I never knew my father. He died before I was old enough to even have memories, killed in an industrial accident after surviving World War II.

For the first eight years of my life, my mother tried to fill the void by telling me about my father. Her memories and a box of black-and-white photographs are the only knowledge I have of the man who provided part of my genetic makeup and my name.

By the time my mother remarried, my eight-year-old mind could not grasp a replacement for a father. My stepfather tried but I never gave him a chance. My father lived in that box of photos and my mother’s words.

As I got older I learned more from my grandmother. She outlived all of her sons. None made it to 30. Sometimes I wondered, given family history, if I would make it past three decades. Given some of the stupid stunts of my youth and the chances I took as a young man with too much adrenaline, it’s a miracle I did.

My father was Florida born and bred, a mixture of Scot, black-Irish and Seminole Indian, a tall, lanky man with coal black hair, a quick grin and a hair-trigger temper. Out of all that, I inherited his temper and a thick head of hair. Unlike him, I lived long enough to see that black hair turn white.

He met my mother in Norfolk during the war. She worked for the Navy as a civilian. He was a Navy Electrician’s Mate. They shocked my grandparents by riding into town on his Harley. Several of the photos in that box of memories show him and her astride Harleys.

Returning from an afternoon walk Saturday, I stopped at the bottom of the yard and gazed, as I often do, at home. This was our first view of the house that would become our home in Floyd County. We may have decided to buy it based on this view alone. I’m not sure of that but I do know that I never tire of looking at it when returning home after a long day or just turning around and looking back up the hill when I venture down to pick up the mail.

The house may be too big for two people and the huge expanse of yard may be a pain in the butt to mow and the surrounding woods may leave limbs all over the place after a storm but none of that matters at times like this.

After a nomadic life of too many addresses, too many moves and too little time to just relax and enjoy where we lived, coming home to this place on the hill has more meaning than I can ever explain.

My apologies for boring readers with yet another postcard shot of Chateau Thompson but it’s home and we love it.

Monday’s thunderstorm and hail left our driveway a rut-filled mess. I got home too late Monday to deal with it and faced a long day Tuesday covering the board of supervisors for The Floyd Press.

But daylight remained when I arrived back at Chateau Thompson Tuesday so I pulled the DR Power Grader out of the garage, hooked it up to the John Deere and started the 90-minute process of restoring the driveway.

As darkness approached Sunday night, I raced to finish an overdue mowing of the South 40, otherwise known as the front yard of Chateau Thompson.  Unlike the struggles of last year when a failing transmission in our John Deere lawn tractor turned each mowing into a battle of man vs. inertia, a new tranny and a locking differential turn mowing into an easier – but never easy – task.

For those unfamiliar with our front yard, let’s just call it a challenge with each mowing cycle. Most the three-and-a-half acres of front yard sit on a hillside that slopes, at its steepest point, 35 degrees. Bounded by woods on the left and right, along with a creek running through the lower part and a driveway that also defies gravity, the yard is a weekly test of homeowner and machine against the forces of nature. Nature usually wins.

I got my tighty-whities in a bunch last week over the emergence of "networking" in Floyd County and by letting my anger get the best of me I broke one of the cardinal rules of life here: Live and let live.

Whatever my feelings towards the practice of networking, I was wrong to castigate those who feel a need to use it to try and survive in these economically-strapped times.  The original post and a follow up have been removed, along with the comments.

My apologies to readers of Muse and my thanks to those who took the time to point out that my actions were over the top. I’m a passionate man with strong opinions and sometimes I let both traits overcome judgment.

We now take you take you back to your regularly scheduled Musings…

I’m having a celebratory lunch at Oddfellas Cantina today. It will be a quiet lunch. Probably just myself or anyone who happens to wander by.

The celebration? Thirteen years of sobriety: 156 months or 676 weeks or 4,748 days without a drink (including three extra days for Leap Years).

Bill France Jr. could easily have found himself lost in the shadow of his father, "Big Bill" France Sr., the founder and absolute ruler of the National Association of Stock Car Racing (NASCAR).

But Bill Jr. was his own man and guided NASCAR from its moonshining roots to a multi-billion dollar empire and the second-largest spectator sport in America (only pro football outdraws NASCAR on an annual basis).

He oversaw creation of the "Winston Cup" series (now the Nextel Cup) and controlled the sanctioning body during its most turbulent years.