I guess now that our family matriarch has passed, I can let fly a sort-of family secret. My grandma, who was one of the funniest people I have known, was a tough, non-filtered Camel-smoking, Jack Daniels-swilling piece of work. She was on her second husband -- and my favorite grandparent -- Frenchy, who lost his leg in WW I. (I will explain later why I was not his favorite grandson.) My first taste of Gram's sense of humor happened when I was about seven or eight years old.

Every year in the late spring, my dad would reinstall their air conditioner (the snow in Wisconsin would ruin it if was left in all year). We got started early morning. Our family had keys to each others' homes, like most families did back then, I suspect, and my dad let me in to go wake them up. He did not tell me to sneak in and scare the last breath out of them; but I was a hyperactive, Ritalin-taking kid who had a propensity to screw up simple directions.

I crept down their hallway and snuck into their bedroom. They slept in separate beds like Lucille Ball and that conga player. On my hands and knees, I crept in between them, wishing that I had a Halloween mask of Satan or a skull to wear. (I thank God now that I didn't.) When I was positioned right between them, I sprang my version of reveille on them. I screamed, "Time to get up!!! Good morning!!!" at the top of my lungs and pounded on their beds. (Probably not -- I don't remember exactly what I yelled, but you get the idea.) I imagine the last second of what ever they were dreaming about took place at the gates of hell.

The chaos that ensued is family lore and probably unbelievable to a normal person with intact relatives.

A split-second after my initial attack, my generally short-of-breath Gram was standing on the corner of her bed, two hands clutching a porcelain statue of Jesus over her head, screaming "Frenchy!!!" to wake him, ready to crush my skull. Immediately I figured out I had done a really dumb thing, but Gram gratefully seemed to recognize me through the early morning haze and spared my life. Not quite so with Frenchy.

My feeble Gramps turned into a leopard -- he was screaming at the top his lungs, using words that I had only heard from my Pops and his buds on his just-the-guys vacation up north. "Mother fucker!!! Police!! Hold on, baby!!!!" (Again, speculation -- I was only seven.)

At the time I did not know about it, but I understand now what phantom pain is. When someone feels pain in a limb that is no longer there. Well, Frenchy was phantomly trying to kick my ass with a leg that was no longer there. His stump was jumping up and down and in the confusion his missing limb slipped both our minds.

My Dad came running into the room with his did-you-take-your-pill-Whitey? look on his face. ("Whitey" is my family nickname.) As he gradually restored order, the chaos and fear subsided and turned to general anger. My Gram grabbed me and hugged me like she was trying to smother me, whispering in my ear, "What the hell is wrong with you, honey? You nearly scared us to death!"

I was now crying and probably more scared than they were, but I couldn't take my eyes off of my Gramps' stump -- it was sticking out of his boxers and at the end of it there was a belly button-kind of hole where the bone had apparently been. I sobbingly whispered back to my Gram, "Is that Grandpa's FLIGGER??" (Our family name for penis.) I normally would not have asked such a question, but it was so big it had me mesmerized.

My Grams started laughing at the top of her lungs, like she just heard the funniest joke in the world. Gramps, who was slowly gaining his mind back, asked my grandma what the hell is so god-damned funny. Without hesitation, my Gram, still laughing, in a loud voice, said, "Whitey thinks your stump is your COCK!"

"Mom!" my dad yelled, before Grams could unload all the synonyms she had for penis. He was trying to be a protective parent, but he too burst out laughing. Gramps looked at me and shook his head like he was thinking, "They could have adopted." He started laughing, too, and then lifted his leg up in the air like he got a boner. At the time I didn't get any of this, except for the cock thing, when my Grams said, "Oh Jesus, Frenchy, you put a mess in your drawers!" My dad grabbed my collar and yanked me out of their bedroom and into the kitchen. "Go out and sit on the porch and don't you move a goddamn muscle!!"

I could hear everyone except Grandpa Frenchy laughing inside as I waited on the porch. Still kind of sniveling, I couldn't quite understand what was happening; but I knew that this kind of shit always happened to me. I could turn a simple thing like waking somebody up into a spanking or being grounded for two weeks. Literally scaring the shit out of Gramps would probably get me both, or worse.

As it turned out, my punishment didn't cost any ass skin, but I ended up having to do their yard work for two months. I hated doing their yard because they had one of those engineless, spinning two-wheeled fucking mowers that you needed a mule to push around. Being seven or eight years old did not help, either, especially knowing that Gramps had a riding mower parked in the garage. I think the rusty piece of shit was saved just for my ADHD ass.

I had to mow once a week and Gramps would sit on the porch supervising every move I made. Not sure if it was the squeaking of the shitty mower or what, but every time I wheeled past the porch I thought I heard, "...little bastard."