Stripper pants, cleavage and egg salad sandwiches.

Guess what those three things have in common.

If you guessed my uncle’s funeral, congratulations, you win a prize. I have an old Scrabble board game missing a few letters I’ve been meaning to get rid of. I’ll ship it your way.

Yesterday was my uncle V’s funeral. Family congregated to say goodbye to the man who once grabbed my ridiculously good looking husband and welcomed him to his home by french kissing him.

It was and likely will remain one of my favourite family memories. My husband, of course, may have a different opinion. Nothing says “Welcome to the Miller clan pretty boy!” like the roving tongue of a drunken uncle who is looking to get a laugh.

And laugh we did. (Sorry it was at your expense Boo, but like they say, what ever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. And more tolerant. And slightly more suspicious of all future in-laws who approach you gregariously intoxicated.)

Yesterday, my uncle’s children, his siblings, his friends, his nieces and nephews and his entire community gathered in a small rural farming town to say good bye to the cowboy who always had a broad smile and a bear hug for me whenever he saw me.

Yesterday we laughed. A lot.

I think my uncle would have liked that.

I know he would have liked it a whole lot more if someone french kissed my husband just to see him blush, but sadly, my husband is on high alert for roving errant tongues now.

Yesterday, as the world said good bye to the man who was my uncle, I said hello to the people who I share blood with.

I was surrounded by the finest rednecks in all of Alberta. For once, I finally fit in. I was with my peoples.

It felt good.

But it would have felt a whole lot better if Uncle was there to slap my husband on the arse and call him Pretty Boy.