I was born on an old farm in 1934, just a thin layer of plaster and weathered clap-boards stood between us and the elements; we nearly froze in winter and roasted in summer. The putty had long ago peeled off the windows leaving the rusty brads holding the glass in place; We heated with an old wood stove and in winter Papa kept the fire burning throughout the night to keep us from freezing. Any liquids left sitting around would crust over with a thin layer of ice by the time morning arrived but we had heavy quilts. I can recall turning over frequently in my bed on those cold, blistery winter nights to warm the other side of my body. We had no plumbing or electricity, we fetched our water from a hole in the ground and the toilet was a little shack out back. We were dirt poor, we didn't own much of anything, just the clothes on our backs and some odds and ends of furniture but somehow we managed to survive. For entertainment we had an old wind-up record player, a Victrola, and in the evenings us kids would lie on the floor in front of the old pot belly stove gazing at the flames behind the tiny window in the door, while we listened to Papa tell stories. We endured many hard-times and looking back now, oddly enough, I miss those hard-times; we all pulled together as a family. I'm eighty-three years old now and like my dad, I too love to tell stories.