Back in the early 1970s, before chew toys and waste management were known to men of our somewhat rural hamlet, a 10-year-old couldn’t mow the grass without first scouting for deer legs and skulls that might otherwise become missiles capable of amputating his own stalks.

A taxidermist lived up the street, and he discarded all the carcasses in the piney woods behind his home, pieces of which found their way onto the…

With two rolls of quarters burning a hole in my jeans, I opted not to join my best friend and his date on any of the flashy rides. Paying for the privilege of puking up corndogs wasn’t my idea of fun, even if it afforded the potential of seeing a girl’s breast flop out of a dress.

I strolled alone down the beehive of a midway, intoxicated by the weird brew of smells. I passed tattooed men hawking two-bit peeks at…

Cars had bumpers, televisions had only four channels, and my sweat smelled more sweet than sour when I spent many a Saturday night at the Concord, Ala., Community Center. It was a hometown version of the Grand Ol’ Opry, only with metal folding chairs.

Standing-room-only crowds filled the squat cinderblock building to hear local bluegrass musicians pick and grin behind two sheets of plywood that were laid on the floor…

Legally speaking, Poncho and I were a couple of trespassers on the vast lands owned by the local coal mine, but we exercised squatter’s rights and ruled those mostly piney woods as if they were ours.

I turned 13 the summer we built the damnedest log cabin you ever saw, only a year younger than my partner in crime who’d already sprouted a shadow above his upper lip.…