I’ve met very few people with my last name. One was Walt Parham, an “older” Wilson Elks clubber. Walt asked Margaret and me to his Christmas party. There was one difference we realized, arriving at he and Polly’s home: These Parham’s had some money.
Walt was dressed in Xmas attire. Coat and holly berry tie. Red suspenders. The works. The “gentlemen”, including a minister, were invited into Walt’s den. It housed a few barrels of fine whiskey. We had a several samples.
The maid called fifteen or so to the dining room. Fine crystal, silverware, chandelier beaming.
During dinner the minister’s wife totally dominated the conversation, with some bull about a piece of land they’d bought. On and on.
Why me? But Walt asked “Cousin Tom,…do you know how a Pollock pulls up his sox?”
Had I a response, I could not have gotten it out, for wife Polly instructed, “Walt you can’t tell that joke.”
Obliging Walt attempted to change the subject. To no avail. Back came the minister’s wife with more about “the land.” Moments late: “Tommy, know how a Pollock pulls up his sox?” Polly, sternly, “Walt, No!”
By the time the wife started a third time, Margaret had had a couple of cham- pagnes. “Tommy do you….”
Before Polly could slug Walt, Margaret said, “Tell us how, Walt!”
Whereupon Mr. Walt Parham, stood back of his seat, dropped his trousers (revealing Christmas underwear that matched his tie), and pulled up his sox inside his lowered pants. He pulled up his pants, hitched up his belt and said firmly, “I don’t want to hear anymore about that land.”
Blood kin.

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