"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots: Eddie Carmel

With so many giants around, it was frequently difficult to tell them apart. The newspapers solved the problem by giving them titles. They dubbed an Irish Giant, an Icelandic Giant, a Cornish Giant and a Arabian Giant. Eddie Carmel, an 8' 9" man from the Bronx, was named "The Jewish Giant," probably because "The New York Giant" would have confused sports fans.

Eddie toured with Ringling Brothers for many years, and was photographed by Diane Arbus. One day he decided to cash in on his fame, so he traveled to Hollywood and auditioned for films. The doors of respectability didn't exactly swing wide open, so he ended up playing the monster in a string of B-movies. He followed these up with records that were also about monsters. Eventually his options grew thin, and he died at the age of thirty-six in a hospital in the Bronx.

It took twelve men to carry him to his grave, and they're still complaining.

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"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots: Antony Payne

Everyone loved the Cornish giant Antony Payne, who was seven feet two by the time he turned twenty one. Though he could scare a vampire out of his coffin, he had a gentle nature, and was loved by adults and children alike. His parents had a small house on the estate of Sir Bevil Grenville, but he moved in with Sir Bevil -- presumably as his bodyguard, but possibly just as a conversation piece.

Supposedly one cold winter night a servant sent a boy and his donkey into the forest to gather firewood. Hours passed but the pair didn't return, so Antony ventured out after them. He found them huddled together, frozen nearly solid, so he hoisted the boy, the donkey and the firewood onto his back and carried them all home.

The king eventually heard of Antony, and decided that he wanted to get a look. He sent for the giant and eventually commissioned an artist to paint his portrait. This was what folks did before there were Instamatics.

Antony died in his bed at the age of eighty-one. His family took comfort in the fact that he outlived most giants by fifty years. They were a trifle peeved, though, when the family home had to be cut to kindling to get his body outside.

His grave is in the north aisle of Stratton Church in North Cornwall. The Grenville Manor House is now a hotel known as the Tree Inn. His portrait is still on display in the Royal Institute of Cornwall in the town of Truro.

"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots: William Joyce

William Joyce was over seven feet tall and renowned for his startling strength. In 1699 King William of England invited him to Kensington Palace for a live demonstration. William told the king he could lift a ton, so the king had weights made to test him. He nearly yanked his arms out of their sockets, but he lifted the weight cleanly off the ground.

The pair went for a walk so William could catch his breath, and the king pointed to tree that must have been five yards around. William boasted that he could pull it completely out of the ground, roots and all, and the king called his bluff. It sapped every last bit of his strength, but he succeeded.

While waiting for his carriage to return home, William bragged that wild horses couldn't move him. Naturally this gave the king another idea. He tied a stableful of horses to William, and though he whipped and whipped them, and they nearly tore William in two, they couldn't get the poor man to budge. He died soon after.

The lesson for tall people here is, if you ever get to meet royalty, it's best to just shut up and smile.

Parts of Kensington Palace are open to the public, but there's no mention of William anywhere. Kensington Palace Information Line +44 (0) 870 751 5170

"Roots," Boots and Big Galoots: Charles Byrne

Charles Byrne was eight foot two, and all the rage in London. "[N]either the tongue of the most florid orator, or pen of the most ingenious writer," one newspaper declared in the purple prose of our grandparents' time, "can sufficiently describe the elegance, symmetry, and proportion of this wonderful phenomenon in nature, and that all description must fall infinitely short of giving that satisfaction which may be obtained on a judicious inspection."

Why this guy didn't end up naked in a glass case I'll never know.

Charles liked to drink, and one night while he was on a bender a pickpocket stole his wallet. He got depressed and died at the age of twenty-two.

Every doctor in the country fought to get his body, bidding with the undertaker like he was Elvis' pink Cadillac. Charles, though, had made his plans perfectly clear: he wanted to be buried at sea. He nearly got his wish, but when his coffin was dumped into the water there were more than a few anxious folks watching from nearby boats. And some just happened to be outfitted with scuba gear.

These people didn't recover the body, but only because somebody else had beaten them to it. One of the doctors had been successful with his bribe, and the body had been swapped with paving stones before it went out to sea. Charles' new owner cut him up and boiled him in a big pot until the bones were clean -- if he'd been a chicken, they'd have been halfway toward soup -- then put his skeleton on display. He was eventually donated to a London University, where he's available for viewing five days a week.

Royal College of Surgeons, Hunterian Museum, 35-43 Lincoln's Inn Fields, London, England. Open Monday to Friday 10-5. Admission free.

"Roots," Boots and Big Galoots: Edouard Beaupré

Ever since he was a kid Edouard Beaupré wanted to be a cowboy. He loved horses, and all he wanted to do was ride them every day of his life. Unfortunately ole Bullet couldn't pick up much speed with Ed's feet dragging on the ground, so his dream went up in smoke. He was 8' 2" and weighed four hundred pounds at the age of twenty-one.

With no other prospects Edouard joined a freak show and went on tour. Now instead of riding horses across vast green pastures he lifted them over his head in tents. He died of tuberculosis at the age of 23.

Since he was a celebrity of sorts, he had an agent, and those guys don't let death spoil their plans. The agent had him mummified and the tour continued. At some point he took a detour, though, and he vanished off the face of the earth until 1907, when some kids found him rotting in a warehouse.

People jumped out of the woodworks to claim him, like he was a treasure chest full of gold, but the University of Montreal won. They said they wanted him for research, but that meant preserving him like a ham and displaying him in a glass case, naked.

You should probably think twice about donating your body to these people.

The University finally let relatives take the body in 1989. He'd been so heavily treated, though, that doctors said he'd never decay, and his relatives were afraid he'd be dug up and put back on tour. They had him cremated, some eighty-five years after his death.

See the ashes near his statue in front of the Willow Bunch Museum, Saskatchewan, Canada. They're average-sized, so they won't touring soon.

"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots

No matter how bad it gets for the tall guy, things certainly could be worse. Maybe we provoke curious stares on the subway and startled screams in dark alleys, but there's one thing that we can count on for reassurance: it'll cool down considerably once we're dead.

This was far from the case in the past.

Just a few short years ago, a tall man's calendar wasn't cleared by something as trivial as dying. Those Tall Man Fans who stared openmouthed as we blithely wandered Main Street were more than happy to fork over their hard-earned cash to see our corpses. Death, in fact, made the crowds larger. Now that we were preserved, we couldn't escape. We couldn't protest. We couldn't bitch-slap some sense into their peabrained heads.

While the modern-day giant can look forward to an eternity of peace under a luxuriant carpet of grass, his predecessors were busier than Liza Minnelli. They were mummified whole or their skeletons were boiled clean, and they were strapped to the cabooses of circus trains or stapled to the wall of libraries. Maybe lying motionless at Gentle Breezes Family Cemetery doesn't strike you as a great way to spend a Saturday, but it beats the hell out of being pinned spreadeagle next to the skeleton of a two-headed chipmunk, and an endless line of tourists muttering, "Whoa! That dude was freakin' tall!"

Inspired by "Roots," "The Immigrants," and "Gangs of New York," I decided to go in search of my own heritage: those brave men who in their own time were also flamingos in a world of sparrows. While the average person researching their family history will trek to their country of origin and explore ancient homes and graveyards, our quest leads to freak shows and the dusty backrooms of obscure museums. Over the next few days I'll write a bit about some giants I discovered, and where you can pay your respects.