(Hey guys! It’s Memoir Monday! Everyone should know what to do, just steal my little button code down there, then paste it onto the Edit HTML section on your post. Type up a memoir, spank yourself a little, and call it a win! The only rule? It must be true. So go on! Get you some!)
Today’s Memoir Monday could not have been possible without The Missus.
So beware, if you are easily offended by The Missus, Kentucky, and/or racism, you might want to just go read something else.
When she and I were dating, her family decided to go visit their family in Kentucky. That’s where they’re all from.
Yep. Those people.
So anyway, we’d been dating awhile, and I didn’t really have anything else going that week, so what the heck, lets go East, shall we?
I get told we’re staying with “Uncle Willie and Aunt Margaret.” I chuckled, but only briefly.
We packed up, and headed that way.
When we arrived at my wifes dear aunt and uncle’s house, I immediately noticed some things. Uncle Willie was not a particularly tall man, and he had some…ahem…tendencies.
He was a nervous fella. Twitches and what not. Like maybe his nostrils had seen or were currently seeing large quantities of cocaine.
We get the pleasantries out of the way and get settled. It wasn’t too long before I heard some bass coming from the road by their house. Uncle Willie looks at me and says,
“Those are those…negroes. They like their music up loud. Get’s on my nerves.”
Yeah. Willie didn’t like black people, but he spoke his racism quietly, almost at a whisper. I really don’t know if it still counts or not. I think it does.
I would like to point out at this juncture, that I am not a racist. I know several black people, and they all seem to like me okay, with the exception of one or two, who wouldn’t like me no matter what. I once was the recipient of a bear hug from a black man. Let me tell ya, when this guy hugs you, you stay hugged. Anyway, just wanted to clear that up.
Willie, however, was not so enlightened.
The next day, I noticed Willie walking out to his lawn quite frequently. Like, every 15 minutes or so. He’d just wander out the back door, look around the yard, and then go into the front yard, then amble back into the house. I thought this was weird, and I asked him about it.
“Well, sometimes, the darkies, you know, the black people, will take your lawn ornaments and stuff, and then go pawn them. ‘They’ like to steal stuff.”
Darkies? Wow. I will say this though, I didn’t once hear the “N” word, and I’d have probably drawn the line there and said something, after I was done laughing at his ignorance. For the record, yeah, there are a lot of black people in Kentucky, but for the most part, it was the white people that scared me.
I didn’t really talk to Willie much after that, and I don’t think I can be blamed. I found out later on in the week that they also Scotchguarded their towels, which kind of made drying off after a shower a difficult thing. It was like using a shammy.
That was also the week I became allergic to pork chops. By allergic, I mean that every time after that for about 4 years, I’d get a mean set of the hot poops if I so much as looked at a pork chop.
Then there was the ol covered bridge, which saw a lot more of me than it probably wanted to, and was easily the best part of the trip.
Oh, and I can also tell you that it takes approximately 2.5 seconds to get out of your girlfriends bed and onto the ground where you are supposed to be sleeping if you hear a noise.
Other “Non-Racial” Trips To Somewhere Besides Kentucky This Week: (GO READ THEM!)
Daffy’s Memoir Monday – Date FAIL.
K’s Does This Taste Sour To You?