“Your great Uncle Jackie reads your blog every day, ” my Mom calls to tell me.
“I know, Mary Ann told me.”
“He has it bookmarked. Sometimes it makes him mad.”
“What makes him mad?”
“He doesn’t like it when you call your parents hippies. He doesn’t think we were hippies,” says one of my hippie parents. “He says hippies weren’t useful members of society, and we were.”
“Hmm. He has a point. You two are a bit hard to define. Would it be better if I said ‘ my slightly insane survivalist father and his lovely, misguided young bride?'”
“Yes, I think that would be better. And he doesn’t always like your language. ”
“My language….I don’t really curse in my blog. What language was bothering him?”
“I don’t know, he wouldn’t repeat it.”
My mother (the lovely misguided young bride), is prone to exaggeration, and so I assume my Uncle Jackie merely mentioned in passing that my language is sometimes questionable in some way. The man fought in a WWII, taught high school for all his adult life, raised a herd of children, and owned a bar. I’m sure there is not much I can say that he hasn’t already heard many, many times. Uncle Jackie is, however, a gentleman to his core, and while he might know all the really good words, that doesn’t mean he would say them or enjoy hearing them from the mouth of his niece.
“Yes. I think those are probably the words. He wouldn’t repeat them,” she repeats.
“No, I imagine he wouldn’t. But I’m using them properly, and that’s important.”