I was at the local Wal-Mart last summer when I ran into a good friend of Uncle Johnnie’s. Edie Karbunkle had been his lifelong friend, but the two had not seen each other in years.

“How’s your Uncle Johnnie doing?” he asked.

“Not well Eddie,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s got colon cancer. He’s dying.”

“Get outta town,” shouted Eddie. “I thought nothing but his own spit and venom would ever kill him.”

Well, that just about summed it up. Uncle Johnnie, you see, was a gloriously aggressive killjoy – a real cantankerous curmudgeon, in an obstreperous sort of way. Don’t get me wrong, he was nice as long as he wasn’t around crowds, children, politicians, loud music or those who possessed an opinion. Friends were few and far between, and tolerated only when he had his daily antacid, Beano, and shot of Drambuie.

The thing is, Uncle Johnnie had a temper. When he wasn’t opening his child proof aspirin caps with a hammer, he was usually out-shouting someone about the business of the day. He didn’t lose too many arguments because shouting was a skill he honed with lots of practice. His daily foul moods could leave people with a glaze over the eyes that would make a ham proud. It’s not hard to understand why having friends was not a priority in his life.
Not too many fancied his seasoned opinion on subjects either – whether food, fashion, wine or misdirected youth. Anyone younger than 50 was a scruffy headed young punk - viewed with a suspicion akin to a Russian border guard. Not a few girl guides were grilled on the suspicion of selling tainted sugar cookies at his door.

I’m not sure what made him so belligerent, but I do know what made him happy. You see, Uncle Johnnie was fond of saying he supported all movements . . . of the bowels. Colon health was an obsession with him and every day at 8 a.m., he would down a half litre of Wal-Mart’s finest prune juice (or nature’s turbo laxative as he called it) and wait for the inevitable battle of bowelsburg to start.

“Nothing better for you,” he would holler with sweaty anticipation. “Cleans out the pipes lickety-split like Roto-Rooter.” By 8:30 came the inevitable, “Incoming,” and woe to anyone who dared occupy the family throne at that particular time. Gaseous and half-mad with cramps, he would pound the bathroom door, hopping on one leg and cursing up a blue storm neither fit for sailor nor biker. The next 45 minutes were definitely bathroom downtime, and unless you knew a neighbour real well, you could end up looking like a beached blue whale - bloated and swollen.

It’s not known how Aunt Emma, his wife of 45 years could endure him so long, but she was definitely “the gentle wind that quenched the fire in the gullet of a real pain in the rear,” as a good friend of mine used to say. Beleaguered and frazzled are the only words that come to mind when I think of her, yet she endured all with a constant smile.

Still, they had love, in a wind whipped and strangled sort of way. It’s hard to see how she endured his freestyle, angry-at-the-world grouchiness all those years. Coupled with his back aches, foggy sight and sex drive of a week old doughnut, he was a real wet blanket to be around. I’m still not sure how Aunt Emma wasn’t nominated for sainthood.

The other person who stuck around was Eddie. But you’ve got to wonder why even he hadn’t been around for a few years. Did the passing years bring on a case of cantankorization extreme even for Uncle Johnnie? We’ll never know, because Eddie’s not talking and Uncle Johnnie is dead and buried.

Aunt Emma is fond of saying that on stormy nights you can hear the bellowing voice of Uncle Johnnie shouting, “Incoming.” I could never figure that one out until she told me years later that she had him buried with a bottle of his favourite prune juice.