Once I had an uncle who gave socks to sad-sack soldiers. Once I had an uncle who climbed a misty mountain and sat atop the world, his lips sipping golden tea from a slight bottle of Jim Beam. I had another uncle, too. He was a roadside traveller. He went from town to town along dusty roads, his feet in well soled shoes. But who am I? A failed climber of a misty mountain? A roadside traveller in distress? What will they say of me, a man with no uncles and one small life to live? The answer I know is atop the world, a dusty road climbed best with high socks and well soled shoes.