Raindrops Keep Falling on My Dead

I knew Uncle Buckster's pranks were far from over when I'd spotted the welcome mat in front of his tombstone. He'd made sure the forceful winds wouldn't blow it away by securely pinning a railroad spike at each corner. He'd always been a neat-freak. Killed in a rodeo accident three days earlier, my uncle wasn't ready to give up on life, love, or adventures. I knew this to be a fact. Uncle Buckster had already died three times in the past ten years. I couldn't help but wonder what stipulation he'd put in his will for me this time.