Damn, Ted...you're on a roll!


I come from a very large family. Thanksgiving at my Maternal Grandma’s was always at least Grandma and Grandpa, 9 pairs of Aunts and Uncles and their 37 children and—at the time of the story I’m about to tell—the 14 spouses among the 37 Grandchildren, and my family of 6. I was one of the 5 youngest of my 37 first Cousins (counting my Paternal side, I had 56 first cousins).
My Grandparents had a very large, 3 Story Victorian farm house, built on top of a full basement. The large Dinning room had sliding wood doors that opened on one side to a large Drawing Room and, on the other, to a large Parlor—even with all that, the seating was “cozy”. My Grandfather had built large folding tables for occasions like Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving was always the occasion with the largest attendance; at the very least—in those days—in the 50’s. Seating was always “mixed” and worked out ahead of time by Grandma.
One year, when I was about 9 or 10, I was sitting next to my favorite Uncle. Uncle Dale had been quite a “Jock” in his younger days and my Grandma—just about the sweetest Grandma that ever Grandma’d—knowing I was sports crazy, sat me next to him. Grandma was 4’10’ and all Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice. Uncle Dale had served in WWII in Europe as a Combat Infantry Officer and was irreverent, world-wise and a master of the one liner. My Grandfather—a Church Elder—was as stern a Victorian “Master and Commander” as they come (he was 6’2”). Just before Grandpa gave “The Blessing”, Uncle Dale (he was not a Blood Uncle) whispered in my ear.
“Whatever you do Face, don’t you dare laugh.”
Of course, after we “Bowed our Heads in Prayer”, I started to giggle. So serious an offence was this, I tried with all my might to suppress it. During my yeoman’s effort, Uncle Dale poked me in the ribs and I cut loose with what is commonly known as a “juicy fart”.
Grandpa didn’t miss a beat in giving his "Words to the Lord". After the family Patriarch finished and we all said, “Amen”, he stood up, picked up a large, Sterling Silver serving fork, walked over behind me and whacked me on the side of my head so hard the fork chimed. As Grandpa was heading back to his seat at the Head of the Head Table, Uncle Dale, again, whispered in my ear.
“Don’t worry Face, farts bring out the best in you.”
I bolted from the table and down the long hall, into one of the downstairs bathrooms, slamming the door behind me. A few moments later, Grandma was tapping at the door.
“It’s alright, Face,” Grandma said, sweetly. “Open the door so Grandma can give you a hug.’
“I’m alright, Grandma. I’m Okay.” I answered. It sounded to Grandma like I was sobbing…I wasn’t. I was still trying, with all my might, to suppress laughter—reveling in the moment that Uncle Dale treated me like “one of the guys”.
Uncle Dale passed on 5 years ago at the age of 87.
I Will Cherish Uncle Dale Forever.
Face
PS: When my Father left (and even before), of all my 14 Uncle's, Uncle Dale was the Man that really "stepped up to the plate".
