On an early Saturday morning in December, I sat in Jim Mitchell's jeep behind him and next to my younger brother, heading from Atlanta, Georgia to Oak Ridge Plantation in Aiken, South Carolina. While other twelve year olds were asleep with dreams of new bikes and stuffed stockings dancing in their heads, I rubbed my sore, right shoulder, engrossed in visions of the quail coveys and twenty-gauge shotguns that were about to be my first hunt. Since the quiet of the morning is too much for any pair of boys to endure, I asked my grandfather to turn on the radio. He glanced in the rearview mirror and dryly assured my brother and me that he would be happy to sing for us instead. We continued our drive into the Carolina upland to the sounds of Jim Mitchell's off-key rendition of Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon."