Ya don’t tell a Hughes they can’t do something

—Or perhaps I should say “ya don’t tell a Connor they can’t do something.”
My mother’s maiden-name was “Connor.” Disregarding her strident claims her ancestors were on the Mayflower, and she was related to Betsy Ross and Daniel Boone……
(No relatives on the Mayflower’s manifest, distant relation to Betsy Ross, and related to “Boon” not “Boone.”)
The Connors were Irish — my father was English; Welsh actually. The Welsh go ballistic if I say Welsh is English.
My classical music radio station, WXXI-FM, has a “Festival of Wales.” Every time they promote it I think of Moby Dick.
The Connors were convinced they could do anything.
All my younger siblings graduated LeTourneau University in Texas. It was founded by R.G. LeTourneau of tree-crusher fame. He was a devout Christian, and convinced he could do anything.
“Ain’t nuthin’ ya can’t do with the faith of a mustard-seed, and a tanker-load a’ diesel.”
My mother’s oldest brother was a civil engineer involved in many projects. Subways in Philadelphia, gutters and curbing in our south Jersey suburb, etc.
“He built that entire Ben Franklin Bridge single-handed with only a toothpick!”
That’s an exaggeration, of course.
What is now Ben Franklin Bridge is a gigantic suspension-bridge across the Delaware River between Philadelphia and Camden in south Jersey. It opened in 1926, and many died building it. (It was originally named the “Delaware River Bridge.”)
That oldest brother, an uncle, also loudly claimed he invented the submarine sandwich: “But them greasy EYE-talians ruined it substituting ‘maters for the cucumbers.”
He also claimed he was the world’s largest leprechaun. He was tall, and marched in St. Patrick’s Day parades. He had full Irish regalia.
During the ‘60s one of my mother’s sisters was committed to an insane-asylum. The family met at that oldest brother’s home to decide what to do with that sister’s children. Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth until that uncle pounded the kitchen-table with a pot.
You wanna know why Yrs Trly has so many wild memories?
There’s yer answer, readers. How can I forget?
So here I am sitting on a futon on my (our) porch to change shoes. I’m about 16 inches off the floor, knees in my face.
This is just like my hairdresser’s sofa, where I never can get up without help.
I tried to stand no hands. That’s a leg-lift of about two feet.
KEE-RASH! = fallback number one. (I’m age-76.)
Try again; I rarely get to try again at my hairdresser. He’s waiting.
KEE-RASH! = fallback number two.
I should be able to do it. I been doing sit-stand exercises prescribed by my hospital physical-therapy, and I’m better at it.
Four more tries: kee-rash each time.
Just a matter of getting my torso-weight over my legs.
Finally, on the seventh try: SUCCESS!
“Nobody tells a Hughes he can’t do it!” I said to myself.
26 years ago Yrs Trly had a stroke. It was caused by a heart-defect long ago repaired.
During post-stroke rehab a cute young therapist advised I set goals for myself.
“I’d like to go back to riding my motorcycle.”
“Your motorcycle days are over!” she guffawed.
“Baloney!” I thought to myself. “Nobody tells that to a Hughes.” (Connor?)
And I did go back to riding motorcycle, which my stroke-rehabbers thought miraculous.

• Yrs Trly can take credit for “He built that entire Ben Franklin Bridge single-handed with only a toothpick!” The one who dreamed that up was me.