No Shirt, No Shoes...No Problem!

by Jeff Foxworthy

  It would take four or five years just for hurt feelings to heal enough so that everyone could talk again. Suddenly the attitude would be, “Come on, come on, live and let live. Let bygones be bygones. They’re family!” Then we’d have another reunion and there’d be another fight.

  Occasionally the Foxworthy side and the Sheats/Camp side would meet, mostly at weddings. Unfortunately, the spirit of love was usually confined to the lucky couple, since Carole’s family didn’t much care for Big Jim, for obvious reasons. However, Big Jim and my grandfather James Camp still fished together all the time. They’d leave at five in the morning, after my granddaddy had already worked a full shift. My dad said he learned how to drive when he was tired on those trips. My granddaddy’s method was to pick something really far down the road, like a telephone pole, and then just sleep until he got to it. I remember riding to the farm with Big Jim and desperately trying to make small talk because I knew that otherwise he’d fall asleep. He hit a deer once. We were going about eighty. The impact woke him up, the car spun a 360 but managed to stay on the road. Unfortunately, the collision destroyed all the meat and we were really disappointed. I mean, what’s a car bumper worth when you’re talking about dinner for twelve?

  There were some interesting people in Big Jim’s mother’s family, the Abstances. The one I remember most was Uncle Joe, a preacher. At one reunion, when I was in high school, I had already started to do imitations, like of the Reverend Billy Graham. At the gathering my brother kept saying, “Hey, do Billy Graham!”

  It went something like this: “Well you know, people ask me, ‘Billy, is premarital sex bad?’ and I would say, ‘Pray about it—no, wait, I tell you, premarital sex does not have to be bad. It all depends on who…you…”

  That’s when Uncle Joe threw a glass of tea in my face. I stopped the imitation right then and there—until Uncle Joe left, and then I did it some more.

  One of my favorite family members was Uncle Sid. He could always make me laugh. Uncle Sid was funny not only in life but also in death. He passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-two. When I went to pay my final respects, I found Uncle Sid lying in his coffin, decked out in his best blue suit. He had a button on his lapel that read, “Who farted?”

  A funeral is really a family reunion minus one.

  I may have a family of crazies, but there’s also a select handful who don’t include themselves in the seriously afflicted group. We intentionally do stupid stuff with a wink to each other. We’re just kidding. The rest of them really need help.

  For instance, my brother and I have a tradition. All our lives we have told each other what we’re getting the other for Christmas the minute we buy it. My brother will come home from the mall and call me, and say, “You want to know what I’m getting you for Christmas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I got you a sweatshirt.”

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  “Florida State.”

  “Oh, cool. What color?”

  “Maroon. What’d you get me?”

  “Oh, blah blah blah.”

  Then, when the family gets together to open the Christmas presents, my brother will hand me mine and go, “Here’s your gift, Jeff, from me.” Then he’ll pause and say, “If you could have anything in the whole world, what would it be?”

  I’ll say, “God, anything in the whole world? You know what I’d really love? I’d love a sweatshirt.”

  “What kind of sweatshirt?”

  “A Florida State sweatshirt.”

  “What color?”

  “Maroon.”

  This is usually when someone in the family finally remembers what we do and says, “Dammit, you boys are doing it again.”

  The family’s covered dish Christmas party was always potluck. Everyone made something at home that they were especially proud of and brought it in a casserole dish. After some of the reactions these concoctions got as they were passed around the dinner table, I’ve wondered why the cooks remain so fond of their creations. My mother can’t go anywhere without making a congealed salad. It’s as if a bowl of Jell-O hit a can of Del Monte Fruit Cocktail at eighty miles an hour, then sat out on the roadside for a week. Adults will eat this stuff, but the kids just spend all their time picking out the fruit. One of my aunts cooks the green beans covered with “something.” You scrape off the “something,” save it to grease your car, and eat the beans.

  I always looked forward to seeing my uncle Jimmy at the party. He was a real character.

  About fifteen years ago he was shopping in one of those warehouse outlet suit stores and found the ugliest suit of all time. It was double knit, with huge lapels and giant bell bottoms, and all in bright red with black-and-white checks.

  The suit was on sale, of course, and Jimmy, sensing a bargain, bought it. Jimmy’s a big man; probably six four, 250 pounds. For somebody that large to wear something that awful just made the sight of him walking down the street even more horrible. Still, one of the major attractions each year at the Christmas party was to see if Uncle Jimmy would wear his suit.

