It is a fairly well established truism that history is written by the victor. And so our story begins:
Ulysses, a Greek hero of the Trojan war, had learned from the goddess Circe of an island populated by beautiful women known as Sirens, who sung in irresistible voices, seducing sailors with promises of love and fortune while in fact they were luring them to their doom. Any sailors who were lured to the island by the Sirens were actually lured to their death. Ultimately they were eaten by the Sirens, their bones used to make musical instruments. Determined to hear the voices of the Sirens, Ulysses ordered his men to tie him securely to the mast of his galley, to plug their ears with bees wax and ignore any of his orders as they rowed the galley past the island of the Sirens. All obeyed. The galley was rowed safely past the island of the Sirens; the sailors with their ears plugged with beeswax, and Ulysses struggling fiercely against the leather bindings that secured him tightly to the mast.
Well, all but one obeyed. You know – there’s always that ONE guy. Buried in the footnotes of the ancient manuscripts we find the story of an oarsman on Ulysses’ galley that went by the name of Patrick Apollopolis. Now, Patrick was as keen on hearing the Siren voices as was Ulysses. He had also, as a Seaman 3rd class, grown weary of yanking on his 20 foot long oar and the endlessly monotonous cycle of men groaning out o –e-o. E-O. o-e-o. E-O and the occasional rendition of “Row, row, row your boat.” Let’s be honest, Life is anything BUT a dream for an oarsman on an ancient Greek galley returning from the Trojan war. Anyway, with Ulysses securely strapped to the mast, the crew, wax in ears, returned to their respective oars and proceeded to row past the island of the Sirens. O-e –o –E-O… Patrick, however, before taking his place had pulled the wax just a wee bit from his ears so he too could hear the seductive voices of the Sirens and perhaps witness other feminine features known to appeal to sailors in foreign ports. As the galley drew near to the island and the Siren voices grew ever more sweet and seductive, Patrick leapt from his seat, peered over the railing and shouted: “Oy, mates, get dewax outchee ers! Thar be women out thar. Alma gyna get me ah maiden.” And overboard he went.
Now, Patrick was a determined young sailor but not particularly knowledgeable about currents and tides. He had jumped into an outgoing tide and before long he was beyond sight of the island and galley, beyond the sound of the Sirens, struggling to stay afloat and calling in vain for help. Luck was on his side. His desperate cries were heard by a passing mermaid who came to his rescue. Mermaids, being precursors to modern SCUBA gear, she sealed her lips against his, dove beneath the waves and began to swim in a gently undulating manner for what seemed days, in a more or less westerly direction. All the while Patrick, in a paralytic daze, was experiencing what might be called an early version of shock and awe. Eventually emerging from his days’-long daze, Patrick found himself clinging to a log, clunking against the rocky shore of an unfamiliar land in the shape of a boot. How much time had passed he could not actually tell. Days? Years? Centuries? It was all very strange. Rising slowly from what should have been his watery grave, Patrick stumbled forward to a large, warm, flat rock, and lay on this Adriatic coast soaking in the fresh air while the warm Mediterranean sun dried his tattered clothing to an itchy crisp. Not having much choice in the matter, and with the delicious aromas wafting from the local shore-front eateries, Patrick determined to make this strange land his new home. Being an adaptable, industrious and adventurous lad, Patrick Apollopolis became Patrick Apollopolisini, began earning his living hawking jewelry he had fashioned from seashells and, in the tradition of sailors through the ages, spending his living patronizing the local brothels.
Time passed, and as with most young men, Patrick eventually settled, married the maiden Penelope, and fathered a son, Michael. (Actually it was: Marry or face the mace, and the events might have occurred in a different order. But that’s a whole other story.) The years of married life ground by slowly and before long Patrick’s adventure gene was given the excuse for which he yearned. Far to the north Barbarians were threatening to give the boot to the residents of the boot-shaped land. Trumpets of the Roman Legions were heard in every village and town. Recruiters in their shining armor appeared in every gymnasium. Patrick required little persuasion. Soon he was marching north with a Legion, confident in giving those Barbarians a thrashing they wouldn’t soon forget, leaving behind a wife with an uncertain past and a son with an uncertain future.
In the last surviving record we have of Patrick Apollopolisini he is identified as the Head of a Roman Legion. By Head we don’t mean anything as honorable as a General or something of that nature. No. His was the actual head dangling from the war belt of a Barbarian Corporal. In keeping with the black humor heard around the camp fires of junior troops on campaign, he was christened “The Head of a Roman Legion.” Soon to become a drinking cup.
With the death of Patrick, the Barbarians were able to sack Rome, eventually plunging the entire continent of Europe into what has become known as the Dark Ages. The names Apollopolis and Apollopolisini, the trumpets of the Roman Legions and the Sirens call effectively vanished from history. Or so it appeared. While the Barbarians were busy burning and pillaging their way across Europe, a group of Irish monks took upon themselves the mission of preserving as much of the written history of civilization as they possibly could. Dispersing all across Europe they retrieved and returned to their Celtic monasteries as many ancient manuscripts as they could get their hands on. Within the walls of these monasteries the monks worked tirelessly hand-copying and translating the manuscripts. In the process of copying the manuscripts they would often make personal notes and illustrations in the margins, as footnotes and sometimes as fully illustrated pages. The most famous of these manuscripts is known as the Book of Kells. It is kept in the library of Trinity College in Dublin.
