They called me Billy in Powellville, where I was born on October 3, 1931. Powellville, a country town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, had a tragic history, and as in all tragedy, in the end, it died. Or should I say it was killed off by changes in traffic patterns and the decline of small farms. But during the Great Depression, Powellville was the center of the universe for me. It was widely feared and generally avoided by travelers from neighboring towns. There was no trespassing by strangers. In the local county, Powellville was like an outlaw-too dangerous to deal with, and for good reason, because fights and brawls were as commonplace as sermons on Sunday at the Methodist Church. Nothing happened in Powellville that wasn't elaborated, extrapolated, embellished, and, finally, enshrined in the lore and luster of that country town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.