Day 7, Continued (and you thought I'd forgotten!):

We put on our family shirts. They're nothing more than red Haynes beefy-t's from Wal-Mart. They come in handy at Twins games and such, to keep track of everyone.

My last name used to be Horter. So my sis jokes that the family needs a Horter collie, to keep us all together, and that's what the red shirts are for.

And off to the reunion we went.

I can only do this in little bits. I can't remember it all at once. Well, here's a little bit.

Mostly, I remember my cousin Shawna (sorry, can't think of a nickname for her) and her new tattoo. It was some graphic, I don't remember that, but under it was, "Love, Dad," in her dad's handwriting. I don't know why I instantly recognized his handwriting, but I did.

Shawna said that her sister had gotten one with some lyrics to one of the songs he used to sing all the time, and her brother had gotten one that said, "Mr. Asshole."

A family thing for them...'You're an asshole'...'That's MR ASSHOLE to you!'

Their dad died almost two years ago just after Thanksgiving.

I don't remember if I wrote about their dad when I wrote over on Nick's page. Probably. I know I wrote a lot about him, but I don't know if I could finish anything I wrote about him. He was one of those people who couldn't ever be contained, even in a brief, stupid story in a blog. He was destined for an abrupt end.

In five words: veteran, tortured, loving, hilarious, felon. And for the bonus, let's add Asshole to the list.

He died at age 59, in his new motor shop that he'd just finished, with a cigarette in his mouth. Probably drunk. Heart attack.

I love you, Uncle Jim. You shoulda been there.