Jack watched his son nervously. He didn’t know what to expect, and the presentation could go either way. It would either turn out well, or it would turn into a public roast.
“My dad was born Jacob Angus Morrow on December 2, 1955. He was born in Fox Hollow, at the farm. He is the oldest of four kids. He is an especially stubborn fellow. He has to have things his way. But, he gets stuff done, and he hates letting people down. He didn’t get straight A’s like my aunt, but he did get on the honor roll just about every semester at Steeplechase. He was on the football team like me. After high school he went to trade school for carpentry, married my mother, and had five kids, the coolest of all being me.”
At this point Jack was staring at him with in disbelief, arms crossed over his chest, while Tommy bragged about just how awesome he is.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. In all seriousness though, something about my dad that I always found interesting. He had the opportunity like my uncles to go to college and take on a different trade. My uncles decided to be lawyers, but Dad chose to stay local, stay at the farm. Family is important to him. Fiercely important. He always says, ‘You can’t pick your family, Tommy, but even so, I think we made out pretty damn good.’ He’s protective of us. The biggest thing my father ever taught me is family comes first. Before friends, before money, before anything else. Loyalty might not mean a lot to the world out there, but to us, it means everything. We might joke a lot, complain a lot, but when it comes down to it we are loyal to each other, and that’s all that counts. So I can make fun of my family… but don’t you dare!”
Tommy grabbed his foam board and walked off the stage with a laugh, leaving Jack gawking at him. Under his breath he mumbled in shock.
He actually has been listening to me. I can’t believe it.
Mrs. Mitchell checked her clipboard, and called Blake’s name. Blake got up from his seat, a single VHS tape in his hand. He handed it off to Mrs. Mitchell before climbing up the steps.
“I’m going to do something a little different. My subject is my Uncle Frank.”
Suddenly the overhead projector showed a grisly picture of Frank that could have been a mug shot. In the photograph, he is wearing his work uniform, his forehead is wrinkled, eyes and lips curled into an irritated look. As soon as the picture graced the screen, the audience begun to laugh. Frank, who was walking up the center aisle at the time, stopped in his tracks.
“Oh, hell.”
Blake, laughing behind his hand, waved his uncle on with the other. Frank decided to be a good sport, smiled and waved at everyone as he announced, “Don’t I look dashing up there!”
“The man on the screen is my uncle, Frank Kilpatrick. He might look cranky, but he’s a pretty cool guy.” Frank, now standing directly to the left of the projector screen, stood with his arms crossed and gave the audience a dubious look.
“Uncle Frank was born Francis Eamon Kilpatrick, and he was born in Innerweck, Scotland -“
“Innerwick!” Frank corrected.
“Oh, right. Innerwick, Scotland and he lived there until he was seven. Then he came here. His dad and my grandfather were work partners at the farm for a long time, so it was only natural that he and my dad hit it off. To this day, they are inseparable.”
Blake switched to a photograph of a pair of scrappy looking kids together, giving each other a high five on a baseball field.
“Look at these two misfits. The kid on the right with the freckles, blue t-shirt and scabby knees would be Uncle Frank and the boy on the right with the missing teeth and dirty face is my father. They are still best friends. Uncle Frank didn’t get straight A’s, but he is smart as a tack.”
With a matter-of-fact tone, Frank proclaimed loudly enough for everyone to hear: “I didn’t test well,” gaining some mild laughter from the crowd.
“After high school, he briefly enrolled in the Navy. He saw some action, but fortunately enrolled only six months before the end of the war. He was discharged at the end of the Vietnam War. When he came home, he married my Aunt Bridgette, and they had a kid. Some crazy kid named Shane. Now he splits his time between his job at the Department of Transportation and our farm.”
“Are we done yet?” Frank asked impatiently, as Blake seemed to be wrapping up.
“Not quite. Unpause the video.”
Mrs. Mitchell pushed play and the video continued to stream on the project screen.
“For years I could never understand what my uncle had ever did to earn the nickname Bulldog. Though a lot of people think my uncle is threatening-looking, he’s actually a very nice guy. Much like myself. Let’s watch.”
The video showed the kitchen of the Morrow house where Frank was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper with a disgruntled look on his face.
“Uncle Frank?” asked Blake, trying to get his attention. Frank grunted, engrossed in his newspaper.
“Uncle Frank?” asked Blake again.
“Yeah, kid?” responded Frank, attention still on his newspaper.