Free Chinaberry by James Still

had been in on the ground floor of the subject since birth.
    â€œIs there a towerhouse with electric lights?” I asked.
    â€œNaw, naw,” Anson said, and he laughed a little, cutting his eyes to Lurie, who smiled. “The house is just called the Towerhouse. On account of the man who built it.”
    I was to learn of this man later, along with much more information.
    I had heard many tales about everyone who lived at the ranch and was anxious to experience meeting them. There were Anson's parents, plus his brother Jack and Jack's three sons, who were always referred to as “the three Little Jacks.” Also Ellafronia Cauldwell, Bronson, the cook with the dim-witted son, the cowboys, and the helpers who might drop in at any hour and be fed at their appointed table.
    Despite being told ahead of time that there was no tower at Towerhouse, unless I wanted to count the silo, I expected one as we turned down the drive. The Winters homestead sat atop a rise of ground that could be seen by keen eyes a full mile's distance, the spread of land about it as flat as a beaver's tail and planted in corn and millet. Still, this was no “big hill,” as Anson said, although I suppose it could be considered as such in a place as flat as East Texas. We had encountered no cotton since crossing into Robertson County. The distance from the main road to the house was accounted at two miles.
    We stepped out of the car, and the sun hazed like a copper skillet. A light breeze stirred, as always.
    We were met at the yard gate by Anson's mother, Jack, and the three Little Jacks. They stared at me and my toy cowboy getup. They were dressed well but not fancy.
    We were chided for being late. Dinner awaited on the table, and after embracing her son and Lurie, Anson's mother—whom I had been instructed to call “Grandma”—put her hands on my shoulders and studied me lovingly. “So here's the boy I've been hearing brags about,” she exclaimed. “So this is the one.” She gave me a hug and a kiss and pushed me back, appraising me again. I resisted wiping away the damp spot on my cheek, which I wouldn't have hesitated to do back in Alabama.
    Jack caught hold of my hand, and one of the Little Jacks pulled his father's hand loose and substituted his own. Everybody laughed at this.
    â€œWe all know who he reminds us of,” Grandma said. I didn't understand.
    Anson picked me up, which pained me, as it usually did when we were in front of others. Lurie must have sensed my discomfort, because she touched his arm lightly. “Let him walk along with the three Little Jacks,” she said. So he did.
    The moment we stepped onto the porch, I heard the grind of the ice cream freezer and smelled the mixed aromas familiar to Sunday dinners back home: fried chicken, dumplings, cured ham, gravy, smoking biscuits, green beans, potatoes, apple pie, pound cake, pickles, jams, and jellies. And most to my liking, there was the scent of sweet potato pie.
    Having washed our hands at the water shelf on the back porch, we were led directly to the dining room and seated. Already at the table was Big Jack. He patted me on the head and said, “Good boy.” After that, he didn't more than glance my way. It turned out he had not been told about me. Later, I heard Anson whisper to Lurie, “No use telling Papa anything he might not be able to handle.”
    I sat between Lurie and Anson. Anson served my plate, seeing to it that I got something of everything. Jack's wife, Nora, sat on one side of Grandpa, with Jack on the other. But wedged against Grandpa's chair was “Jacky Boy,” the middle of the three boys, who was Grandpa's favorite. Grandpa ate little but insisted on Jacky Boy's stuffing himself. Ellafronia flew up and down from her seat, to the kitchen and back with further dishes, checking to see that Grandpa actually ate something, which he wouldn't unless urged.
    â€œYou need to eat a bit more