Adventures with the Gout-Ridden Reverend

My poor dad has one leg that goes straight down from his calf into a huge, puffy foot that ends in five swollen toes that each seem to be straining away from each other. They look like they might pop right off. This doesn't slow him down, much, though. He's just hobbling around and ordering anyone within hearing distance to meet his needs. We drove down to Decatur, Alabama to give the smallest nephew to his dad, who he's not seen in half a year. The smallest nephew was thrilled to see his dad. He locked himself in his dad's car, he was so anxious to go home with him. He wants to see his brother and all his brother's family. Earlier, the littlest nephew went right up to the biggest, scariest biker you've ever seen and said, "Is that your motorcycle?" and this big grizzly guy broke into a big grin. "You wear a helmet?" the littlest nephew asked and the guy said yes and stood there and answered his questions, as best as he could make them out. Then, he got on his motorcycle, revved it loudly, and, when the littlest nephew cheered, he waved and drove off. He's a little heathen--not in the religious sense, but in the social sense--but he's not my kid, so I find it impossible not to be charmed by behavior that probably would drive me insane if he were my kid. He's ordering the waiter to bring us our bill. He's yelling, "Bring it on" and running at you to play fight, in the middle of the store. He's always talking to everyone. And he says stuff that about breaks me in two, like "Are the cops coming? Are they going to shoot me? Are they going to take you to jail? Are they going to kill some babies?" "No, no," I say, "Cops don't shoot little boys. They help little boys. If you have a problem, if something scary happens, you can count on the police to help you." The Reverend is playing cribbage with the Butcher and the Redheaded Kid, so the most common noise from my childhood--sixteen two, sixteen four, sixteen three and two are eight--is filling my house. It makes me happy. My dad is asking me to tell you guys that the more money y'all give to Methodist ministers, the more your personal income will increase. But it must go to the ministers, not to the church, and it doesn't matter if you're Methodist. I'm not sure this is the ideal way to raise money for his retirement, but it beats whatever the Methodist church has conned him into participating in. Ha. Don't tell him I said that.