I originated from some hardscrabble, ragtag, farming, barbering, honky tonkying, rough knuckled sons of guns, and that’s just my feminine heritage. There were no genteel manners, dowry chests, or office jobs bestowed upon my ancestors. There was no family money, no vast expanses of land, and no palatial summer homes. I have uncles nicknamed after farm animals and insects. That would be Goat & Spider, respectively. My Gramps played the fiddle at all the local watering holes each night, while his flat tops and baby bottom shaves were known far and wide during the day. My other grandfather had a 3rd grade education, hunted squirrels for food, and operated a bulldozer with enough accuracy to catch the eyes of the original Hunt Brothers. Long before either of my parents were twinkles in anyone’s eye, my maternal great and great great grandfathers both died after the flatbed truck carrying that season’s cotton was struck by a train near Seagoville. ‘Twas a rough life for all the Stilwells, Hitts, Pickards, and Davises. And, while we’re used to hearing gun slinging, moonshining, tobacco chewing, rabble rousing tales of the menfolk, I thought I’d switch it up today. Because, who runs this sucker? Girls, Beyonce. It’s all about the girls.