Simon's family name did not carry a lot of clout in their distinct part of rural Virginia. For the better part of two centuries, there had been a kind of informal heirarchy between and amongst all of the original families. For example, the Hodges were the perennial good farmers, with bumper crops coming out of the good soil on a yearly basis. The Svensons could fix anything, and had several shops owned by several family members scattered around the small downtown area in order to service the needs of any mechanical problem that arose.

Doc Penrose, well, you can figure out what his family was good at.

But Simon's family was not so fortuitous. Or motivated. Or sober. There was the one time that a distant cousin of his became the post carrier for the county, only to be fired after an incident with a spilled bottle of bourbon and an errant cigarette butt. And there was also the great-great-uncle (once removed) who was credited with discovering the oldest mummified snot on record in an Egyptian tomb.

Simon himself did not technically or motivationally gravitate towards those types of things. And unlike many others who do not possess a penchant for knowledge, he was also not very interested in other people. With the exception of his cat, Mrs. Fickletits, there was no one of particular importance in his life. His parents were still alive, but were not particularly warm, affectionate, or pleasant. And while he was not the brooding, mean type, he did not engender himself to strong friendships.

Oh, and his last name was Goodcrap.

But it seemed that Simon was destined for different things. Which is much different than being destined for greater things.

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