Uncle Romey

His calloused, nicotine-stained fingers engulfed my hand. He worked at my fingers, trying to get them into the right position. I didn't know this game. I knew other hand games like pattycake, the church and the steeple, and milking betsy.

"Naw, not like that," he said, "like this. Pull this finger down and use your tumb to hold this one down. Then you do this. Try it."

I tried, and I got it. Almost. "You perd near got it Jackie."

"Can I go?," I asked my uncle.

"Hold your horses. Remember just do it to surprise your parents some night. Show 'em that and say 'here's to you."

Romey quietly chuckled. And that night around the dinner table with the extended family, I turned to my grandma, said "here's to you," and gave her the finger.

It's one of my first memories, which means I had to be around four or five. I can also remember Eisenhower a little bit, and going to the circus, where a clown put his head in a grinder, and came out headless. I remember a flood creeping across the Kent Valley floor, edging toward our house, and stopping a block away. I remember my father telling me the drunk cop on tire-chalking duty was named Wyatt Earp. But every memory of Romey stands out because he was bigger, cruder, louder, and more obnoxious than anyone else in my life.
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