F.A.G.

Heres a story for you. My great uncle, Uncle Frank, was a fabulous man. He was a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker. In fact, that song was written about my dear old Uncle Frank. Okay, so he wasnt a smoker. And I have no idea what a toker is. But my Uncle Frank was still a fabulous man. He was my grandma's brother and ever since I was a little girl, I always remember him depositing himself in my grandfathers leather chair, soaking in the circus that consisted of myself, my brother and my 8 cousins. With 10 children constantly running around and constantly demanding attention, Uncle Frank was always there to lend a hand, a pair of eyes or some discipline when needed.

When the dinner was done and all the children satiated and fed, he would sit in the corner partaking in the "adult" conversation, his dark brown eyes shining. He always had a small, sharp moustache that he liked to rub with his fingers especially when telling a joke. He was a killer poker player and his bocce form was envied throughout southern Italy. My father likes to tell me that Uncle Frank was the original Renaissance Man. A great man. A family man.
I was only 7 years old when he passed away. In fact, his was probably the first funeral that I can actually remember. His cold, lifeless hands scared the crap out of me and I didnt understand how these could be the same hands that showed me how to make a cross out of palms or showed me how to throw the bocce ball with back spin. Children process death very differently than adults. This is a fact of life. And a story for another time.

However, several years later in my teenage years, my grandparents moved out their house to a smaller condo. While helping them move, my brother and I found a large box with miscellaneous items labeled F.A.G. We snickered. Like typical immature teenagers, we thought it was hilarious that my grandpa had actually labeled stuff FAG. Everything in the box had a big F.A.G. taped to it. My grandpa didnt have a mean bone in his body so this trite label was both fascinating and scary. We finally showed the stuff to my mom who put on a very somber face. She informed us that these were Uncle Frank's possessions. My Uncle Frank. Frank Antonio Gallo. F.A.G. My brother and I felt like someone had just slapped us in the face with a wet seal. We silently took the box to the trailer, let our hands linger on it for while and pulled the door shut.

At some point during all this, I managed to swipe a mini magnifying glass that my Uncle Frank had used to read the paper. There in big letters on the front, a bold F.A.G. I slipped it into my pocket thinking that it would come in handy some day. To this day, I have not used it. But it sits on my dresser for all to see. Some people see it and snicker. Some hold it up and give me a sort of WTF look. Others ignore it. But every time I look at those three letters, I think of my Uncle Frank's twinkling brown eyes, his sharp grey moustache and that magnificent bocce form.