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too. I rounded up my posse to protect me and didn’t go anywhere alone.
    Brother Ron got Dad and Psycho together and had a peaceful “Come to Jesus” meeting. It turned out that things didn’t happen quite the way my smart-mouthed sister had said. Tammy had done something to Timmy. After that, he’d only given her a playful noogie—rubbing his knuckles on her head. I had imagined a bigger bump on her head than there actually was. Our fathers agreed to put everything aside.
    Now, I knew I was going to be in big trouble.
    Instead, Dad said, “You know, I’d have done the same exact thing, though I might not have cussed as much as you did in the churchyard.”
    I wore that like a badge of honor. In spite of my dad’s faults, protecting his family was important to him, and I respected his desire to protect me.
    Brother Ron was the glue that held the community together, and the community helped shape who I was.
    Besides Brother Ron, another man who influenced me was Uncle Carroll, Dad’s older brother. Uncle Carroll didn’t have a hot temper. He may not have been well educated, but he was intelligent—especially in his dealings with people. Uncle Carroll had friends everywhere. He taught me how to drive a truck because Leon didn’t have the patience. Leon would be angry at the first mistake I made picking watermelons, driving, or anything—it didn’t matter. Uncle Carroll took the time to explain things. When I was learning how to drive an 18-wheeler, Uncle Carroll said, “Well, Howard, no, you shouldn’t have flipped the split axle right then. You should get your RPMs up a little bit more. Now gear back down and go back up…” Being around Uncle Carroll, I learned people skills. Leon and I would be in a truck driving from West Palm Beach, Florida, to Screven, Georgia—eight hours—and hardly speak. We didn’t have conversations. He might say something like, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Unless it concerned bodily functions or getting something to eat, we didn’t talk. Both Mom and Dad told us, “Children are supposed to be seen, not heard.” They weren’t BSing, either. If we were ever out in public and said something without someone asking us a question, when we got home, we knew what we were in for. Uncle Carroll was the only one who ever showed me any affection. On occasion, he’d put his arm around my shoulders if he knew Leon had been on my tail unrelentingly the way he usually was. He gave moral support, even a kind word on occasion. Through everything, Uncle Carroll’s support was priceless. If he and I were in the truck, we would stop, go into a restaurant, and eat: breakfast and lunch. With Leon, we would go into a grocery store and get some salami and cheese and make a sandwich in the truck while driving—Leon couldn’t be slowed down. The best thing was that Uncle Carroll gave me words of encouragement. His influence was as critical as Brother Ron’s, maybe even more. Without them, I would’ve harbored some dark thoughts. Probably suicide.
    *   *   *
     
    I spent my high school years as an Air Force Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC) geek. I loved JROTC, with its discipline, structure, and nice uniform. I was always the outstanding cadet: ranking officer, color guard commander—it gave me something to do and excel at. The light came on, and I learned that I could lead pretty easily.
    When it came to girls, though, I was a late bloomer. In October, a month away from being eighteen years old, I asked a buddy, “How does this whole French kissing thing work? What do you do?”
    “Howard, you just reach over, put your mouth on hers, stick your tongue in, and go to town.”
    I needed a date for the JROTC military ball. My JROTC buddy had a sister named Dianne; everyone called her Dee Dee. I hadn’t really thought about her, but now I figured maybe she would go with me to the ball. Scared and embarrassed, I asked her, “Will you go to the military ball with