Mrs. Fat Man and I are in Arizona visiting our family members who live here. Tonight we had dinner at sister Fat Man’s house, then sat around the kitchen table and told stories that Great Grandma Fat Man (my Grandmother) used to tell. She left this life over 26 years ago, so the stories have been around for a good while. As we told the same stories that we have heard dozens of times over the last three plus decades, we laughed a lot, and I relished them just as much as I did when I was a child. The adventures make up the fabric of our existence, they are the history of the Fat Man clan. They are the good memories that manage to outweigh the bad ones that are abundant in most families. I was formed by the memories of my cousins and I getting our mouths washed out with dish soap for calling each other women. My Grandma felt that using the word “woman” in such a derogatory fashion was inappropriate, and she was correct. And Great Grandma had no tolerance for the prejudice that existed against Native Americans in the 50’s. They had been banished from all the local bars in her town, so she scooted her half indian self into the nearest bar and after a very serious promise to rip the place apart for not being served, she enjoyed her beer, and gave generations of her family the understanding that we were equal to everyone else, despite our heritage. Once I smart mouthed my Mom (Grandma Fat Man), then ran around the corner and down the hall. Turns out she had dead on accuracy when throwing a boot around a corner, and I had the goose egg on my head to prove it. It is good to respect your mother. And I learned very early in life that when Sister Fat Man is already mad, it was best not to flip her the bird then try to make a get away on icy roads, she is crazy when she’s mad. And new stories are being written as we go. They involve Cafeam (that’s ice cream for you non three year olds), thick glasses, and booger flavored jelly beans. And of course The Hooter Holder song that I wrote for the daughters Fat Man when they were adjusting to training bras. I hope that all of the future generations of my family can continue to tell the autobiography of our lives, and remember the goodness that was. And I hope they can let the badness that was just be a lesson about what not to repeat, instead of a stumbling block to a happy life. By the way, do you remember that time when we were on our trip to ………….., and Dad did…………………! That was so stinkin’ funny.