My Uncle Larry passed away this past weekend of a heart attack. It was his fourth. He was a heavy smoker, his diet NOT GOOD and his weight an issue. I am sure he was judged by that. Which makes me sad. Because, aside from being a smoker and a bad eater, he was a great guy. He loved his mother. He loved his children. He loved his life. Sadly, his addictions won out and he lost his life to them.

This is my tribute to him. It is a repost and those of you reading it might get to the end and wonder, "What the hell kind of tribute is this?" It's the kind you get when you are raised as I was. The kind that comes from acceptance of what you are. To look at your quirks and say, "Who fucking cares what anyone else thinks, this is me." My Uncle was as whiskey tango as it gets. I LOVE that about him. It defines my happy thoughts of him. It defines my memory of him. It defines a large part of who I am and reminds me that there ain't no life like the trailer park life. No matter how far I have come or will go, I will never forget the happiness and humor of a life whisky tango.

on being whiskey tango

A LOT of you expressed your displeasure over the sadness of my memoirs, Chapter One. Life isn’t always a bowl of cherries people. Sometimes, you happen to live in an all white town with a black stepfather who has been and is currently selling drugs to the local members of Congress and your mom is snorting all the coke she can manage to get up her nose.

Then, there’s your dad who drinks his ass off and makes you ride in the back of a pickup truck while traveling 70 mph down the highway and is married to a woman that likes you about as much as the idea of being hauled out to the middle of the ocean on a small boat, being held overboard by her ankles and then thrown out into the middle of the ocean. Did I mention she doesn’t know how to swim? Don’t think that idea didn’t occur to me in my teenage years. It no longer does Sybil, I promise. 

That's right.  My step-mother’s name is Sybil.  I'm not making this shit up. I can just see the powers that be downing the last of a large bottle of tequila, because I KNOW THEY WERE DRUNK, and mapping out my life.  Just before I was born, one of them while laughing his ass off said in between gasps for air and holding on to his stomach because it hurt so much from the laughter, “Holy shit, I’ve got it,” ahhhahhahhahhhahhahhaha, “We’ll name her stepmom Sybil.”

My family reads this site (note my father's comment below) and sometimes I feel compelled to not tell these stories, especially when my dad is flying out to take care of my kids so I can go away for a few days with my hubbyJJ aka: Depends on my mood.
What I love:He looks good in a cowboy hat or a business suit and wears them both daily. But not together, that would be creepy.
Hobbies: Building furniture, remodeling homes, playing sports with our kids, laughing with me. Seriously..  If I was him, and my daughter was throwing my ass under the bus for all to see, i would act all sweet and then call the morning of the trip and yell into the phone, "Shove your memoirs up your ass and find your own sitter."  Don't get any ideas dad.

Anyway, since you all want me to put a Disneyland kind of spin on my tales, I have decided to regale you with stories from my childhood as told between my brother and I. With a twisted sense of humor.

It’s kind of an odd thing to tell them this way, because when you do people look at you as if you are the saddest, most messed up person they have ever met, “Poor soul, her childhood fucked her up so bad that she doesn’t even realize her stepbrother accidentally shooting the neighbor in the arm from an acre away with a BB gun isn’t funny”.  Well, it is if you lived my life.  That’s what you do, you find the humor.

And this is where I get to the story.

Recently my friends and I were at dinner and we were playing the question game.  It started with one of the gals asking if we had ever known anyone in prison. Know someone?  I was raised by someone in prison. What do I win?

Eventually we meandered our way to who has the best redneck story. Now, let me just say, I knew I had this one.  Hands down. But, I waited quietly while the others told their stories. I had already shown everyone up with that whole STEPDAD IN PRISON thing. I didn’t want to come off like a one upper.  I slowly downed another Pabst Blue Ribbon with my koozie wrapped around it that said, “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” and waited for my turn.

I must give credit where credit is due and tell you that one of my girlfriends is from the hills of North Carolina and she did give me a slight run for my money, but I walloped her ass good with this story.

Every year for Christmas, my grandmother on my mother’s side, Mimi, would cook up a big feast of ham and raisin sauce and green been casserole and homemade cookies, you get the idea. We would all exchange gifts and get a little too drunk (some of us a lot too drunk) and everyone would be pissed off at everyone else by the end of the night. Inevitably someone stormed out before dessert with a slam of the door, and for some fucked up reason we all looked forward to it every year.

Anyway, my Uncle Larry, who is not a slight man and who used to punch me in the arm as hard as he could every time I entered a room, had a wife named Michelle.  Michelle was a little rough around the edges. Think fried cheese wrapped in a Harley Davidson muffler. 

At around 2:00 on Christmas afternoon, I walked in the front door of Mimi’s home, took in one deep breath of ham scented air, shook my right arm to loosen it up for what was coming and rounded the corner to Uncle Larry.  On cue he punched me and then wrapped me up in a big bear hug and said loudly enough for the people two streets over to hear, “How the hell are you girl?” What kind of torture greeting is that?  Its a redneck one.  Did I mention he was sporting a full beard and overalls? God how I love that man.

I wiggled my way out of his crushing arms and reached over to give Aunt Michelle a hug and sweet baby Jesus, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Aunt Michelle had her two front teeth back.

Missing your two front teeth in Indiana wasn’t completely uncommon.  Hell in some areas it was bragging rights.  However, my grandmother was the kind of woman that got dressed at a vanity table her entire life.  She had her hair and nails done weekly and had bi-weekly facials. She dressed a certain way and dined with the finest. Her daughter-in-law having two missing teeth, the front two no less, had been the bane of her existence ever since almost exactly a year ago when Aunt Michelle had gotten into that bar fight and had her two front teeth knocked out. 

Having endured as much as she possibly could, my grandmother finally decided to offer up, as delicately as possible, two front teeth to Aunt Michelle for Christmas. She eagerly jumped at the opportunity.

After everyone else had gone home and the kitchen was spotless and the last of the wrapping paper had been put in the trash, my grandmother told me the story while sipping her Early Times and water (easy on the water). We sat there next to the Christmas tree, lights twinkling and Bing Crosby belting out White Christmas and laughed until we damn nearly peed ourselves.

Clearly none of the girls had a better story than that.  I just don’t know what tops your grandmother purchasing your aunts two front teeth that were knocked out in a bar fight for Christmas.

Thank you Uncle Larry for all of the laughter and spice you brought to my life. There are so many stories I coud share. You were truly something special in your giant puppy dog love of life. Thank you for the bruises on my arm. I would show them to friends for days after the big punch and tell them how my Uncle Larry gave them to me. We would all laugh as I told the stories. And. You would know best that life isn't truly lived if you aren't laughing.