If it hadn't been a blue frost night on January 31, 1941, I may have been born on the front porch of that little faux brick, tarpaper-wrapped shack that sat smack-dab beside and facing the railroad tracks in the Rose Hill area of Flomaton, Alabama. On the wrong side of the tracks. Mama chewed her knuckles, clawed the sheets and sweat buckets while Dr. Sally used forceps to deliver my sweet little noggin. Three older siblings lay in beds in the back room having competitions with the dreaded whooping cough. Dr. Sally told Mama that I would be just fine as I had immunity for life. Mama didn't rel...