Papa George

A Georgeism

I love my father-in-law George. I don’t think I could love him more if he were my own daddy.

George has the heart of a servant. He loves to cook and feed people and he loves to take care of people. I can’t remember a Thanksgiving meal where I didn’t look up half way through to see George loading up his car with “leftovers” – if you consider half a ham and an entire pie left over – to take to a friend who wasn’t feeling well, or an elderly shut-in or just someone he came across who was short on worldly wealth. Nearly everyone along the Red River has been on the receiving end of George’s hospitality at one time or another.

I say this in advance of what I’m about to tell you because I don’t want you to think I’m making fun of George. I adore him and he makes me laugh. Although not always intentionally. He will sometimes misappropriate a key word in a story in such a way that it gives it a lot more flavor.

For example, awhile back, I called to talk with my mother-in-law and George answered the phone. When I asked him where she was, he reported that she had gone out to the hospital to have her breasts monogrammed. Oh really? Her initials or His and Hers?

And I thought mammograms were uncomfortable.

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