They’ll be here in four minutes. We must leave now.” That was my dad talking on Labor Day evening in 1980. Summer lingered in the North Carolina air. We lived on a four-acre farm in Davie County, and my parents had company coming for supper and to watch a college football game.
By then, the countdown was familiar to me. My dad and I were going streaking over the entire property, and the trick was to get back to the house without getting caught. It was 7:26. Guests were set to arrive at 7:30 sharp.
We launched from the front door—my then-fortythree-year-old father and me, in what to Dad was like one of Junior Johnson’s moonshine runs, the revenuers closing fast behind us. Dad’s grandfather had been a moonshiner, so it was in his blood. We dashed around a cement-block barn, careened through an equipment building, darted back across the lawn under a weeping willow, and made one final lap around the house, all buck naked. As we zigzagged the final 150 yards, headlights appeared in the driveway. We could see the finish line—through the sunroom, then safe into the house—and made it at the last second. Home free.
Moments later, Dad appeared fully dressed. Mom was putting the final
