Grampa lived to be ahundred and eight. He died when his horse bucked him off down by the plum tree. Grampa loved that old plum tree. Every summer he'd pick them plums and lay 'em out in the sun to dry so he could eat home growed prunes. We all figured that since Grampa loved that old tree so much, we oughta put him in the ground right where he died. So we put up a nice wrought iron fence with a nice gate. Got him a real nice headstone and we layed old Grampa to rest right there under that plum tree. Come next summer, we was pickin' prunes right off the tree. That's right! Them plums would get ripe and turn to prunes right there on the branch. It was the dambdest thing. But what really chased the cat out of the pantry was, when you ate 'em they gave ya ahundred and eight year old gas! Do you know what ahundred and eight year old fart smells like? Depends.