I have spent, oh, about 1000 hours creating a book of 50 stories and poems, dedicated to my parents for a big Christmas suprise for them. Unfortunately, all I had was the book in final draft version. While it looks like a final product, I am changing it around a lot before I finalize it. I plan to give the final version to my Cancer center for other cancer patients to read, and hopefully laugh at the humorous poems and cry with me on my journey through cancer, and understand that others were and are in the same boat.
Anyway, it was the last gift opened, and I asked them to open it together. My mom, who loves suprises, just yelled out loud. The looks on their faces were priceless. They were just flabbergasted. It will be one of my best memories, as they have done so much for me. My dad came over for dinner, and said the cancer poems were so powerful that he cried. He never cries. He rarely likes anything either. So my goal was accomplished. Now to finalize…..
The last story is a legend in our family, so I thought I would share it for a bit of humor as you painfully digest your culinary indulgence(s). Tums is probably the most consumed antacid this evening…. 🙂 The title of this post is the title of the story.
There is a story in the Brook clan;
a famous legend through generations told.
And my dad tells it with full elan
as he allows the details to unfold .
My grandpa and brother-in-law were genuine cards
each as quirky, sneaky and wiley as the other.
And they wove stories that Shakesbeare the bard
would only have told a slick brother.
As are all “Originals”, they did not tolerate
stories that seemed too tall to tell.
And if the story did deviate
there was an invite given to hell.
One day, my Uncle, with inebriated gate
walked in Grandpa’s house with gun in hand.
And with drunken accent did state
that my grandpa did gaze and stand
in front of a gun that had a history so great
he would give all he had to hold it in his hand.
“What is this history so great?” Grandpa did say.
“Wh-ell, dish gun’s a killer, doncha know,
Why, it ta-hook Poncho Villa’s life that fateful day
that (burp) to His Maker he did go.”
“What! Don’t waste my time with this sad rhyme”
said Grandpa quite irritably.
“You are just a drunk, crazy old bastard
and I just don’t have time, so off with ye!”
Uncle, pride burned, insisted with great fervor
that this gun must surely be
the one and only, unique and prized
gun that shot Poncho V.
Grandpa, took his measure with blazing eyes
And with one great curse and punch
sent his brother-in-law through the door,
then sat down to eat his lunch.
What became of the “priceless gun”?
We can only speculate.
that whoever sold it to Uncle had his fun
and took his money to the gambling gates!