While he was a vapid defender of the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest, he was not personally inclined to go mucking about in it. He claimed the years of hardship and deprivation had exacted a terrible toll on his body, leaving him with a mysterious collection of bone-grinding ailments that made it impossible for him to survive even a single night in the great outdoors. I'd believed him. In the fall after my twelfth birthday, he announced one evening over dinner that he had arranged for me to spend the weekend over in Ellensburg, pheasant hunting with a couple of my unless. They weren't actually uncles. People who came to the house for social occasions had full names. Mr. Handley, Council man Baines. Then there were the drunks and reprobates, the remnants of the old man's former life whom my mother refused to allow in her home. They were uncles. A spirited argument ensued. My mother, showing her usual uncanny powers of memory, dredged up each and every foible, folly, and felony readily attributable to the chosen pair.
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