ONE'S FAMILY NAME should be a badge of honor and distinction, so it was a bit disheartening in my case to prowl the pages of history and find that the most notable characters in the Webb clan started an Easter egg roll and got drowned in a whirlpool.

Never has there been a President Webb or a Prime Minister Webb or a mass poisoner Webb or even a Pope Webb (although there has been a Pope Linus, which should cheer "Peanuts" aficionados to no end of hallelujahs).

There was, of course, an actor named Jack Webb, but I see little of distinction in going to one's grave being known largely for muttering "Only the facts, ma'm." He did marry Julie London, but my London wife Elizabeth is prettier even if she can't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow.

The Roosevelts had FDR and the chap they named the Teddy Bear for, the Lewinskys had Monica as did Bill, the Jacksons had Andrew and Janet and Michael, Rodgers had Hart and occasionally Hammerstein, and the Hoovers had Herbert, the dam and a vacuum cleaner that was prone to getting jammed with lint.

Even the Als at least had Capone, but famous or even infamous Webbs are as rare as hen's teeth after an epidemic of bubonic plaque.

The Encyclopaedia Britannica wasn't a lot of help, so I resorted to the Internet and did manage to dig up Lucy Webb Hayes. Well, not dig up literally, since she's been dead these past 112 years, but until then she was the wife of the American president of the same name (Rutherford B., not Lucy Webb).

According to a biographer, Lucy was "a great success as a hostess," which didn't exactly make her a Dolley Madison or Eleanor Roosevelt or Jackie Kennedy, although she was a couple of steps up the fame stairwell from Caroline Fillmore or Jane Pierce. Lucy also frowned on booze, which didn't help.

But what I bet you didn't know was that Lucy Webb Hayes was responsible, or perhaps to blame, for preserving the annual Easter egg rolling for children on the White House lawn.

Yep, seems the game had been played on the Capitol grounds until an uppity Congress passed a law banning it because the ankle-biters and rug rats were ruining the grass. Lucy stepped in, transferred the thing to the White House lawn, and it's been there ever since.

Well, hell, you take fame where you can find it. At least when old Lucy finally popped her clogs in 1889, flags were lowered to half-mast in many American cities. They didn't do that for Marilyn Monroe or Ma Kettle or Mrs. Nelson across the street from us in Knoxville.

Which brings us, after some delay that really doesn't bear going into just now, to Matthew Webb, Englishman by birthday, captain by title, sailor by profession. Captain Webb also was a first-class fruit loop of his or any other age, with the possible exception of the hula-hoop era of the mid-1950s, when I won a yo-yo contest.

Matthew Webb was, above all, a swimmer - the first human, in fact, to swim the English Channel. He did it in 1875, a couple of years before cousin Lucy got hold of the White House Easter eggs.

He didn't do it the easy way, did old Matt. He swam 39 1/2 miles to cross the 20-mile stretch from England to France, and took about 21 hours 45 minutes to do it. We Webbs are a hardy folk, never ones to take a short cut - except for the one Matthew once took, about more of which later.

Cap'n Matthew's training regime also reminded me of my own determination to single-handedly keep the entire scotch whisky industry afloat.

He wrote: "I ate well of meat with a good allowance of fat in it, and salad twice a day. I drank three pints of good beer, went early to bed every night, and kept in the open air all day." Well, in my case, one out of three wasn't bad.

Matthew Webb swam the channel, doing the breaststroke and swigging coffee as he went, until the jellyfish stung him, whereupon he switched to brandy. He crawled ashore on French sand and promptly wrote a book, "The Art of Swimming," about the whole thing.

He probably should have rested on his laurels. He didn't. I think - and my wife is thoroughly convinced - that there is a loony gene that runs through the Webb DNA, and Captain Webb may have been one of the earliest examples of its running amok.

Matthew got himself involved in a swimming race off Nantasket Beach, in New England, in 1879 and, when he found himself losing, climbed out of the water and was last seen running bare-assed naked down the sands under cover of darkness, on a shortcut to the finish line.

The locals took exception and the event was declared a "no race."

Then Matthew Webb eyed Niagara Falls, and the loony gene again took over. In exchange for an interview in a local newspaper, he agreed in July 1883 to swim the Niagara Rapids, a formidable bit of water current below the falls possessing rock ledges and, particularly, a whirlpool a quarter of a mile long.

They hauled Captain Webb's body from the river several miles downstream. He was still clad in his red trunks, so at least this time he was dressed for the occasion.

Now I don't have the earthliest idea of whether or not I am related to either Captain Matthew Webb and/or Mrs. Lucy Webb Hayes. The Webbs on this planet appear second in number only to plankton, traffic meter wardens and bad drivers in Indianapolis.

But I like the cut of their jib, as old Matt might say, and I'd like to claim him and Lucy among my own. Every family tree should have a few interesting nuts.

Thought for the Week: Early to bed and early to rise means your clock needs fixing.

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