A Thanksgiving Tale

My Uncle John was the funniest man I ever knew.

He was funnier than any of his three children or any professional comedian on stage.

Webster might have placed his picture next to the word funny in their dictionary.

Uncle John was that humorous.

And what I loved most about his  gray-zone wit was the way he could make my father convulsively roll-over in laughter. Through labored breath and tears my father would say John—you gotta stop. I can’t take it anymore.

Uncle John could make my father die laughing.

And these two men are brought to mind particularly this time of year. My Uncle John died a day or two within Thanksgiving which was also a day or two within my father’s birthday.

Several weeks after my Uncle’s death my father would also pass away.

But something interesting happened just after Thanksgiving the year Uncle John died. My father, who was robbed of his short term memory due to a brain tumor and never knew of his brother-in-laws’s death, told my mother one morning: John came to see me last night. He was standing at the edge of the bed talking to me. My father was with him too.

Be certain of this: no person in the flesh was ever in my father’s room.

My father however, swore to the verity of his tale.

And on this Thanksgiving I think of these two men—the best of friends—who sat next to each other at the table every year as the antipasto, lasagna and turkey was served.

I am blessed to have had them in my life. I am blessed to recall their silliness and mutual love. I am blessed to think that my Uncle held my father’s right hand as my grandfather held his left while walking together into the light.

I am blessed to think that in my father’s heaven my Uncle John continues to make him laugh.

And on Thanksgiving—the day we account how we are blessed---I give thanks.