The two men on the right are my uncles. They have really hairy chests. One of them worked with Buford Pusser, and the other one can tell you who his great, great, great half-aunt twice-removed is. My daddy is the one on the left. He is 6 feet and 6 inches tall. He can kick your daddy’s rear end. This is Thanksgiving, 1987. I was eight and probably wearing a velvet sweat-shirt. I had bangs and sixteen first cousins. These were the days of screen doors, wood heaters, and messages written in driveway-dust on windshields.
When it was over, pine thickets and barn lofts, I didn’t know it. I just ran up out of the woods with it always behind me, and I’ve been running and running since.