My brother and I spent most of our childhood nestled in the bosom of country living, nurtured by the slow, seductive pace of the South. Thinking back on those days elicits fond memories as we had the rare privilege of being immersed in a lifestyle that was a throwback to earlier times. Times when everybody in every out-of-the-way berg knew everybody else and everyone knew each other by first name. If the town had a church everybody knew the pastor and his family, especially his children, A.K.A. the preacher’s kids.

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Also Known As — Preacher’s Kids
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The only stop sign in town

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A published author enjoying married Texas bliss. Dog person living with cats. A writer of Henry James' stories. Featured In MuckRack. Top Writer In Fiction.

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