I realize that as we teach, at the same time we allow ourselves to be taught by those we teach. As Will Rogers says, “There is nothing dumber than talking to an educated person on the subject they were not educated on.” I recognize it wasn’t country living that I was being taught, but the perils of writing. I struggled in a creative direction.

No one can go back and start life over, but I can start from here. It’s not that the rules are necessarily wrong or arrogant; it’s that by being dyslexic, I just couldn’t make the connection or interpretation by what means those techniques had power over my craft. Forming a perfect sentence without adopting new methods was nearly impossible for me. Submitting myself to just being me and writing the informal country way of speech was more to my taste. I was never concerned about writing slowly – my fear was not being able to write at all.

There are descriptions of worry and sadness, then the moods lighten with love and happiness; joshing humor and spiritual reliance carries the balance. Writing what I know best, I separated the wheat from the chaff using the “good-meat” and throwing the chaff to the wind.

While keeping my focus on the core of country living as it developed, for 13 years I was driven by a deep, seeded inter-force to characterize the social quality of life during that time. A large chunk of my memory thirsts for the horse and buggy days and my life’s purpose is to share those years of long ago with you.

Cancer provided me with a whole slew of new opportunities and to sample life a second time. Being dyslexic, writing would not have been my first choice of communication, but writing was the key and all the groans of intense labor were worth the weight to shed some light on The Legacy of a Country Boy. I learned that it takes a heap of hard work to harvest a measurable amount of grain.

My experience going to the flashbacks were enjoyable treats without having gone anywhere. As I kicked back on old times, I encountered warm passionate feelings wave around inside of me that I never had before. The machine age fast dwindled the days from the springhouse to the icebox. The icebox was soon converted into the “electric cold box.” Before long, the day came when it was modernized mostly from wood to metal and called a refrigerator. The dreaming was over and there was no more carrying milk and butter back and forth from the spring three times a day – happiness was here to stay.

On cold snowy winter nights, I slept burrowed deep in a straw tick on a comfortable iron bed. The nights were warm and cozy underneath a colorful cowhide as the snow drifted from the window to the bed. Cool crisp air ripens pleasant dreams fast, while snuggling with heated flatirons beneath my feet.

Before the hourglass empties and we are headin’ ‘round the bend and start to bob our way out to sea, things sometimes become distorted and the shores of reality vanish. Great is the gain to review life before our mind goes. You might say my country heritage brought healing about with cancer. Just before I burst through the gate and get turned out into the fertile pasture of the dearly departed, I want to tell ya that from where I stand right now, I see this book is not the full walk of my life, but only a tiny portion.

I hope you will be able to dig into the stories and enjoy the charm of the persons and allow them to share their adventures with you. You will find no list of references at the stoplight of this book. The romance of country life is felt in The Legacy of a Country Boy. In reality, these old ways are gone for good.

Jimmy Fox