  About four or five years ago the party was at Uncle Jimmy’s house. When we arrived, he answered the door. He wore the suit jacket, but not the pants. I bummed out on the spot. All I could say was, “Jimmy, what happened to the pants?”

  “I had to stop wearing them,” he said.

  “Are they damaged?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why?”

  “They went out of style.”

  I’ve got a bet with my brother that the jacket won’t go out of style before the pants come back in.

  The most fun I’ve ever had at a covered dish Christmas dinner was when I followed my aunt Dolores around and watched her work her special magic with an item called “fake vomit.” This gag played best if associated with a recipe someone always bragged about. It wasn’t the fake vomit that was particularly funny. In fact, it was disgusting in a latex sort of way. The best moments were Aunt Dolores’ wonderful sound effects and profuse apologies. I laughed so hard I was afraid I’d soil my undergarments. Every time I heard her proclaim, “It must have been that long car ride, that’s all I can think of,” I would snort like a pig and have to run out of the room. What amazed me even more than Aunt Dolores’ thespian talents was that the trick worked year after year after year. I guess people just don’t file vomit in the long term memory column.

  The holidays are a time for giving and sharing; it’s a time when love is in the air. Literally.

  As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said that all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay’s kids’ stockings overflowed, his poor panty hose hung sadly empty and grew increasingly threadbare.

  One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and a fake beard and went in search of an inflatable love doll. Of course, they don’t sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If you’ve never been in an X-rated store, don’t go. You’ll only confuse yourself. I was there almost three hours saying things like, “What does that do?” “You’re kidding me!” “Who owns that?” “Do you have their phone number?”

  Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll suitable for a night of romance that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour. I’m not sure what a complicated doll is. Perhaps one that is subject to wild mood shifts and using a French accent for no reason at all. (That also describes a few ex-girlfriends.) Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I’d only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I figured the “vibro-motion” was a feature Jay could live without, so I settled on Lovable Louise. She was at the bottom of the price scale. To call Louise a “doll” took a hu
ge leap of imagination.

  On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and cleverly left the front door key hidden under the mat. In the wee morning hours, long after Santa had come and gone, I snuck into the house and filled the dangling panty hose with Louise’s pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. Then I let myself out, went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.

  The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him very happy but had left the dog confused. He would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more. I suggested he purchase an inflatable Lassie to set Rover straight. We also agreed that Louise should remain in her panty hose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner. It seemed like a great idea, except that we forgot that Grandma and Grandpa would be there.

  My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. “What the hell is that?” she asked. My brother quickly explained.

  “It’s a doll.”

  “Who would play with something like that?” Granny snapped. I had several candidates in mind, but I kept my mouth shut. “Where are her clothes?” Granny continued. I hadn’t seen any in the box, but I kept this information to myself.

  “Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran,” Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room. But Granny was relentless.

  “Why doesn’t she have any teeth?”

  Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, “Hang on Granny, Hang on!”

  My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, “Hey, who’s the naked gal by the fireplace?” I told him she was Jay’s friend. A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. Sadly, he thought he was doing well. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa’s last Christmas at home.

  The big dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the panty hose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat screamed, I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth to mouth resuscitation. My brother wet his pants and Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and sat in the car. It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember.

  Later in my brother’s garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise’s collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape we restored her to perfect health. Louise went on to star in several bachelor party movies. I think Grandpa still calls her whenever he can get out of the house.

  Thanksgiving is also a magical day. One reason is that in my family we get to try out the same food we’ll eat a month later at the covered dish Christmas party. Another is that we get a pretty good idea of how much antacid we should stock up on.

  Thanksgiving is the way in which families spread hundreds of miles apart can be united. We share an afternoon and a bountiful meal, and soon enough hours have passed to remind us why we moved do far apart from each other in the first place. Then we all pile into our minivans and head back to our respective castles. The drive home is a wonderful opportunity to reflect with our spouses about who looked fat and how out of control their children were. We should stop to think about how wrong it is to judge others, but we don’t, especially when we realize how quickly this conversation makes the drive fly by.

  Being grateful on Thanksgiving isn’t limited to only that year’s blessings. It’s okay to give thanks for how lucky you are on Thanksgiving itself. For example, you can give thanks:

  For healthy, new babies and new in-laws (some prayers are more sincere than others).

  That you didn’t have to sit across the table from Uncle Lou again, a man who loves to talk, yet doesn’t like to wear his false teeth.

  That your home football team didn’t play on Turkey Day, so you don’t have to feel bad about sleeping through the second half.

  That your grandmother told the story about the time she went to church in two different colored shoes only fourteen times.

