The little boy grew up in a very rural part of South Georgia in the 1960s. It was a small farming neighborhood just outside the town limits of Nashville, in Berrien County. It was a time when kids could ride their bikes two miles to town, spend the afternoon at the movies, and return home by dark. After nightfall, the agenda included collecting fireflies in a jar covered with one of mom's old stockings. A jar of fireflies would guard through the night and keep the monster confined beneath the bed. While collecting the fireflies, the calls of the Bob-white Quail and Whippoorwill would serve as company and assurance that good prevailed even in the dark confines of the surrounding forests. On windy evenings, whistling sounds came from the needles of the tall pines, and in a distant pasture, a cow might bellow to her calf as the day ends. Moms knew kids would return to the house before the last ray of sunshine because kids followed rules. Moms were confident that kids would be alright venturing out alone. Few moms worked, and neighbors watched each other's homes and kids. Bad people existed, but none so twisted to want to take a kid. Country living was a great life and provided a world of entertainment for little boys. South Georgia will forever be his childhood home. Dan grew to be quite a storyteller. The stories came easily because they were true. As time passed and the stories were told to new acquaintances, or anyone who did not experience such a childhood, they became real treasures. They serve as a direct line to a past life. They were the result of living happily in a world that no longer exists and can only be relived in memories or on pages like the ones in this book.
