We woke each morning in Picayune; we had no money. My father and mother would have us rather starve to death than get welfare. But we ate our grits and a biscuit headed to school seven kids.
We had nothing, but we were proud to say a prayer to get the day started, the pledge of allegiance to show our love of country. I recall learning about Mississippi history, Jefferson Davis was not a perfect man to some now, but I held him in high esteem; I remember Jeb Stuart, I dreamt about riding with him into battle. Southern history had a meaning; we southerners were exceptional, we talked differently, we were special, that has been taken. The idea of money had nothing to do with family pride; the country was great, men had fought to free the world from evil people. I went through High school, the worst thing I did was smoke a cigarette; we had shotguns in pickup trucks in the school parking lots. Most girls were smart; they seemed to be much sweeter, somehow more special. No one I knew heard of marijuana, heroin, cocaine, or other drugs. No school killings, no video games, hell, I got a paddling at least once a week up to 10th grade. Our country has always been great, our state, my state I have always loved, has it always been perfect? No, but we find in life nothing is perfect for long.