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Whitehead’s team of Shires did that year, breaking up the binder on the fence line, and slowing the threshing by four days while everything was put back together.
    When they came in for dinner, Rosanna had it all organized out back, under the hickory trees. Tables with cloths lined up in the shade, and the bread and the beans and the caramelized carrots and the sweet corn and the watermelon and the slaw all set out, so that they sat themselves down at their places, and out she came with the roasts, two of them, enough for everyone to have plenty, with her own butter in the middle that she made and salted and sold to the store in town—the best butter in the county, everyone said.
    In addition to their own two families, there were the Whiteheads and the Lewises and the Smiths, whom Walter and Rosanna only sawat threshing and harvest, everyone in family groups, the men to help with the threshing, the women to help with the cooking, and the youngsters to play—Rosanna set the youngsters up in the side yard, with two different kinds of swings, a tire swing and a bench swing—and the girls were put in the charge of Eloise, who had them turning the crank on the ice-cream churn. Even though Walter didn’t grow any peaches, and didn’t know anyone who did, Rosanna got some in town—a peck of them—and the ripest went into the ice cream. Of all the families who did their threshing together and therefore their eating together, Walter’s family was the only one who made ice cream. The day at Walter’s was a long one, because he grew so much oats.
    But look at Frank, an advertisement for oats if ever there was one. He was inches taller than the Lewis boy, who was a month older, and he could outrun that Lewis boy, too. What was his name? Oh, Oren. The big boy, almost four, was David. David Lewis was standing facing Frank as Walter passed them, shouting, and Frank was smacking the ground with a branch he’d found. Oren was standing there, looking back and forth between the two of them, and this is what Walter heard—he heard David shout, “Okay, Frank, you stand there, and you tell me what to do.” This was enough to make Walter chuckle, and then Frank called out, “David, run to me, push me!” Frank dropped the branch and spread his arms.
    When David ran at him, Frank turned his shoulder to the older boy and knocked him down. Then the boys rolled over in the grass. Rough play, and Walter knew Rosanna and Emily Lewis would stop it, but since Frank had dropped the branch, it was hand-to-hand combat—all boys, Walter thought, needed plenty of that, especially Oren, who stood there with his thumb in his mouth. It was his private opinion that he and Howard hadn’t been allowed enough shenanigans—when they weren’t put to tasks, they were to sit still, do as they were told, speak when spoken to. As a result, he sometimes thought he had never known Howard at all. Walter sped up his step. He was hungry, and he didn’t want to hear anything from Rosanna about letting those boys get away with murder.
    As soon as Walter washed his hands at the pump, that was the signal for all the men to clean up as best they could and find themselves places at the table.
    The first thing all of them did was down several glasses of water, and then the chorus went around: “Hot one! How hot do you think it is? Over a hundred yet? Not so damp, though. Humidity was worse the other day, over at Bill Whitehead’s. Down by the river there, always damp.” Head shaking. “Got a good crop, though, say that for him.” Then, “Try this, Rolf. Rosanna knows her slaw. Nice piece of meat, Walter. Lean, but tasty, I’ll say. How many you gonna slaughter this year? I got jars of brisket and sausage bursting out of the cellar, don’t know why, just can’t eat enough of it, I guess. Didn’t have to kill a chicken until May this year. Nice melons, too. Soil around our place isn’t sandy enough for good melons. How’s your potatoes looking this year? I