It's in the summer of 1992 I was wrapping up a full week of army maneuvers in the swamps of Fort Polk, Louisiana.

On my first breakaway, I decided to drive 95 miles to Angelina County in East Texas to visit my

family. My first thought was to stay on the farm with my grandfather, but I decided instead to stay

with my aunt and uncle. My cousin was there with his wife. They were about my age and had the same

interests as me. My cousin owned a really nice

bass boat that he kept there at his mom and dads, and that was what interested me the most.

I rolled in around 8 o'clock that evening. Everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to get a good

meal. Afterward, we sat around

the living room and talked about all the fishing spots on the lake where we'd be heading the

next day. About 10 o'clock, my cousin's wife started pestering him to take her out to the old sawmill

to see who was out there.

I could tell my cousin was getting frustrated with her.

He wanted to get an early start on fishing the next day.

He'd need a good night's sleep for that.

But she was insistent and eventually he gave in.

Well, I grabbed my personal firearm and stuck it down the small of my back,

and headed out with them. The old sawmill was where the young adults in our area liked to go and hang out. Most nights, someone or other could be found out there with their cooler,

sitting around a campfire and telling stories and cutting up,

or just listening to the radio.

Sometimes someone would show up with a guitar and entertain us.

Mostly it was just a place we could go that was far enough out of the way to keep us out of trouble

and out of the sheriff's hair.

...