Correctio (cor-rec’-ti-o): The amending of a term or phrase just employed; or, a further specifying of meaning, especially by indicating what something is not (which may occur either before or after the term or phrase used). A kind of redefinition, often employed as a parenthesis (an interruption) or as a climax.
It was the best time I ever had, but it wasn’t perfect. I had learned from Uncle Joe that nothing is perfect, but we say it anyway as a kind of hyperbole—a sort of exaggeration giving it’s subject a greater degree of presence, making whatever’s being said more persuasive.
And what was that best time? Uncle Joe took me to the carnival visiting our town. It was wild—there was “El Ropo” who could tie himself in knots. When we saw him, he had tied himself wrong, abd had called me out of the audience to untie him. I saw where he had mistakenly tied his hands together. I pulled his thumb and he farted loudly and came untied, much the delight of the audience.
After that, we rode the mini-roller coaster. I puked on Uncle Joe’s shoe. We grabbed napkins from the funnel cake stand and wiped off his shoe and washed it in the drinking fountain by the rest rooms.
Next up, was “African Safari” a sort of shooting gallery with BB guns. You shoot at playing cards with images of animals on them. The farther away they are from the shooter the greater the prize. The top prize was a motorcycle if you hit a card that was 30 feet away. There was a little hole, the size of a BB, in the rear of the gallery about 15 feet away. You had to shoot through the hole to hit the top prize. You got five shots for fifty cents. I hit nothing and won a booby prize. It was a little green plastic pencil sharpener.
It was already time to go home. But Uncle Joe wanted to see one more attraction that people under 18 weren’t allowed see. It was called “Exotic Melon Dancers.” I had bo idea what “melon dancers” were. I waited a half-hour for Uncle Joe. He exited the tent with a red feather scarf around his neck. He looked really happy.
He said he couldn’t wear the scarf home or there would big trouble, So, he gave it to me. When I got home, I walked into the living room with it wrapped around my neck. My father threw down his newspaper and said “I always knew you were a pansy. Go to bed! We’ll talk about this in the morning!” He pulled off my scarf as I walked past him.
The next day Dad took us to a rifle range—we fired guns for about one hour. Then, he took me fishing. We caught about 80 sunfish. They died in the boat we rented, and we threw them overboard. We ended the day watching a “Dirty Harry” movie. When we got home, my feather scarf was gone. I asked my father if he knew where it was. He said, “We gave it to your sister, and you’re not allowed to hang out with Uncle Joe any more.” I protested and my father sent me to my room.
