There are variations of my grandfather’s story, but I prefer this one. Mostly, because it came from my great-aunt Sophie, and she never said anything that wasn’t true. Or at least, true enough. She was the keeper of our stories. From births to deaths, weddings to wakes; new jobs, new homes, new dreams, if it involved a Webster, Aunt Sophie wrote it down. That job fell to me a few years ago when, at the age of eighty-two, she fell off her bicycle, hit her head, and died.
(Let that be a lesson for you — You are never too old to wear a helmet. Aunt Sophie would back me up on this if she could.)
This story began fifty years ago when Grandpa Webster had a dream. In it he dreamed that his ancestors had been druids, and this pleased him immensely. The whole wise man, mystical…
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