“Mandy would have been eight and I would have been almost ten, the boys, a few years older. Our cousins from the town — Kath, a year younger than Mandy, and Kath’s two brothers, Peter and Paul, contemporaries of my uncle’s boys, Don and Shane — were big enough to bicycle down to the farm almost daily in order to swim, build forts in the woodlot and pastures, and take roles in increasingly complicated fantasies based on our collective devouring of the Hardy Boys mysteries and precocious Mandy’s r...eading of Oliver Twist. Their own father, my other uncle, Harold, had once attempted to make a living as a tobacco farmer, but the enterprise had proved so costly and eventually so risky that he sold his farm and kilns and went into an auction business. He was the bifurcating one, my Uncle Stan told us, would have been a keeper had everything not gone to the dogs, meaning had the lighthouses not been automated. Still, in spite of his otherness, I dutifully called him Uncle Harold and felt some pride when I watched him perform on the block, the gift of Irish oratory strong in him, selling off item by item, I now see, the detritus of the very world that had produced him.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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