Preface
I have to get this out there right off the bat. This book is a Southern Memoir. That means this work is, by definition, made up a lot of suspiciously unverified events, includes somewhat exaggerated drama, as well as some very questionable people. This memoir is a roux of equal parts fact and fiction, liberally seasoned with healthy doses of exaggeration, fabrication, and outright lies. And a lot of what it is really like to live and grow-up in the South.
The story is set in Jonesboro, Arkansas, in the years following the 1973 Tornado that destroyed about a quarter of the town. This story takes poetic license to my teenage years. It is a representation of the reality of how we lived and what those years were like. Still, in keeping with the greatest of southern traditions, I’ve never been one to let the truth get in the way of a good story.
There are fictionalized versions of several people, including my friends and family, who are participants in these stories. You probably recognize one or two of them. However, a number of my characters are composites of two or three people, who I combine to make one character. So, if you think you are the basis for one of my characters, don’t get all pissy because they do something stupid. It’s not really that person. It’s a composite.
There are stories and events in here that some folks will recognize, as actually having occurred. You may stop and say to yourself, “Now, that ain’t how it happened at all. I know, I was there.” Well, you are right. It probably didn’t happen exactly like I describe it. That’s because this is a work of what is, nowadays, called “creative non-fiction.”
That’s when a writer uses real life but does exaggerate for effect, especially when…like me…they are writing humor. As such, it’s true that I made a lot of stuff up. Much of my story, however, is true. If you think you are the basis for one of my characters and catch some flack about something that happens in the story, just explain to whoever is giving you grief that whatever it was that happened, is something that I made up. It is, after all, a southern memoir chock full of exaggerations, embellishments, fabrications, and lies. Or as Jerry Lawler says towards the end of the book, as you’ll read, “So, this is a for real southern fairy tale because it starts with ‘You ain’t going to believe this shit.’”
This is a story based on growing up in Jonesboro in the 1970s. For the record, I never met Elvis Presley or Jerry Lawler. But we skipped class, drove on gravel roads and drank cheap beer. We smoked pot that didn’t smell like a skunk. Our cars were loud as hell and ran like scalded dogs. We had the very best music and our girlfriends were really hot. I hope you enjoy the story. We who lived it certainly did.
William Garner
Raconteur