Tweety, I haven't sent you anything for awhile, so I thought I would submit a little snippet to let you know I am still in business. Enjoy, Dad ================================================ As a teenager on Coon Branch, I enjoyed walking the road after dark, either alone or perhaps accompanied by someone. The walk, by nothing more than starlight, from Matheny to our home, after church or a movie, was a regular occurence. I enjoyed the country solitaire and the night sounds. I was awed on clear nights by the heavens over me. In those days we could easily distinguish the milky way unencumbered by the pollution that is commensurate with city living and industrial progress. I even value the memory of the dogs barking in the distance or as I passed a house near the road. I paid them no mind; they were no threat. They all knew me; we were on a first-name basis. They were simply doing what was expected of dogs and would go back to sleep once I passed. I could count on passing two or three groups of cows lying in the road at various places along my route. I have on several occasions nearly stumbled over a cow because I was unable to see her until I was practically on top of her. There was no place darker than Coon Branch on a cloudy night. Often I could scarcely make out the road in front of me. I confess I was a little nervous at times, particularly after Uncle Sefton told that story about seeing a ghost as he was driving by the mouth of the Mackley holler one night. However, I got over it. Furthermore, I showed the world how brave I was by whistling as I walked by the graveyard. Nothing builds courage like whistling in the dark. Here's another: Going barefoot was the “funnest” thing. It was something that we did as youngsters that was so common that it could be easily overlooked on a list of life's simple pleasures. As children most of us loved going barefoot. I actually still enjoy that freedom of walking around totally barefooted on a beach or grass covered with morning dew without shoes or sandals encroaching on my feet. My friends and I could hardly wait for the weather to warm in the spring so that we could go “barefooted” (barefoot). We would take off our shoes and socks whenever we had the chance. We usually rushed the season. It was difficult at first until our feet became accoustomed to it, but after a few days, most young boys could walk over gravels and rocks and give it no more thought than they would have if they were walking on carpet. There was something about rolling our britches legs to our knees and going barefoot that had a special appeal for us all when we were in our early teens. We could run faster, jump higher, wade the mud puddles and we couldn’t care less about that despicable mud. We even worked barefoot in the fields. I try not to think about the negative aspects of going barefoot, but the memory of lost toenails from stubbing my toes and the pain of removing myriads of briars from the bottom of a foot that was tougher than a rhino’s hide wont let me forget. It seems that at least once each summer I managed to find a board with a protruding rusty nail to step on which made a wound that always got infected. It healed in time and I never went to a doctor for help.