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I used to have a ping-pong table in my basement, and my Great-uncle Ben (we just called him Uncle Ben) would come visit along with my Great-aunt Gertrude, whom polio had confined to a wheelchair, and they'd smell like a dop kit or like the lining to their American Tourister luggage; I'd bury my face in Aunt Gertrude's curly red hair and marvel at how many and how small her freckles were, and Uncle Ben would teach us how to play ping-pong (as a corrections officer in Chicago, I'm sure he spent a lot of time in break rooms, ping-ponging with the other guards), and when it got real hot he would change into a seersucker suit and take us to Crab Shanty on Route 40; he is a gentleman I've always been honored to be around.
photo by splunge
photo by TheophileEscargot
photo by Kronos_to_Earth
photo by ethylene
