The stocky little woman leaned on her cane as she picked her way gingerly toward the graves under the mesquites. She lay a few wildflowers on three rock-covered graves, one unmarked, one marked for Joe, and a third for their boy, Johnny.  “I’ll be here sleeping beside you soon’s I can, Joe.  I’m tired and the folks can get by easy without me now.”  She thought back on the last eight years since Joe collapsed one morning at his milking.  They’d had more than forty years and six children together.  It wasn’t enough.

Little Joe had married and stayed on to farm with Joe.  The cabin had become a seven room house over the years, filled first with their children, then Little Joe’s.  Sally had married a a farmer and lived on the next section. She was so sweet, Anya couldn’t help being partial to her.   Rose Anya had taught school till she married a storekeeper in Talphus.  Her boy Jules was a preacher.  Rose Anya had wanted her mother to come live with her in town after her pa died, but Anya couldn’t bear to leave the farm.  Betsy come along just a year after Sally and married Emma’s grandson, making them truly family.  The twins didn’t come along for five years.  One of them farmed the hundred sixty acres Joe bought a few years after they married and the other was a lawyer in Dallas.  He didn’t get home but a couple of times a year. Johnny, the one they lost came when she thought she was past child-bearing had struggled to breathe for three long days. Losing him nearly killed Joe.

Anya’s mind was fuzzy and she lived more in the past than present.  It pained her knowing all she was good for was rocking babies, stringing beans, and peeling potatoes, though Joe’s wife, Mary, tried to fool her into thinking she was useful. Whenever she could, she slipped out to talk to her Joe.

As she stood talking to Joe, Mary caught up with her.  “Mama, you had me worried to death.  I didn’t know where you’d got off to.  It’s blazing hot out here. Come out of the sun and let me git you a drink.”

“Joe’s gonna be in for supper at four.  I better git in and make him some biscuits.  He always did love my biscuits.” Anya told Mary.

“You don’t have to get started just yet.  Let’s get you a cool drink.” Mary said, leading Anya to a rocker in the shade of the porch.  “Just sit here and cool off and I’ll be right back with your drink.”

” I git so tired of her fussing.” Anya said to Mary’s big backside, watching her head for the kitchen. In no time at all she was nodding.

“Anya girl, ain’t you gonna cook me no supper?” Joe laughed as he touched her shoulder.  He looked as he did when she first knew him, well-muscled and lean with a full head of hair.

“Oh no! I ain’t even started!  You are early.” Anya told him.

“I’d say I’m right on time.  Come on along with me. You need to see what me and Johnny’s been doin’ over here.” The years fell away as Anya took his hand and stepped lively as a girl, her fine blonde hair feathered by the gentle breeze.

Holidays with my cousins were a lot more like cage-boxing than Hallmark Christmases. I had more than forty first cousins, including numerous budding psychopaths. By the time my aunts and uncles herded them to the scene of of their impending crimes, the elders had had enough of defending themselves and their babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself. God help anybody in the way.

They’d rip through the house under the guise of needing the bathroom or a drink of water, destruction in their wake. All the kids were immediately cast out into the yard or to the barn if it was raining, like demons into swine. Before they were booted out, they stole or destroyed anything in their wake. We always hid our loot, but the evil little devils usually managed to mark something for destruction, even if it was no more precious than a dish or Christmas ornament.  

We’d get a baseball or football team going, all the big kids on one team, so the little ones never got a chance to bat, or worse, got mowed down. They’d go squalling in to their daddies who’d come out long enough to straighten us out in a vague semblance of fairness, often lingering to play a while.

Once the games started, it was chaos. It was survival of the meanest, with little kids shoved down, possibly experiencing even nose. Crazy Larry kept trying to pee on us should we be distracted by the game. One aunt in particular didn’t think her kids ought to have to share at the end of the day.  It was perfectly fine if her kids here grabbed our gifts, nuts, fruit, the best of the Christmas feast, or sometimes whole pies. She heaped their plates with goodies, saying she’d eat what they didn’t.  Her boy, Corwin,would demand, “More chicken(turkey, ham)Mama, more shicken!”  She loaded his plate till he staggered, unconcerned that there was a tribe to feed besides him.

Before the worst of the cousins left, with the help of cousin allies, we’d waylay the evil cousins, reclaiming our loot. Sometimes we’d hang them upside down and empty their pockets. We’d long ago learned Aunt Essie would back them up in retaining ownership of anything they stole, even it was engraved with someone else’s name.

Ah, family. Better get busy. I have company coming. But not Crazy Larry. He’s in the witness protection program.