Aunt Alexandra was Atticus’s sister, but when Jem told me about changelings and siblings, I decided that she had been swapped at birth,
that my grandparents had perhaps received a Crawford instead of a Finch.
Had I ever harbored the mystical notions about mountains that seem to obsess lawyers and judges,
Aunt Alexandra would have been analogous to Mount Everest: throughout my early life, she was cold and there.
When Uncle Jack jumped down from the train Christmas Eve day, we had to wait for the porter to hand him two long packages.
Jem and I always thought it funny when Uncle Jack pecked Atticus on the cheek; they were the only two men we ever saw kiss each other.
Uncle Jack shook hands with Jem and swung me high, but not high enough:
Uncle Jack was a head shorter than Atticus; the baby of the family, he was younger than Aunt Alexandra.
He and Aunty looked alike, but Uncle Jack made better use of his face: we were never wary of his sharp nose and chin.
He was one of the few men of science who never terrified me, probably because he never behaved like a doctor.
Whenever he performed a minor service for Jem and me, as removing a splinter from a foot,
he would tell us exactly what he was going to do, give us an estimation of how much it would hurt, and explain the use of any tongs he employed.
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