Upon inspecting the various margin notes, footnotes and illustrations you will come upon a familiar looking name: Shamus O’Apollopolysini. As the story goes Shamus had appeared at the gates of the monastery, a dirty, gap-toothed, hungry beggar offering to work for his keep. Orphaned at a young age, he appeared to be in his middle or late teens and believed he had been born somewhere in Gaul. Being an adaptable, industrious and adventurous lad, he had begged, borrowed and stolen his way across the English Channel, England, the Irish Sea and across Ireland to the gates of the monastery. Illiterate in three languages, he was of no use to the monks as a scribe. Being a compassionate lot, the monks hired him on as the assistant to the assistant shepherd. This turned out to be a poor choice of employment. On returning from the field on his first day of minding the sheep, his eyes and lips were swollen nearly shut and his body covered in a bright red rash. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out poor Shamus was allergic to wool. (Good thing, since there were none available to consult at the time.) Having filled all other job openings, the monks had little choice but to send him on a fool’s errand hoping he would just go away. After giving him a few days to recover his ability to see and eat, they instructed him to go into the surrounding hills and dales, round up all the stray cats he could find, bring them back to the monastery barn where they would earn their keep protecting the hops harvest while dining on the bewiskered beady-eyed long-tailed hops bandits.
As Shamus departed the monastery the monks chuckled , smirked at one another and resumed their tireless copying of ancient manuscripts. Forty three days later the monastery bell clanged wildly as the thick oaken doors swung open, and every monk stood slack-jawed as Shamus, covered in scratches, herded 37 feral cats and one Scottish terrier through the gate and into the barn.
Shamed by their mean but backfired prank, Shamus was hired on as the monastery gardener. For the next 27 months all went well for Shamus: He ate well, his clothes were clean and whole, he had a comfortable straw bed out of the rain, the hops harvest was transformed into beer, the cats grew fat, the gardens bloomed brightly, the lawns neatly clipped. Shamus even learned a bit of the three Rs. Life was good.
Alas, the center could not hold, Shamus O’Apollopolisine was not built for the settled life. While the monks went on to gain fame for Saving Western Civilization, Shamus gained infamy as a fugitive from civilization upon being discovered in flagrante delicto with the shepherd’s wife. With the departure of Shamus there was no one left able to maintain good order and discipline among the cats; they soon returned to their wild and free life in the hills and dales of Ireland; the bandit population expanded rapidly resulting in the Black Death which erased a third of the population of Europe.
From the year 1136 on no record has emerged with the name Apollopolys, Apollopolysine or O’Appolopolysini. Nor has there been much mention of the trumpets of the Roman Legions or the Sirens’ call. The name may well be gone but hints and evidence have surfaced from time to time suggesting, in all likelihood, fugitives being what they are, the bloodline survived. The debate goes on about who and when the first siren was invented. Depending upon who you believe it was invented sometime between 1790 and 1820 either by a Frenchman names Charles or a Scotsman named John. Initially the Siren was used as a musical instrument, eventually evolving into use as a civil defense alarm. Both uses harking back to the Siren calls encountered by both Ulysses and Patrick Apollopolys ,as well as many others who did not survive the call.
Right here, in our own little ole Hampton there exists strong evidence that the Apollopolis bloodline lives on. Genealogy is a tricky business; not unlike running a river back to its source. The further back you go the narrower and shallower it gets; smaller rivers and streams feed into it; they, in turn, are fed by even smaller streams, brooks and mud holes. Ultimately the whole thing vanishes like a dewdrop in the morning sun.
Dave DeMontigny has been a volunteer with Hampton Fire Company for over 50 years. Starting out as an uncertified volunteer, he proceeded up through the ranks: Fireman, EMT, Lieutenant, Captain, Assistant Chief, Chief and President. (Adaptable?) He is a wealth of knowledge and ability when it comes to operating, repairing or replacing any piece of equipment or gear in the firehouse. (Industrious?) He is what is commonly referred to as a fountain of institutional and operational knowledge. Safety is always his first concern; little escapes his watchful and learned eye. He likes his travel vacations to places not previously visited. (Adventurous?)
Of course none of these characteristics constitutes proof or even indisputable evidence of any ancestral or genealogical connection to Patrick, Shamus, John, or Charles the Frenchman (Gaul?) But here are a few other things we do know about Dave that add to the suspicions: He has been known on occasion to enjoy a pint of Guinness. He has a taste for Italian cuisine. (Gluten free of course.) He currently sports a monkish hair style (As do several other members). If you ever have the pleasure of observing him chair a Members meeting you leave with the very definite impression he possesses an inherent knowledge of herding cats. He has been known to go fishing off Westerly. Badda Boom-Badda Bing: He has a lawn care business.
Finally, of this, above all else, there is no dispute: With 54 years as a volunteer with the Hampton Fire Company, when he heard the Siren call he went overboard. Incidentally, Dave is currently touring Ireland with his fair Maiden …Dale! Coincidence? Destiny? Only the dewdrop knows.
Be like Dave.
Fire House Dog