I was one of the last generation to be born in the South — that's South with a capital "S." There were still mules and wagons on the streets, along with pre-WWII automobiles, when I was young. There was an identifiable regional cuisine, and we said, "y'all;" but only when referring to more than one person. There was, at least in hindsight, a graciousness and gracefulness to that time that is lost — and with great regret. 

My grandparents were raised by people who had been through the Civil War, and I was raised by people who had been through the Great Depression. All of this left some sort of mark, but not necessarily the sort one might expect. 

After some stuttering starts, I became—as I threatened to in college—a writer and have made my living putting one word after another for more than 50 years. After a lot of years, several millions of words committed in the service of other people's objectives, and a bunch of short stories and essays,  I finally had my first novel published. The Sing turned out to be a good deal more relevent than I intended it to be. Since then, my collection of essays More Than Just Cellular & Other Musings on Life Past, Present and Eternal has been published.

Now, with a lot more behind me than in front of me, I've found that it's worked out pretty well. I'm still married to the girl I first kissed when she was 12 and I was 15. I have two children who grew up to be good, responsible people and who have married good people. I have grandchildren who forever amaze me. And, browsing through all the work I've done, I still find a few things that make me very proud. I've been blessed beyond anything I deserve.