  That your cousin Mark didn’t ask you for a job again this year.

  That Uncle Bob washed his kids instead of his car for a change.

  That Aunt Dorothy brought cake instead of that crappy dressing of which she’s so proud.

  That Uncle Tom finally got his hearing aid repaired.

  That Uncle Tom’s hearing aid batteries went dead just when you called him a no count %$#*.

  That your cousin’s new wife didn’t wear a bra.

  That Grandpa hit your brother’s car instead of yours.

  That to Uncle Frank, whom you see only at this time of year, you still don’t have to say anything more than “Can you move your car so I can get out.”

  That your mom finally got the dishwasher repaired and has stopped using the dog in its place.

  That your dad’s video camera broke early in the day, so you didn’t have do that stupid “smile and wave” all afternoon.

  That this year dinner was at your brother’s house instead of Aunt Jessie’s, which always smells like a combination of mildew and cold cream.

  That Cousin Doug for once couldn’t make it. His habit of staring and licking his lips makes everyone uncomfortable.

  That on the first Thanksgiving the Pilgrims chose turkey instead of Spam.

  That today’s dinner was not too slow crossing the highway yesterday.

  Amen.

  This is a true story. A couple of years ago I did something I’d always wanted to do. I cashed in all my frequent-flier miles and took everybody in my family to Hawaii. Thirteen people. I thought it would be the vacation of a lifetime. It ended up being The Clampetts Go to Maui.

  If you can actually gather my family all in one place at the same time, I guarantee you there’s an empty K Mart somewhere. They showed up at the airport with coolers and grocery bags for luggage. The skycap asked my cousin Fred, “Which one’s yours, the Samsonite?”

  “No, we got the Igloo with the duct tape on it and the five Piggly Wiggly bags right there.”

  At the ticket counter I asked my mother, “Mom, would you like to sit next to the window?”

  She said, “Oh, I better not, I just had my hair fixed.”

  The movie they showed was Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey. Five minutes after it began my brother turned to me and said, “You know that ain’t them dogs’ real voices.” Then my sister got mad: “Well thanks for spoiling it for everybody else!”

  In Maui we stayed right on the beach. From our hotel room balconies we could see whales migrating. They came right up out of the water. That first morning my brother was more excited about this natural wonder than I’d ever seen him excited about anything.

  “Boy, I wish I had a gun with a scope on it,” he said. “Anyone know how much it costs to mount a whale? I’d have to get a bigger trailer, I tell you that.”

  You could tell which rooms were ours from the underwear hanging off the railings. Our hotel also became the site of the only peeing-for-distance contest ever held in Maui. I am ashamed to say my aunt Rose won in the second round. I don’t believe the hotel minded, though. They now include a little write-up about the contest in their advertising brochure.

  I started to wonder whether I should have taken my family so far from home when my uncle Doug kept asking, “When we gonna convert our money to Hawaiian money?”

  Later we went to a luau. After we finished the pig, they asked for volunteers to do the hula. Doug raised his hand. Halfway through
the dance we all realized Doug wasn’t wearing any Skivvies underneath his hula skirt. When we asked him about it later, he said, “Well, when I went to put that skirt on I noticed I had a hole in my drawers and I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”

  Got to give him credit for thinking it out, though.

  I love my family anyway. They’re good people. They just don’t get out much, mainly because of that no shirt–no shoes rule. They loved that hotel, though. They stole everything they could. They swiped the ashtrays while we were checking in. Didn’t even dump the sand out of them. One morning I had to dry myself off with toilet paper after my shower because my cousin had stuffed all the towels in a Piggly Wiggly bag. When the maid made the mistake of taking her lunch break and leaving her cart out in the hall, the family was on that like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat. Picked it clean. Later I asked my brother, “What are you going to do with 180 shower caps?”

  “Christmas presents,” he said. Then his wife got mad: “Well thanks for spoiling it for everybody else!”

  On the way back from Hawaii the family spent a few days with Gregg and me in Los Angeles. I took them to the La Brea tar pits to see the prehistoric fossils. My brother said, “Man, just don’t seem like dinosaurs would come this close to downtown, does it?” I’m not making this up, I swear. It’s just my bloodline.

  As I said good-bye to everyone at the airport, I started thinking that my family must be the biggest bunch of goobers in the whole world. By the time we’d been together only a week I’d already had fantasies about being adopted. Maybe I had a normal family that was desperately trying to find me. I imagined that they were financially secure, morally sound, and lived to love and support each other. Then I realized there is no such thing as a sane, functional family.