Buster

"Buster" is the nickname Aunt Betsy gave me more than 60 years ago.

They still call me Buster out among the cypress trees and Longleaf Pines of Columbus County.

There where six-foot rattlesnakes and cotton mouth moccasins as big around as a man's arm are unremarkable, some few gentle souls still know and remember the crewcut kid who was a torrent of questions, of observations and of cautious good will toward everyone who would accept it.

There are people who know even now that I wanted to grow up to be a farmer like Daddy, even if the farmer I briefly became planned as hard as he worked toward an operation which would survive our era.

Tutored by two gentle, attentive and exacting grandfathers, that quiet little boy kept in his heart the lovingkindness of the community which nurtured him.

Call them rednecks if you will, as long as you are consciously referring to that proud and honorable Scottish reference to Presbyterian Highlanders.