It was an inherited struggle for many generations of those living on the outskirts of Appalachia. A poor man with poor ways, our father dictated the Bible to his own liking. He’d preach hellfire and brimstone from the pulpit before falling prey to the devil’s holy water again. Wed as a child, our mother, sixteen years younger than our father, guided her nine children with love and hope that all things be possible through the Lord’s will. My older brother was not just my brother but also my best friend. We’d confide in each other to protect our mother as hatred of our father’s sinful ways grew. With trembling hands, I’d reach out to touch the dead giants that I gained courage to carry on. But at last a prayer was answered as we played in the cool springs at our farm and anticipated having a warm house to spend the cold winter in.