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Grandpa Jones liked his whiskey about as much as he liked his rocking chair, which was appropriate, because you'd never see him with one and not the other. I used to love that he drank so much, because I always associated the smell of the never-empty glass with the feeling of laughter that was sure to bubble up from my stomach whenever he told me an outrageous story.

Maybe it was just because I was young and liked to talk to an adult without being patronized, or because I liked hearing someone swear so much and not care, but I never turned down an opportunity to hear a porch-side story. Sometimes, I would have no idea what he was talking about (what eight year old knows what a 'tart' is, or why they would 'smell like a pile of dead cod'), but I listened anyway, because I loved how he told his stories.

It was a warm, dry afternoon in August when my parents dropped me off at Grandpa's while they headed out to dinner and a movie. I was ten now, and starting to feel grown up, but didn't mind being babysat, as long as there was a good story in it for me.

As usual, Grandpa sat on the porch, rocking away, with a clean glass for him and a fresh pack of gum for me. I walked up the slate path and took a seat three steps up on the old splintered wooden porch, with my back to the same notched post I always did. Each notch in the post, accompanied by an age, marked my growth over the years, as the post opposite it marked my father's, when he was a boy.

Without a greeting, Grandpa tossed me the pack of gum and poured himself a glass three fingers deep. He downed a fair amount, sighing as he set the glass down, as if it were cool lemonade. Looking out at the lawn with a distant stare, he asked me, "Did I ever tell you about the boy who smelled like onions?" I shook my head, and he continued...

"The boy's name was Silus Moore. Must've been 'round seventeen when he took over his pop's farm, right up the road from this very house. Of course, this was back when nearly all the land around here were farms. Back around the time I finished building this house and your grandma and I took up living here.

Anyhow, the boy took over his daddy's farm when he passed away, which forced him to grow up mighty fast. He started growing as much crop as he could, onions, and sold them down at market every month, like clockwork to pay the bills. That boy worked so damn hard at farming that you'd swear by the smell of him that onions were growing somewhere under his shirt." Grandpa took another

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