The phone rang at 6:45 this morning.
That can mean only one of two things. One of my daughters has a problem or Uncle Slappy needs to talk.
It was Uncle Slappy.
"A cough," he started, "A cough I have for three weeks and can't get rid of."
"I'm sorry, Uncle Slappy."
"To Dr. Richard P. Cohen I am going this morning."
"Good, he'll probably just give you an anti-biotic and knock it out of your system."
"Richard P. Cohen, the doctor, not Richard T. Cohen, the podiatrist."
"I got that Uncle Slappy." I waited, pregnantly for Slappy to continue.
"I just hope ammonia I don't have."
"Pneumonia, Uncle Slappy."
"That too," the old man said, and he hung up the phone.