It takes guts to tell this story, because my Mother thinks it's a sin. Still, she laughs as she tells me it's not funny. Because that's the choice you make when the alternative is to cry.

THE SETTING...

Where babies are delivered by postal carrier, of course. Photo credit: Kent Barrett

It takes place in Newfoundland, in Mom's home town — A place that by most anyone's account is remote. But the town is practically a character in this story, so I need you to know a little more. It's a seaside fishing village with dinghy boats and docks, but almost no one there learns how to swim. Because the water's too cold. All the time. No exceptions. It's the North Atlantic — much of the year, there are literally icebergs straight ahead.

It has is a market, a school and a post office. The church is the center of town. There's a hospital within an hour drive. But most of the residents, at least during my Mom's time there, were born at home. Delivered not by a stork, but a mail carrier, of course — You see, the local Postmaster was also official midwife.



THE EVENT...

	Note: Beer transportation devices like this one are also useful for gardening. Photo Credit: Erix

So, a few years ago Mom and I went there — it was an unofficial reunion of sorts. Her first visit back in 25 years was timed with her brother's first homecoming after several decades too. My mother is from a huge family, and I only know most of her siblings through letters and cards. But this particular uncle, I'm quite close to. He adores me even though I'm "soooo American." And despite his constipated look when he says that, I'm pretty fond of him too.

That's why I volunteered to accompany him to the store. We'd run out of beer at the house. The "welcome home" dinner-turned-kitchen dance party was turning up all sorts of relatives and just warming up. So we did what anyone in that situation would do: We grabbed the wheelbarrow and walked to the market to make sure we had enough.



THE MAN IN THE HAT...

Hats with ear flaps are funny. Ailments of someone wearing one are not. Photo Credit: Jayne Cobb

We were the only customers in the little shop until a another man shuffled into the scene. He was older, but not elderly. His eyes were much younger than the rest of his face. He wore a brightly colored hat. One that a loved one had obviously made for him. He just stood in the doorway, quietly, with his hands on his hips.

"Oh God," my uncle said under his breath while giving me "the eye" that said he couldn't believe it. He quickly paid and placed the last pack of beer in the barrow. Then grabbed the handles and began to walk with purpose.

"Hello, Billy" he said as he wheeled around the hat-clad man, and continued out the door as if he'd just seen this person yesterday.

"Me guts're bleedin'" the man in the hat replied. His tone was even and casual.

"Are you OK?" I asked, part concerned, part curious. It was a statement that would get anyone's attention.

"Me guts're bleeeeeeeeeee-eeeee-eeee-eeeee-eeee-eeeedin'" he said directly to me, this time loudly and with rhythm.

I was struck dumb and wild-eyed with fear, unsure of what to do next. I was desperate to think of solutions, but the only thoughts in my head were questions. Was this man truly ill? Did the town have a doctor? Did his family know that he'd gotten loose?

My uncle was getting anxious outside.

"Come on, Pickles" he called in through the door, rocking the wheelbarrow like he was revving it to go.

"Me guts're bleedin'" he said again.

I shifted from foot to foot a little more.

"Jesus, yer brain was bleedin' yesterday, Billy, which is it?" the cashier chimed in. She was counting money and never looked up.

"Me guts're bleedin'" he said directly to her. I took the opportunity to quietly excuse myself and tip-toed out the door.


THE GETAWAY

This caper had gotten a little weird. Photo Credit: Sparkleice

The walk home with the wheelbarrow wasn't as much fun. This caper had gotten a little weird. I wanted to talk about the strange encounter in the store, but my uncle was somewhere far away. It was his first outing at home in decades, no doubt he had a lot on his mind. But I'd only been there a few times that I was too young to remember. I was only vaguely connected to that surreal place.

"How pitiful. How strange. Who was that guy? Is he's OK?" I continued with the questions and observations of a voyeur in a world apart from her own.

Finally, my uncle looked at me like he couldn't believe I was so naive... "I don't know how to break it to you dear," he said in a tone that conveyed a little contempt mixed with pity. He set down the wheelbarrow in the road to deliver the news... "That's our cousin Billy."



THE MORAL

	Life is tragic, and I'd rather laugh than cry. Photo credit: Jennerally

Somewhere between that spot in the road and our destination, this story became uproariously funny. Not because people suffer, but in spite of it. Some people won't allow themselves to laugh at this, because they'll think I'm making fun of Billy. Nope, I'm the buffoon that I'm laughing at. Me with the ego feeding me ideas about who I am. Separate from that place, different from those folks, disconnected from anything that doesn't suit some image of myself in my mind.

But sometimes you get a little perspective. With one real fact, you figure out how those ideas of self are mostly fiction. And it dawns on you that you're a fool. I'm sorry, but that's just plain hilarious.

So who am I?

I'm Billy's Cousin. And that makes me less of a fool.

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