Ginna Saunders Ballard

Uncle John and the Notebook

“It's mah lahf! Mah freedom!” my Uncle John yells as I pull up to the drop-off line at the junior high. I glance over at him. He’s wearing black-rimmed, coke-bottle glasses that give his small, creased eyes an owlish look. His short, stubby fingers are balled into a fist, and he is pumping the air in front of me to emphasize his life and his freedom. His tongue is tucked into the corner of his mouth and he is for sure mad. "I only asked you to straighten up your papers a little bit bud," I reply.