Being the senior citizen of this august group, I've decided to jot down a long ago incident for the memory book. Will take a few minutes in the telling but bear with me--I still laugh when in comes to mind. I guess I was 11 or 12--occasionally Uncle Bill would invite me up to spend the night at his place. We'd sit on the front porch and he'd play his mandolin and sing. I'd be bored. (By the way, he had two songs published--paid to have that done--they were both awful.) Next morning, he'd be up early and head for the foundary and I'd sleep in. On this occasion, I had gotten up and was eating a bowl of Cheerios (Bill's favorite breakfast food) in the living room. I heard a slight noise, glanced over at Bill's bedroom and saw the door gently close. Someone hiding in there!!! I knew Bill kept a shotgun at the side of his bed just inside that door. I was no stranger to weapons even at that tender age--so I tippy toed over to the door, flung it open, grabbed the shotgun and swung about looking for the evil doer. Then a noise from the closet only a couple of feet away. In my best Lone Ranger (or whoever) fashion I kicked the door open and took a step in with the shotgun front and center. There was Little Levi, the somewhat retarded son (about my age) of Levi and Zilla. There were shelves on both sides of the closet and he was spread-eagled in front of me half-way to the ceiling--with a shotgun pointed directly at his crotch. And that shotgun in the hands of a twelve year old would-be Rambo. He started screaming: "Don' shoot, Mastah James, don' shoot, pa-lease Lordy, don't let him shoot.!!!" I don't remember my exact response but something probably very adult--like, "Levi, what the Hell are you doing up there?" He dropped down from the shelves, feet in motion as soon as he hit the floor, out the back door, down the hill, arms and legs windmilling, heading for home. I told Uncle Bill about it that evening. Seems that he hired Little Levi to do a bit or work around his place but that Little Levi liked a spot of Bill's liquor when he could find it. And Bill had stashed a couple of bottles of his good stuff in that bedroom closet. But I guess, all things considered, all ended well--I didn't shoot Little Levi, he didn't get a chance to steal the whiskey, and Bill thanked me for my heroics (or whatever). I didn't see much of Little Levi after that. Often wonder what became of him. Regards to all, Jim