Jimmy’s parents were humble. They were happy. His dad, Patrick, was Irish and his mom, Lyea, (Fleet Foot), Indian. Catching rabbits as a young girl, Lyea was fast. They’d met after Jimmy’s father decided to Irish, kick-up a potato farm, raise tight end chickens, and settle near an Indian village. A year later, Jimmy was rolling in a tub.
“My, you’re a slippery little noodle,” Mrs. KaNuckle would say.
It was true. An hour later, one of Jimmy’s first foods was chicken noodle soup.
“Noodle,” Jimmy spat and drooled.
“Pat, he’s too funny,” Mrs. KaNuckle gasped.
“I declare, Lyea,” said Patrick, listening. “His first word, before mom and dad, ma or pa, he’s uttered, noodle.”
“Noodle,” Jimmy mummed again. He cooed.
“How delightful,” Mr. KaNuckle chuckled. “And…”
“He’s hungry,” said Lyea.
“Ha. Sure enough.” Patrick winked. “And chicken noodle cures and scores. We’re going to name our boy Noodle, Lyea, and I’m going to teach him to throw a spiral. Now, let’s watch the game, sweetie.”
(Image of Noodle’s parents with baby Jimmy eating noodles in high chair & football close by)