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Memories of Uncle Virgil

I don’t remember this happening, but Uncle Virgil loved to tell the story about how we were all wading in his creek (pronounced “crick”), when I stepped into a hole and went under. I must’ve been around four years old. He reached in with one of his giant paws, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and brought me up, “sucking water like an old catfish,” he liked to bellow. He would then bend over, slap the leg of his striped bib overalls, and belly laugh until I was red in the face.

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