As a transplanted subvenor, I know what it's like to roast in the summertime heat, but

even up here in the northeast, you'll get some days where the humidity is downright ignorant.

That's how my uncle Henry fears is it, turning the words into a dirty, expleted, sweet

Jesus, he'll say, it's downright ignorant out here.

Come July and August, Uncle Henry's farm is my sanctuary from the urban madness, the

hot asphalt, shimmering glass.

There's properties in a wasis where the sun sets early behind treetops and the weather

vain on the peak of the barn roof is always fluttering in the northwesternly breeze.

The farmhouse is mostly shielded from the midday sun by his ancient oak trees, the quartet

of towering sentinels that rise up to brush against the sky.

Henry's farm is a good place, and old uncle Henry is a good fella.

Henry's led something of an interesting life to put it mildly, and he's a lot of very

unusual tales to tell.

Sometimes they're whimsical in nature, sometimes they're thought-provoking, sobering.

Every now and then, they'll tell me a story that's pure nightmare fuel.

I'd like to think of the latter variety, either wildly embellished or outright fabrications,

but honestly, I have my doubts.

As my uncle is fond of saying, when I became skeptical in the face of some bizarre turn

in our conversation, ah hell, it's a big, weird, old world out there, kiddo, and I really

don't know jack shit about it.

Uncle Henry had been rambling around the house by himself since my aunt passed last year,

and he's always glad for some company.

...