Now for my Dad. He was born somewhere in the White Birch forests of Minnesota. His father died when he was eight, so the details I know are light, but I do know he was a man of personal will and determination. He had lost one of his legs and refused any help offered to him that was due to it. He believed you learned to use what you have, and be gracious to have it. My dad, would tell me stories of hunting with him as a child. How he would move through the woods and across the streams like a deer, all while carrying his rifle, lunch, and my father on his shoulders. I wish I could have spent one season on the woods with that man. My Dad's mother was a short little woman, the homemaking type. Soft spoken and always baking. She however could be mean as a badger when provoked. She remarried to my grandfather some time after my dad's father died, a burley coal miner. Barrel chested and hams for hands. He adopted my Dad and his sister, changing the name Richards to Pounds. PA became home.