My grandfather raised raceforses, and before he did that he learned the trade by training horses in Tennessee. Now, for the privilege of learning horse handling he was given room and board, but not much else, and he needed pocket money, so he hit upon an idea for filling a need in the county where he lived.

You see, the county was dry. so grandpa became a bootlegger, selling liquor out of his car, and running it in from wet counties in Ohio. well, apparently the other gentlemen who were involved in the liquor trade didn't take kindly to competition, so they jumped poor young Floyd and beat him up good. He hightailed it back to Newark (Ahia) and showed up at my grandmother's door with a proposal.

This story was told to me about a year ago by my grandpa. My g-ma was there too, listening while she made lunch, and when he got to the part about leaving Tennessee because he was chased out by hoodlums, she snapped her head up and said accusingly, "Floyd, you said you came back because you missed me!" He only chuckled, but he's been a lot more stingy with the stories...