As a young boy growing up during the depression, in northeast ALabama cotton fields, Floyd Yancy lay in bed at night, tired, hungry, and counting stars through the roof. When there were no stars, he listened to rain dripping into pans on the floor and on his bed. He felt cold water dripping in the pans and splattering on him. He racked his brain trying to find a way out, but no answer ever came. Tears wet the pillow as he cried himself to sleep. He spent most of his life trying to survive the hell his parents spent their entire lives in. He received a high school diploma from night school, and made a promise that his children would never go hungry. He felt a need to document his life for his grandchildren. He wrestled with the thought of dredging his mind to bring back the horrors that he had for so long been trying to forget.