Hollowfox and I were talking. She was the one who remarked that every family has an Uncle John, who's a bit of a character and provides us with some interesting stories.
With this in mind, I am starting this thread. Tell us the story of your Uncle John.
Mine, my great uncle, John Caldwell, was born in 1877 grew up in Cincinnatti, the son of a prominent politician, in a large house on Glen Parker Avenue.
One fateful day, his mother asked him to blow the stump out of the wash house yard. I don't think she expected him to use dynamite, and I'm almost certain she didn't expect him to do it on wash day. Yes, the wash was hanging out to dry. Most of it had to be re washed, except for some of the larger pieces that had been stretched on frames, and now had large holes created by flying pieces of stump.
Great grandmother, so the story goes, sat on the back porch and laughed. She knew this was something she wouldn't have to tell John not to do again. (And she didn't have to do the laundry.)