Written by Tom Davis – I’d never even been close to a dead person before, much less ever seen somebody die. It happened Thanksgiving. That year Thanksgiving came the day after my birthday.

To appreciate this story, you have to know my family’s history. At least the family on my daddy’s side. Paw Paw, daddy’s daddy, had to stoop to get through a regular doorway. When I knew him, he always wore a black suit, gold watch chain, and wire rimmed glasses. He moved here from North Georgia in the early 1900’ s and married Maw Maw, a local girl.

Paw Paw bought a small farm and, through hard work, developed it into a large and prosperous place. He did more than just make it through the Great Depression; he thrived in the process. By 1939 he’d acquired several thousand acres of prime timberland, a sawmill, and a lumber company. The proceeds from these assets provided Daddy with the opportunity to graduate from law school and his five sisters to each earn Master’s Degrees.

Now just because Paw Paw had money, don’t think Daddy and his sisters lived “the good life.” Paw Paw saw to it they understood the value of an education and had a healthy respect for hard work.

As expected, Paw Paw’s daughters generally married well: Aunt Polly to an Army officer, Aunt Ann to a big roofing contractor, Aunts Lasa and Linda to doctors. That left Aunt Josie. She married Uncle Bud.

Aunt Josie, the oldest of Daddy’s sisters, married “late in life”, so Paw Paw had to be grateful rather than particular. For a wedding present, he gave them a furnished house and a new van. Both he put in Aunt Josie’s name.

To say Uncle Bud embarrassed the family is an understatement. First of all he came from up North—a Yankee–and drove around selling ladies lace and other unmentionables. He always gnawed on a smoldering cigar that looked like a rope with its end frayed. Usually, he “started slow” in the mornings. “Too much juice of the barley,” Uncle Bud said. “Too much rot-gut corn liquor,” Daddy said.

Since he’d married Aunt Josie, his stomach had grown so big he couldn’t see the tips of his toes without bending forward until he got all red-faced. And he didn’t always treat Aunt Josie right either. I know because I’d heard Paw Paw had to “talk” to him about it more than once. Finally, everybody knew, but wouldn’t say, when he went on the road he consorted with women. Lord only knows what kinda woman would consort with him.

And this fellow marries into a family of staunch Southern Baptists. Need I say more?

All my aunts and uncles were polite to Uncle Bud. But Daddy, being an open and honest man, couldn’t hide his feelings. As a matter of fact, whenever he referred to Uncle Bud he called him “no-a-count Bud.” I  was nearly eight before I learned “no-a-count” was Daddy’s opinion and not a part of Uncle Bud’s name.

What I think Daddy liked least about Uncle Bud was he borrowed things and didn’t return them. Most often he borrowed money. Paw Paw wasn’t too thrilled about this, either.

Our family tried to get together for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Fourth of July, with the most important of the three being Thanksgiving.

That Thanksgiving Aunt Polly came in from an Army post somewhere. Aunt Ann came down from Wilmington, North Carolina; Aunt Lasa from Atlanta; and Aunt Linda from Nashville. They brought their families with them. Including my sister Marrlee and me, Paw Paw’s house bulged with thirteen eager and excited grandchildren. The only ones without children to add to the confusion were Uncle Bud and Aunt Josie. I knew this made Daddy happy and thought Paw Paw felt the same.

For our Thanksgiving Day feast, Mama whipped up a bowl of her famous creamy mashed potatoes so big I could hardly get my arms around it. However, Maw Maw and her cook, Vic, did most of the fixing. Bowls of turnip greens with pot liquor, creamed corn, fried okra, scalloped oysters, and sweet potato pie, two platters of crispy fried chicken, a ham from the smoke house, baskets of homemade biscuits and golden brown cracklin’ bread, the biggest turkey I’d ever seen, and, of course, mama’s famous mashed potatoes, covered Maw Maw’s big table.

The adults ate in the dining room. The children sat at card tables scattered between the dining room entrance and the back of the living room. That Thanksgiving I captured a seat at a card table in the entrance way, offering a full view of the adult’s table and a way back to the kitchen for seconds without anybody counting.

Paw Paw stood and tapped a water glass with his spoon. When things quieted down he said, “Let’s all bow our heads for the Jackson’s family blessing.” And he prayed: “May the Lord be praised and the ladies pleased, which is  but now and then. Let us eat our diet in peace and quiet, in the name of  the Lord…Amen.”

Amidst echoing “Amens,” Uncle Bud staggered up, grabbed his chest, let out a holler, did a one arm swan dive across the table, and landed face down in Mama’s bowl of mashed potatoes. He lay there jerking like a frog leg frying in a cast iron skillet, then went limp.

Well, I haven’t got to tell you how flabbergasted everybody was. After all, it’s not every day a grown man, or anybody else for that matter, up and flings himself across the dinner table and buries his face up to the back of his ears in a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Aunt Josie fainted outright, and everybody else either screamed or gasped for breath. Daddy grabbed the telephone and called an ambulance; but by the time it came screaming up, Uncle Bud lay dead, dead as dead could be.

We had the funeral Saturday afternoon. Since everybody was in town anyway, they decided to stay. Friday the word came down that Uncle Bud had had a heart attack, but that wasn’t what killed him. It seems while he lay with his face buried in the potatoes he inhaled several helpings. I haven’t felt the same about Mama’s famous mashed potatoes since.

After the funeral, we rode back to the house in Paw Paw’s white Cadillac. Daddy drove. Paw Paw sat shotgun. Marrlee and I got sandwiched between Mama and Maw Maw in the back. Mama held a knotted-up Kleenex. Marrlee boo-hooed because that’s what she thought she was supposed to do. I sat there all stoney-faced because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Maw Maw didn’t do much of anything but hum “Rock of Ages” and stare out the back window.

When we turned onto Fifth Street, Daddy cleared his throat like he always did before starting a conversation. “Real bad the way Bud died.”

That got everyone’s attention. We’d never heard Daddy refer to Uncle Bud without calling him “no-a-count.” And it sounded like he felt kinda sorry Uncle Bud had passed.

Then he glanced at Paw Paw. “You know . . . he really didn’t care for Mary Ann’s famous mashed potatoes without gravy.”

Paw Paw nodded, smiled, and grunted, “Uh huh.”

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Tom Davis’ publishing credits include Poets Forum, The Carolina Runner, Triathlon Today, Georgia Athlete, Proud to Be: Writings by American Warriors Vol. 3, A Loving Voice Vol. I and II, Special Warfare., and Winston-Salem Writers’ POETRY IN PLAIN SIGHT program for May 2013 (poetry month). He’s authored the following books: The Life and Times of Rip Jackson, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On, The Patrol Order; and The R-complex. www.oldmp.com/davismemoirs & www.oldmp.com/e-book Tom lives in Webster, NC.