From the bed of his triangle truck, he plucked a riffle from his stockpile,
And then forced my fingers around the trigger, cussing all the while.
The gun was too heavy, and my fingers didn’t fit,
But he wouldn’t let me go until I learned something called “grit.”
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And then forced my fingers around the trigger, cussing all the while.
The gun was too heavy, and my fingers didn’t fit,
But he wouldn’t let me go until I learned something called “grit.”
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Beer cans at first, then my Mom’s Gnomes and flower pots were part of his recruiting.
At dinner, Uncle Maga insisted that next visit, we’ll go hunting for deer,
Because there was no way he’d let fairy books turn me queer.
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Mom was cooking, and Uncle was a-grumbling.
Uncle Maga was complaining that we’d no real church to go pray,
Meanwhile, Mom put bacon, eggs, and pancakes out on the display.
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While Uncle sipped at his coffee saying our Unitarian Church was the worst thing.
Uncle didn’t believe that God accepted all people for who they are,
But rather, it was biblical exclusions that should set the bar.
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To which Uncle Maga replied, “Because I’m in Jesus’ image, a straight man and white.”
What Uncle said made sense to me,
And it was at that moment I began to rethink my mother’s quality.
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Until Uncle Maga showed up with a twirling football in hand,
With a gruff, firm voice, Uncle Maga started saying,
“Sunday’s meant for praying and playing.
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We can toss around the ol pig skin and enjoy our day.”
When it comes to tossing a ball, I’m admittedly unskilled,
But to be asked, I was beyond thrilled!
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