Dewey was peculiar.
He was short. Not at all thin. A no-heller of the Baptist variety who wore a small face on a big head.
Fond of drinking songs and scripture, he carried a poke of tobacco in his left pocket, and an Oldtimer in his right – just in case he needed to stab something.
He handed out wisdom and insight like chicken wings at a southern reunion.
“Children,” he once addressed my brother and me, “just remember two things when you move back on that mountain. Grizzly bears kill. And polecat stink will stick to you for a month.”
Dewey was nine …. and our cousin.