Those of you that read this regular series know that I am from Hackett, Arkansas, just a mile or so from the Oklahoma border, and just about 10 miles south of the Arkansas River. It was a rural sort of place that did not particularly appreciate education, and just zoom onto my previous posts to understand a bit about it.
This week I am writing about a person who may be living, so no last name will be used. Since there were more than one person around my age named Harold in Hackett at the time, it would be difficult to identify him. Harold was a friend of mine, and lived just down the street across the Midland Valley railroad tracks. Harold was more typical of the people my age than I was there, not being really interested in doing well in school or making something out of himself.
Everyone has had a friend like Harold. I liked him, but he has some issues. One of his issues was telling the truth. He just made up stuff constantly, and from an early age. I often though that he should have been a fiction writer because some of his stories were certainly original, if incredible.
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