October finds my dad at the Miller family reunion in Southern Ohio. Miller is my dad's mother's family name. If you call me Nathan Miller, I might not respond unless you're looking right at me.
In Southern Ohio, real men drag dinosaur fish from the depths of Midwest waterways. These fish, popularly known as Muskies, were once banished to Canada by King Triton when he found them snacking on Flotsam and Jetsam, Ursula's evil eels. I assume you catch them with a baited diesel engine painted like a rhinoceros.
Real men not only risk life and limb hunting phantom fish, but they can throw a horse's shoe around a stake better than Pip, the cobbler's son. 
My dad's cousins torch the pits like Kevin Harvick, but when they're through, only their opponents feel the burn. Over the 'unions, my dad and I have learned to back off Brucy's hot hurlin' hand and take the beating with a smile. We can smile because we're always the first in line for orange drink and dessert.
I think the beatings finally got to my dad when he suggested a sport largely foreign to Miller family reunionites, and one that he and I love so well, G. O. L. F. golf. The last four or five years, we've rounded up two family teams in a scramble even Denny's would envy. Each year, the teams are never more than one or two strokes apart, which amazes me because I try to pick the best players and stick my dad with the rooks. He doesn't care though, 
he straps the rooks on his back and leads them to victory, like Mike Krzyzewski on his collegiate tennis team. Here he is next to my grandpa in his Cincinnati hat with Randy and Matthew. Two of his children chose UC as a nest to nurture their post high school thoughts, should they have any. Erin has graduated onto bigger things, but Alissa is
just beginning her stumble.... journey.... jumble into college life. Luckily, she has a family of dentists to guide her through her architecture program. What, you think they're not related whatsoever? Well, a building shaped like a giant tooth isn't worth crap in the marketplace if it's not anatomically correct. Alissa was lucky enough to attend the Miller family reunion this year, where my grandpa highlighted the similarities between bridges and bridges.As the sun sets on sleepy Southern Ohio, this update rests its heavy haunches in cybersleep, trusting that you will use your knowledge of my family and Southern Ohio for good and not sell it to telemarketers or blow it on some get rich quick scheme. If you do, and you're within one mile of my dad, you don't have a chance.
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1 comment:
Dear ??NathanIEL??? James, sorry to hear your given name isn't sufficient and that I never knew of your desire to follow in the path of Nathaniel Hawthorne and write terribly boring drivel that people only read when forced with no other option than 48 hours straight of Menudo at 140 decibels. Thank you for the kind treatment and for humoring this old fart. By the way we often use poodles,dashunds, pomeranians, or any other small and extremely annoying object (kittens anyone?) to catch the famous muskie. My largest trophy was actually secured using twenty baby ducks covered in oil-slick goop and banded together with a used vacuum-cleaner hose. But I must say with all modesty removed that there is no better family reunion than ours,we can beat you on the links, clobber you with horseshoes,allow you a last drink of the famous "orange drink" and then truss you up for some muskie-huntin'-and do it with class and a hardy laugh.
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