I was always a curious child with a powerful determination to investigate my universe. Many people were not excited by this tendency. Some went so far as to label me "stubborn".

My mother was born Abbie Jean Moore and was only 18 when she gave birth to me at St. Vincent's Hospital in Gadsden, Alabama on March 5, 1947. Guess we kind of grew up together, but she did have a head start. I say "kind of" because she succeeded. My father had been recently discharged from the US Navy. Being 23 he had even more of a head start, but never managed to completely grow up. Thanks to him I can blame many of my more recent childish stunts on genetics. It is a good story, and I'm sticking to it.

My father was born Clauson Fort England in 1924, lied about his age in 1942 when he dropped out of the 10^th grade in reponse to the insult to "Miss Pearl". He spent the war years as a throttleman aboard the USS Mahinta Bay, a jeep carrier assigned to Pacific duty.

My grandfathers were very much alike. William Fort England, "Uncle Bill", retired from the coal mines near Margret, AL. William Horrace Moore, "Hoss", retired from the steel mill in Gadsden, AL.

Both were born in the 19^th century. Both worked with mules in their youth as automobiles were not common. Neither talked much of their youth. My guess is that either one could have been the source of my juvenile delinquent tendencies. Grandaddy Moore was missing a piece of his left ear. Said his girlfriend bit it off. It was a semi-circular notch that could have been a bitten off. Never heard anyone repeat a different story or expand on this story with names, dates or circumstances. One of the many family mysteries.

Grandaddy England spent his whole adult life in the mines. He was 26 in 1917, but as a coal miner he was exempted from military service. He became an expert at engineering mine railroads and the peacetime uses of explosives. He continued to work with explosives for many years. He kept dynamite in a cool place under the concrete steps of his front poarch until I was nearly grown. His experiences with explosives could explain why nothing ever got him excited. He remained calm and collected under all conditions. No, there was one time I remember seeing him angry. Don't know what made him mad. It was not me; so I don't remember that part. I was standing behind him and was much impressed by the expression on the face of the person who was the object of his anger.

Grandaddy Moore gave up logging when tractors replaced mules. "Mules can be trusted not to back over you, but tractors cannot. Mules have more sense than most people."

He would judge men by the number of mules he figured they could handle in a hitch. He had great respect for 10-mule men, but there were some who rated a "...could not handle a single mule."

After he quit his career at the sawmill, he went to work for the steel plant. His passion for wood continued. When he retired from the steel plant he became a master cabinet and furniture maker.

My mother encouraged him to make furniture without screws or nails. He made a lot of furniture out of linden. This is a blonde wood with dark streaks that almost look like mold, but it is incredibly hard. It does not spit or check and is as hard to cut with the grain as across making it prized by sculptors. My father introduced him to this wood by having him make very precise blocks from linden. These blocks were carved by my father and others into artificial legs.

A daybed my grandfather had made out of linden fell off our trailer onto a Texas freeway at 70mph. My dad was using it to hold down the tarp, but the wind got under the tarp anyway, popped it up like a big sail and launched the daybed high into the air. When we retrieved it, the only damage was a small chip missing from end of one of the legs. All the skidding and bouncing did not even loosen the joints. It is pegged together with 1/2" hardwood dowels and remains a solid piece of furniture 40 years later.