I grew up surrounded by fields of tall wheat, trees that stretched towards the heavens like beanstalks, and slender snake-roads that weaved through backwoods hillsides. My home was once a place where travelers would stop and buy ice cream. Hand-churned, creamy vanilla and banana whip would be served up to townsfolk on hot, humid days. My home was an oasis in the sun.

But not while I lived there.

As a young child, I had no real concept of urban living. My father usually controlled the household television, choosing to watch westerns that he’d already seen several times before. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I was enraged when an occasional playmate wanted to act out their cowboy fantasy. You see, if there is one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s The Duke. Yes, I know he’s a legend. I know he’s invincible. Trust me, I know all too well. The Duke kept my father hiding in some warm-milk saloon throughout my entire youth.

The Duke and I would have words.

[To be continued…]