1 1935

John ran a miracle mile back to the porch of his farm house. His father stood in the screen door glaring at him. "About time," he grumbled. "Your mother would've starved the whole family if you'd let that meddling bird get away. Come on and get inside."

John had chased a chicken around the farm not too long before. For something as simple as catching a bird, he couldn't touch the thing, not once. It had become a frustrating process so much so that his father, ordered by his mother, was asked to retrieve him and the bird. Successfully, he chased the squawking thing to a corner in between the walls of the house, bucking and clucking for its life. He'd picked the bird up by its neck and swung it around until its spine snapped.

His father lead John to the kitchen, and as they were approaching, they stopped and stared at his mom and aunt as they busily maneuvered from stove to sink to counter, chopping and cooking whatever they laid their hands on. There was the stench of potato peelings and raw meat clawing at the air. "John, the chicken. I need to stuff it," his mother implied without even looking up from the cutting board. He held the wobbly bird up to her.

Taking the chicken from his hand, Wilma plucked at its feathers ferociously. Once the bird was completely nude, she chopped the neck with an old dented clever, then tossed it onto the counter across from her. Her sister on the other hand, was chucking at a sack of potatoes, taking each one and peeling it gracefully with a knife. "John, come here," she called. "Yes ma'am," he replied with timid eye contact as he approached her. "I want you to take this knife and start cutting these berries. Got it?" John understood. He picked up the basket of strawberries, blue berries, and black berries and sat them on the counter. He picked up the knife that was by his aunt's shoulder, sat down by the basket, and commenced cutting the fruit.

Not long after, John's father called for him. He dropped all that he was doing, but looked up at his aunt for permission to leave. She stared out of the kitchen, glaring at an invisible Perry. "Go on. See what he wants."

His eyes glistened as he walked outside onto the porch. His father stood by a large pile of logs; some of them had already been chopped. "Do you remember how I taught you to cut these?" He couldn't think straight due to excitement, and therefore couldn't give his father an answer. "Come and grab this ax," said Perry as he pointed to the rusted weapon on the ground by him, "hold it back like this and when you get ready to swing say your full name. Watch." As he swung down with his ax, he shouted his name in time with his swing. "Perry-Johnathan-Biyora!" The one log split into two halves. The gracefulness in his swing reminded John of paper ripping in half. It looked so harmless and yet so easy, but he had sense enough to know that none of those were true. It took him almost six years of practice before he was even able to hold an ax or know what its function was. But ever since he had his tenth birthday over two months ago, he believed he was strong enough to handle any task his father gave him. And so John took his stance and held the large blade over his shoulder. "John-Buford-Biyora," he squawked. He swung down with all of his might, but the blade bounced off of the piece of wood and sent John stumbling aback. "No, no. You have to say it from your chest," criticized Perry as he punched his left peck. "Never, ever declare your name from your mouth and arms. Try again. This time say your name from where?"

"Your chest!" Perry tussled John's dark, curly hair. "Atta boy!"

John hauled the ax back over his shoulder. He took in a kind of deep breath, the kind that made man look taller, stronger, and he swung the ax down. He chipped the wood. "Again," Perry said as he plucked John's forehead.

Over the course of the sun's descend, John was told to shout his name over and over, but he continued to produce the same results: a log chipped of its many pieces. "Are you tired of me yelling in your ear, 'cause I sure is hell am. Pick up the ax." He waited for John to haul the weapon over his tired body. "Puff your chest out and say your name like...," Perry pondered, "it would save the world. Now go." John spread his feet shoulder-width. He took a deep breath and then exhaled. "John," he whispered as he raised it over his head. "Buford." He took one last breath. "Biyora!" The sound of wood deliciously splitting in half gave John the confidence to look at his father for approval

Perry smiled. "Good job, Son. Now let's get you up to a few more logs before your mother calls in you in." John rolled his eyes at the news.

An hour more had passed before Wilma called for John. When he entered the house, he walked past his two older brothers, James and William, who were off in a corner screening through an old burlesque magazine. He peeked down the hallway to the back door as he headed for the kitchen. His three sisters were each out on the back porch sorting flowers they had picked from the family's meadow.

Walking up to his mother, John could see the medium sized pig inside the pan with a red potato stuck in its mouth and a sea of vegetables surrounding it. "You wanna help make some bread pudding," she chimed in. No further words were needed. He raced to the cupboard and got the plate of butter, the bottle of milk out of the icebox, and the basket of eggs from one of the spice shelves Wilma made.

After John put the bread pudding in the oven and escaped the heat of the kitchen, he ventured back into the family room where his brothers were. He wanted to join them in looking at the magazine, but James shoved him away as soon as he approached. "No way," he told him, "Only men are allowed to look at this." John shrugged his shoulders and made his way to his bedroom.

One, two, three... five, six. That's how many cracks John counted in the ceiling as he laid on his bed. Thirty minutes of doing absolutely nothing, John was sure he would have fallen asleep by now, but something kept him up. Something about this evening and its events didn't add up. With a curious driven mind, he leaped off of the mattress and opened his door. A thick aroma of an array of foods flared his nostrils and made his stomach grumble on impact. He followed the scent like a dog to meat. It went past the grand staircase, and into the kitchen doorway. Inside, he saw his mother drenched with sweat and caked in flour; she was bent over a counter, presumably catching her breath. John peeked around the corner and into the dining room and saw the table for fifteen spread with meats and vegetables and desserts. He faced his mother again. "Ma, why are we making such a big dinner? We can't eat this all by ourselves." She dropped her head.

She lifted back up, smiling. Someone failed to mention the news to John. "You didn't hear? We're treating our neighbors tonight."

"But Ma, we don't have any neighbors," John informed. Wilma just looked at him and smiled.

Confused, John went outside to the huge oak tree that had been growing in the family farm ever since his grandfather's father was a little boy. Its branches and twisted roots provided a perfect handle for the swing that creaked in the cooling wind. John sat on the swing and pushed his feet off of the ground to give himself a slow rock back and forth. He didn't even know that he had neighbors. Granite, there was the old house that sat on the opposite side of the road, but it has been abandoned since before John was born and the structure looked too creepy to venture into. John didn't know anyone outside the comfort and wilderness of his home.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car on gravel as it filled the long driveway up to the Biyora household. John hopped off of his swing and stood behind the trunk of the tree, his hands barely wrapped around the bark. Ten feet away, a slightly rusted 1931 Eagle Sedan came to a screeching halt. When the engine abruptly stopped from rattling the ancient ground, a door popped open and creaked its way to a full 90 degrees. Out stepped a tall and slim man with an unlit cigarette hanging sideways from his mouth. He didn't turn in John's direction, but instead turned around and went behind the car completely to the passenger side.

He opened up the door to allow a young woman with beautiful wavy, blonde hair to emerge. Looking harder into the situation, John could understood that she was the wife, even though she looked too young to be. The woman stood in front of the car gazing on and past John. She stopped and locked her gaze on a rose garden that sat several yards away. She upturned one corner of her mouth.

The man had opened the back door as John inched out to have a closer look. A small hand reached out and grasped the man's arm. John creased his eyebrows. The man pulled the small hand and stepped out a little girl. Her face was very rounded and petite shaped and a mess of freckles crowded her nose and cheeks. She wore a blue laced dress that John thought looked fascinating. None of his Sister's owned any dresses like that, so he's never seen anything so brilliant in color. Two more older boys emerged with piqued faces as they glanced around the farm.

After standing behind the tree for so long, John realized that he needed to introduce himself to them. He took a deep breath and walked over to their new guests.