When I was a child, we had an annual reunion of my grandmother’s children, always held at my Aunt Ida and Uncle Al’s grand, two-story showpiece of a house on Sixteenth Street in Bessemer. One of the most memorable of these festive gatherings took place when I was seven.

The 1956 reunion began with spit-shining everything in sight, spending days in the kitchen preparing baked goods, and assembling fine china, silver, and crystal for setting three large mahogany dining tables, placed together so that they resembled a huge T. Folding chairs borrowed from the First Presbyterian Church provided extra seating for this grand ensemble.

My Aunt Ida, all atwitter, wringing her hands as she darted from room to room, issued orders to the rest of us, including me and my brother. I was to set the tables, play hymns on the organ (it calmed my aunt’s nerves), and keep every last bit of dust out of the dining room. My four-year-old brother, Fred, had only two orders: stay out of the way and out of the mud.

My grandmother’s seven children and their families filtered in one by one. Among them was Paschal (the Snake Watcher), now called Pat, who’d moved from the mountains of Tennessee to the higher ones of Utah. There, he married a timid Mormon woman, my Aunt Jane, whole-heartedly embraced the Mormon community, and later, fathered a son named Lewis.

No father was ever prouder of a son. And though he was not red-haired and freckle-faced like his dad, there was no denying the resemblance otherwise. Even at four years old, Lewis walked like his dad, talked like him, and carried himself exactly as his devout father did. He could quote scripture as readily as any minister, wore a suit and tie just like his father’s, and rarely caused a commotion.

The other members of the family would whisper, “Pat’s here. Watch your mouth, now. Don’t say anything to offend him.”

We all knew to be on our best behaviour when Uncle Pat, Aunt Jane, and Lewis were around. So, with the table set, the food in its place, and manners polished, the lot of us took our seats at the grand tables for this reunion dinner.

There was no question of who would say the blessing. That task, of course, fell to the little preacher himself.

“Lewis, honey, would you say Grace for us?” my Aunt Ida asked.

Lewis nodded, folded his hands, and began a long, sweet prayer thanking God for not only the food but for every blessing he could think of, including his new red bicycle.

Hungry family members began to fidget. Stomachs growled.

Finally, we heard Lewis say, “Amen.”

As everyone looked up, ready to eat, Lewis smiled and added a footnote to his prayer. “And now, will you all please kiss my butt. Pass the potatoes,” he added sweetly.

We sat in stunned silence until my brother elbowed me, and we both forgot our manners. We burst out laughing, aware that we had violated a cardinal rule of table etiquette.

Suddenly, my mother, my grandmother, and my Aunt Ida, along with several others, left the table carrying plates that didn’t need to be refilled. Laughter pealed from the kitchen.

Uncle Pat, Aunt Jane, and Lewis ate as if nothing had happened.

I heard for years afterward that my family members had all said, “Well, if it had been one of Frollie’s (my mother’s nickname) kids, we wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. But Lewis?”

Lewis grew up to have an illustrious career as a fighter pilot then later an instructor. He’s lived and flown all over the world, raised three successful children, and remained devoted to his father.

Yet every time we see Lewis, my mother invariably says, “Lewis, do you remember the time when…”

Lewis just shakes his head as he listens for the hundredth time about his racy blessing fifty years ago.

“I was only four years old,” he insists, as if that will change the continued retelling of the tale. He swears that no matter what else he achieves in life, he will always be defined by a single incident that occurred when he was a little boy.

Much to his dismay, he’s absolutely right.

Even at her age (82), my mother still taunts Lewis every time she sees him. It is one of her most pleasant memories now. She laughs and laughs every time she tells that story.

Lewis visited not long ago, and of course, my mother wasted no time in reminding him of his earlier transgressions. But Lewis just laughs at it now. God’s Grace has given my mother a pleasant memory which she delights in almost daily and my cousin Lewis the strength to hear it again and again and still be able to laugh.