FAMILY!?!?
You have no idea...I grew up in a William Faulkner novel. My father's assorted families — that's a story in and of itself — require a scorecard and a healthy sense of humor. You name it; we got it — moonshine runners, drug addicts, various and sundry levels of insanity, busted gamblers, bizarre diseases, hookers with hearts of gold, professional cockfighters, even a monkey that lived on the roof of one of my aunt's house until he "went to Atlanta," which is, I suspect a euphemism for...something. One of my relatives once shot a Winchester 30-30 at a UFO that dented the roof of his moonshine tanker; another tossed a hand grenade into a car in a little Mississippi town: "I swear, Michael...it was the funniest thing...it looked like one of them Shriner clown cars in a circus...people crawling out the windows and the back of that station wagon..." When I asked what happened, he said, "What do you mean, what happened?" With the hand grenade, I said. "Well hell, it blew up, didn't it? That's what hand grenades do." Arrested, he was "let off with a warning." Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez...
Michael B