So this is where we start the tale...on the outskirts of a small town.

Once upon a time, on the outskirts of town, on the very edge of town,
where the motorcycles grew, Ma and Pa and Francis Fiddlehead lived.
They were the only fiddleheaded people in town.
It could be said that they were largely ignored because of their curious height.
Just as cars have a blindspot, Fiddleheads are shaped in such a way that it is very difficult to see them unless one is quite clear about what one is looking at and staring at them at a certain angle. Being semi-nocturnal, they are often mistaken for large cats, tan raccoons, pointers and muskrats. Perhaps it is their gait. In any case, they are more intelligent than all these beasts put together and Pa Fiddlehead could count poker with the best of them but never did because he believed morality was the thumb in the Dutch dikes of despair.

But although Pa Fiddlehead was absolutely brimming with nuts of lucidity, it can be safely said that Pa was very cautious, and that he had no sense of wonderment, adventure, or smell. So it was from Ma Fiddlehead, née Ma Ezekiel, with that shady ancestor--weasel, dandelion, or skunk--that Francis got his amazing sense of direction and curiosity. Despite these natural talents, Francis was no wild child. In fact, as soon as he was weaned, he was sent to school. Education, according to Pa, was to be his salvation.