FAMILY MISCHIEF

A month before I hope to be observing the the end of my eighty-second year and the beginning of my eighty-third on the Earth, and our sweet, neurodivergent granddaugher will be observing her thirty-second.

But once,upon a long time ago, when she was quite small, but always precocious, we were in the vicinity of Cedar Park on a business-related errand. 

Before heading home, we took a side-trip to drop in on Uncle Douglas and Aunt Maxine, who after retiring from their furniture business, made their home on some acreage in the area.  They acted as if they were delighted with our surprise visit. 

Although our daughter Julie christened her Christa Angelica, that young lady will always be "Crispie" to me, and it was Crispie that Uncle Doug took out to the fence to see one of his new calves.  Aunt Maxine told the story of another young visitor, a boy, who solemnly said to Uncle Doug, "I wisht I could be retarded like you and live in a place like this!"

Suddenly Uncle Doug decided that we should have some sandwiches, and we decided, "Why not?", and agreed to wait around while their daughter Sandy, who happened to be there at the time, was directed to make a provisions run for some luncheon meat.

It was a time in the days that sandwich meat was prepared by the butcher and packaged in what we knew as "butcher paper".  Uncle Doug said, "Be sure to tell 'em to 'shave it', and also get a loaf of rye bread,"

Today, as I cursed the revolting rigid plastic boxes of deli-sliced meat that The Roommate claims is "all she can get now", I remember Uncle Doug, and wonder if I should blame HIM for the unsavory habits of the supermarket in preparing my sandwich material. Did Uncle Doug over-promote the deli-slice tradition?  I will always prefer sliced meat that will not fall apart in my hands.