“Joey, pull my finger,” my uncle urged me. I’m not quite sure when that flatulence generating joke began, but it is so classic that it must’ve started about the time that man had a finger and an ability to fart. For me it was my seventh Thanksgiving, when my uncle uttered those four magic words. It was then I knew that I had to find a way to escape the kids’ table and make it to the nirvanic world known as The Table – where Jimmy and the adults ate and pulled each others’ fingers.
The kids’ table at our house was a red-legged folding table with a flimsy tabletop that resembled a pegboard without any holes. I never understood why the wildest of all beasts were put at the weakest of all tables. This year, I wouldn’t have to worry about that. I was sure that after sharing in the rite of the finger pulling that my uncle would invite me to join him at The Table. No more flimsy metal legs. No more childish conversations. No more airplane sounds as the spoon entered Eddy’s mouth. Yep – this was the year that I said niños adiós and hola adultos!
