I grew-up in the days before television and I got in on the last of the great story tellers.  A good storyteller is a person that can tell a story and when they finish you don’t know were to believe it or not.  You want to believe it and yet there is that little something that makes you doubt it too.  We had some experts around the area where I grew-up.  Most of these people have been dead for years and yet they are just as alive today as they have ever been.  When I think of us boys sitting around at night ready for a good story and when we could get one of our favorite story tellers to tell us a story, nothing could be better.  Radio, the movies, or television can’t compare with good story telling.  A lot of story telling was scary.  So scary that I would be afraid to run home, even if home was no farther than fifty to one hundred yards away.  There was a man named Cleveland Moody and he was a friend of my family.  All his stories centered around him and they were mixed with real events that had happened.  He was always right where it happened, and he maybe had really been there.  His stories were thorough, and he would dare everyone to check him out.  Cleveland had two boys, but I can’t remember them being around during his stories.  Then another one was Bill Lindsey, a man that played a big part in my growing up.  We would sit on his front porch in the evenings unless the weather was bad, and we were always welcome inside the house.  He told of his younger days and things that had happened in the Herd Street area years and years ago.  He would point out where the wells where and other landmarks.  He would be telling a story and he would say back behind the old barn.  Then he would stop and say that’s right, that old barn is not there anymore, and he would describe the old barn and we could picture it as though we were looking at it.  Mr. Bill told me on many occasions because I could repeat those stories just as I heard them, that I had a special gift as a storyteller.  I have a big regret and that is that I didn’t write down those stories or at least some of them because I’ve got older, big parts of those stories have faded from my mind.  At my age I wonder how many people can remember some of those people that I’ve mentioned as a storyteller.  Music makers were just as important as storytellers.  Jack Lilly a blind man on John Street would come to our house and pick and sing for us.  I had two older sisters that would get Jack to come to pick and sing.  Both of my sisters could dance and before you could blink your eyes there would be a crowd, picking, singing, dancing, and pulling taffy.  These were happy days that cost nothing or almost nothing.  We drank Kool-Aid and sometimes popped popcorn. I can’t remember cokes and hot dogs, that cost money and that we didn’t have.  My sisters rolled each other’s hair, swapped dresses, sewed a lot and thought up ways to have family fun.  Speaking of my sisters, they enjoyed the story telling as much as I did.  If I let my mind go back, I can see and hear it just like it was yesterday.  Maybe six to eight boys sitting on Mr. Bill’s porch and a little lull would happen in the domino playing.  Tell us about the Herd Street killing Mr. Bill and we would gather around.  He would start, it was on a weekend, he would say.  There was bad blood between these two men.  The drinking had started on Friday afternoon and by Saturday everybody was getting ready for a party.  Some boy would interrupt, what house was it in Mr. Bill?  Starting at the corner here it was the fourth house on the left.  It all took place in the front room.  People didn’t have living rooms.  There two men showed up early for the party.  They were not only drunk but drunk on cheap bootleg.  The room had a bed, a chair, a dresser with a big mirror on it. One of the men had shaved and was combing his hair.  The other man walked up behind the one combing his hair, grabbed his straight razor, grabbed the man by his hair and said look and you can see a man get his throat cut.  With that he cut his throat.  Someone went for the sheriff and in the meantime, somebody rolled the dead man in a cloth rug, ran out the back and threw the body over the fence into the back alley.  That has been many years ago and the grass has never grown in the spot where the body laid again.  Then Mr. Bill would say has anybody seen that spot and most of the boys would say yes.  What happened to the killer we asked, and Mr. Bill would answer, he is in Kilby Prison to this day and that is where he will stay.  By the way that is the end of this story.  Since then I have checked it out and this story is true.  I remember those days fondly.