laugh over this as Dad shared the highlights. That's when Joe walked through the room, unenlightened as to the topic of our conversation. He was in third grade at the time, and he picked up just enough of the story to become interested. What was this about Montana? "There is no Montana!" Dad replied, smiling.

Sure there was; hadn't Joe studied it in school? He knew the capital and everything.

Dad was about to fill him in about the radio hoax when I jumped in. Why not keep the fun going another three or four minutes? I saw no reason to be wasteful with a perfectly good scam. I'm very frugal when it comes to foolishness. Surely it wouldn't take long for Joe to roll his eyes and call us on this ridiculous story, but why concede?

So I said patiently, "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Joe. I know what they taught you in school. I learned the same falsehoods when I was your age. But now I've come across the honest truth. You see, Montana is strictly a CIA invention. There never was such a place, I'm afraid. Very few of us have gotten to the bottom of this thing." Everyone in the room nodded conspiratorially.

Joe looked around uneasily at the faces. He was right on the cusp of being wise to us. It would take the work of a master to reel him in. And though we're reluctant to brag about this, we were indeed masters of the scam.

I should also mention that we all had poker faces well-seasoned by staring duels. Ever had a staring duel? You look right into someone's eyes and see who starts laughing first. No one ever beat Dad. He was the Grand Master of staring duels. I saw him stare down a statue of a dead state senator one time.

That's why now, when Joe looked around to gauge the reaction of the room to this weirdness, he got nothing but blank looks. Even Mac, the Scottish Terrier, gave Joe a poker face. But then, you could never trust a Scottish Terrier.

"I know it's all confusing," I continued in a comforting way. Joe grimly went for the World Book Encyclopedia, just as I knew he would. Surely, he thought, the World Book Encyclopedia would never lie to him.

"See," he said triumphantly, "Montana! Pictures! A state bird--the Western Meadowlark! The state flower is . . ." He trailed off as he heard us chuckling knowingly and saw us shaking our heads.

"Let me see that, Joe. Gosh, I thought you were sharper than that! Look just a little bit closer and I think you'll see that this terrain is, in fact, South Dakota." I handed him back the encyclopedia, and he put his nose right up to the picture.

"It does look like South Dakota," Joe mumbled. I heard a suppressed snort from somewhere in the room, and shot a warning glance. We'd come too far to giggle away a prize scam.

"Oh, my gosh!" I exclaimed, hoping to divert Joe's attention back in my direction. I snatched the book out of his hands again and pointed to a picture. Joe's eyes were wide.

"Why, this isn't even a Western Meadowlark!" I chortled. "They put in a picture of a Tufted Paisley Thistlethrush! Boy, they're slipping over at The Agency!"

Joe was silent for a moment. His lip trembled a wee bit. "But my teacher . . ." he began desperately.

"Joe, your teacher doesn't have security clearance to tell you the truth. This is a pretty closely held secret we're talking about. You think they're just going to announce a thing like this over the intercom while they're taking up milk money? She's under strict orders. If she tried to tell you the truth, they'd take her out just like--that." Behind me, Steve crunched a potato chip right on cue. It was a nice effect; we worked well together as a team. Joe gulped.

"Finished with your homework?" mumbled Dad, who had lost interest and returned to his newspaper. He was accustomed to this kind of thing, and didn't have too much interest. Now a good staring duel, that would have gotten him going.

Joe finally vanished to his room. The rest of us turned back to the television without giving Montana another thought. It was really just another day at the Fib Factory for us. Not exactly a big deal.

The next day Joe came home from school with an urgent note from Miss Bumpus, his teacher. When would be a convenient time for a parent-teacher conference? The school was quite concerned about Joe and his "grip on reality." Mom and Dad wondered what in the world could be going on.

As it happened, Joe's class had had Show and Tell that day. Joe had enthralled all his classmates with a report on Montana. All the kids were intrigued to hear how the CIA had fabricated the myth of Montana--including planting lies in their textbook, "This Land is Your Land, Young Person!" Everyone thought it was the best Show and Tell they'd had all semester. Intense questioning followed, but Joe had patiently fielded every query.

The teacher, who had aghast and speechless in the corner throughout the whole spectacle, had become particularly exasperated when Joe had fingered her as part of the propaganda channel. The class all turned and looked questioningly at her as Joe said, "I know you can't tell us the real truth, Miss Bumpus. You've given your word. But we wouldn't do a thing in the world to endanger your life."

Even at the principal's office, where a hasty confrontation ensued, Joe would not budge from his position on the "Treasure State." That's when the note was sent home. It must have been quite embarrassing for my parents to straighten the whole thing out with the teacher. "This is just a game our children play," Mom tried to explain.

"Try Candyland!" retorted an angry Miss Bumpus.

Years later Joe moved to Los Angeles--not too surprising now that I come to think of it. It was several thousands miles away from the nearest brother, and a grip on reality isn't essential there anyway. And every year, when he came home for Christmas, he would look out the airplane window to locate Montana--just to be sure.

Enjoy more tales http://www.robsuggs.com, c.2004 By Rob Suggs, All Rights Reserved.

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