Dad beat the hell outta Junior Gurley one day. Kicked his ass all around the yard. And Junior was a big man, maybe 6 feet tall. Dad was only 5 feet 8, but he was stout and broad and mean. Everybody was drinkin’, my aunts and uncles and older cousins. They had a big old tub of long necks on ice. Somehow, the conversation turned to the war and how awful those Germans were. That’s when Junior looked dad right in the eye and said with disgust, “And to think that you went over there and married you a no account kraut.” Dad was on that stupid bastard so fast. He didn’t even say a word. Just knocked him down and punched him 50 times in the face. Grampa got around behind dad and tried to restrain him. When he lifted dad, Junior rolled over and started crawlin’. Dad got loose from grampa and picked Junior up and threw him out in the road. He lay there in the gravel, moanin’. One of his shoes had come off. Dad picked it up and threw it at him. “She ain’t a German, you son of a bitch,” he yelled. “She’s a Hungarian . . . and don’t you fergit it.”