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For pretty much as long as I can remember, my Uncle Sammy has been part of my life. I started hearing stories about him when I was a tot: true or false, there are lots of them, and I haven't heard all yet.
Let me first say I love my Uncle. I adored him in a childish way when I first met him, because he was big and busy. And ever since then his preaching sometimes brings bright tears to my eyes. But a long and active life can have several sides, and Uncle Sammy's been in the wrong more than once. At times he's pinned on a sheriff's badge to play outlaw.
When I first realized Uncle Sammy wasn't all goodness and light, I was a teenager. I didn't know how he could do some of those things and didn't want to believe it. Once I knew how nasty he could be, I got pretty mad. And Uncle Sammy wasn't the only one I stopped listening to.
Now I'm older and sift better. Nobody's perfect. My Uncle Sammy's a mess of a personality, as if angels and devils were fighting for his soul, and it's often a toss-up who will win. Learning about him is always like riding a rollercoaster up and down. But he's still part of the family, and we've usually been on speaking terms.
Things were OK for a while, and Uncle Sammy knew how our family felt. He knew that if I ever saw him pull one of his criminal stunts, I turn him in, post his bail, find him a lawyer, and then testify against him.
Uncle Sammy isn't doing too well currently. He's talking up his own saintliness, always a bad sign, and his voice doesn't sparkle anymore. There was a time when you could talk to him about his past: the people he freed or cheated or saved or killed, whether they needed killing or not; now he habitually lies like an alcoholic in denial. He needs professional help, before it's too late.
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