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“‘Oh Chuck,’ Nan would say from the next room. You could al­most feel her shak­ing her head and rolling her eyes,” writes Jenny Hol­man of Ab­bots­ford, B.C. “Grandpa had done it again. He’d read a joke from the Reader’s Di­gest he thought was funny, then com­pletely butchered it while telling it to us. While all of us kids were cringing and groan­ing at another mas­sa­cred joke, he’d laugh so hard at his joke and could never un­der­stand why we didn’t get them. He’d even tell it a sec­ond or third time, just to make sure we weren’t miss­ing or mis­un­der­stand­ing his punch line. We never were! If we were laugh­ing along, it was be­cause of his re­ac­tion to him­self and how hys­ter­i­cal he thought he was. It didn’t mat­ter, we were mak­ing mem­o­ries. Lov­ing, fun, pre­cious mem­o­ries of our sum­mers in Bob­cay­geon, Ont. Nan and Grandpa are both hold­ing hands up in Heaven now. I can still feel them around, though. Es­pe­cially when I come across a copy of Reader’s Di­gest. As I’m flip­ping through, I can still hear Nan’s voice from the next room fol­lowed by Grandpa’s un­mis­tak­able laugh, gig­gling at him­self.”

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