Let me tell you about my uncle Earl.

Uncle Earl was my dad's older brother by four years, and they were wicked close when

they were younger, growing up on the north shore at Boston.

My dad used to get pretty badly picked on by some Italian kids down at Bunker Hill High School,

and Uncle Earl was the one who finally went down to talk to them about it.

Yeah, he was that big a brother.

Another thing you should know about Uncle Earl.

In late 60s, the US Marines were drafting all the poor Irish and Italian kids from the

poor neighborhoods around bean town.

According to my dad, everyone was terrified of getting that letter in their mailbox.

But not Uncle Earl, because of his 18th birthday, Uncle Earl marches down near Boston

common and signs up for boot camp.

The way my dad tells it, this is because Uncle Earl was a quiet patriot who was honored

to have the opportunity to serve his country, but we all know that the real reason is because

Uncle Earl is completely nuts.

So now for the actual story.

In late 1991, I just turned 15 and Thanksgiving is just around the corner.

Mom and dad are rushing around trying to make sure everything is prepped and ready to

go while I'm just chilling in my room, playing my brand new State of the Arts Super Nintendo.

Then an argument commences.

My parents weren't really ones to argue out loud.

They'd have tense but quiet discussions trying not to let us kids see them being negative.

...