My grandfather was born in 1900. It was a sad day in 1975 when the underlying

issues that had plagued him, his entire life finally caught up with him and he passed away.

He was truly a good man.

Before he died, he told me a story about when he and a friend of his were nine years old.

As little boys were inclined to do back then, they had taken up a game of cowboys and Indians

out behind a field. Armed with homemade slingshots,

they were taking pot shots at just about anything that could draw a bead on. There was a daisy. Pop! Now it was a dead daisy. Oh, look at that milkweed.

Bang! Splattered milk everywhere. They carried on in this fashion, shooting and conquering everything in sight.

They even took aim at a rock and it just ricocheted but they congratulated themselves on the fine effort. And then my grandfather saw the bushy tail of a

squirrel sticking out from behind a tree. With eyes filled with the glint of

mischief only a nine-year-old can muster, he loaded his

trusty slingshot and pow! He nailed that pesky squirrel right in the backside, but it wasn't a squirrel.

Roar! cried the squirrel with a deafening thunder as it stood up to over eight feet tall and stepped from behind the tree.

What was worse is right next to the giant two-legged squirrel was an identical giant two-legged squirrel who looked just as angry.

It's not a squirrel, it's not a squirrel, stammered my grandfather's friend as the

boys slowly began to back away.

Run! screamed my grandfather, and they both turned, grabbed hold of the wind and scattered.

My grandfather chose a route that took him straight to an old rickety two-seater outhouse that he knew was on the property.

He got inside and did his best to bolt the door before the creatures caught up with him and began to shake and rock the little

building with all their might. And inside my grandfather held on to the two holes as dirt and debris of the

ages rained down on his head.

He could smell the pit directly below him,

...