When I was little, I had an Uncle Cleat who played the harmonica.

His name actually was Clinton or Clint for short, but because he always favored boots with cleats on the bottom and sounded like a walking tap dance routine, we all called him Cleat.

When he visited for Thanksgiving, I always asked him to tap dance because I loved hearing the sound of those cleats on the bare floors. He’d grab my hand and say, “Lemme show you a buck and wing, and we’ll do it together!” Buck and wing was more of an Irish clog dance with a whole lot of leg flinging, but Uncle Cleat incorporated it into his attempt at tap dance, so of course, I did too.

The night before Thanksgiving, I always spent hours at my mother’s elbow, helping to chop vegetables for the stuffing, watching her crease the pie crusts, an

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