When I was growing up in South Carolina in the 1950s, we never heard stories about encounters

with Bigfoot or families of Bigfoot.

When I had my first encounter, I didn't know what they were or what to call them.

I think my dad must have known something about them, but he never talked about it.

We lived on a farm deep in the country, somewhere between Hania, Path and Greenwood.

We kept all kinds of livestock, chickens, hogs, and a few cows and a couple of goats.

Along with them, we had dogs and cats, and there was no grass around the house because

the hogs and the chickens and the other animals roamed freely about eating everything

and sight.

Not to mention the damage that we three girls could do.

My mom and dad didn't have any sons, but my sisters and I were just as tough and wild

as any boys could be.

Dad worked our little farm while holding down a job at the fabric mill and wear shows.

They woven, printed the fabric, and then shipped it off to various other places to be made

into clothes and such.

At that time, they were printing camouflage material.

That meant the deer hunters around there always had cheap, misprinted camo cloth to take

home to their wives, so they could make them into hunting clothes.

I remember one hot Saturday afternoon in the summer, dad was busy with the cows, and

mom asked me to run to the store for her to pick a few items up.

It was a little corner store sat on an intersection in the middle of nowhere.

A normally my older sister would go with me, but she wasn't feeling well that day, and

...