I must have inherited the gene, you know, the story telling gene. My paternal grandfather had it. My maternal grandmother had it. My dad had it and so does his brother, my uncle. There is one good thing about that gene, it keeps family stories alive.
When our son was just a baby, still in diapers, we took him to meet my maternal grandmother, Grandma Feemster. She was anxious to meet her first great-grandson and we lived about 5 hours away. As soon as things settled down with such a small baby, we made the drive from North Texas to Central Oklahoma. Grandma was elated to have her photo taken with him and to hold and rock him in her favorite chair. After a few hours together, the room took on a certain aroma not unlike an outhouse. Yep, time for a diaper change. As Cindy was doing the diaper change, Grandma Feemster told one of her funniest stories.
"Once we were driving from the farm here in Oklahoma back to Mena, Arkansas in our Model "A". Of course the roads were just dirt and wound around all thru the hills in Southeastern Oklahoma. That old car was loaded with all four kids plus me and your Grandpa. Somewhere along the way, your Uncle Irving, who was just a baby, did number two in his diaper. Your Grandpa stopped along a creek so I could wash out the diaper. When I unfolded the diaper, I was looking at the messiest number two I had ever seen. I looked at your Grandpa and asked, 'Should I just throw it away?' and without hesitation he looked back at me and said, "Which one? The baby or the diaper? You know that kid will do that again.""
We both broke up laughing. What a funny story. I just had to pass this one along.