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Thanksgiving， 1909<br >THEIR VOICES circled above him like a whirlwind， faster and faster<br >until the gathered sound broke through him and into the empty<br >space that belonged to God. He heard them telling their stories in<br >snatches at holiday time， when the words were interrupted by<br >laughter and uncles slapping their thighs， when aunts risked chok-<br >ing on chicken bones to get out the story of how Papa had dug<br >the tunnel to the barn in the blizzard of 88.<br > "To feed the horses?" Justine his sister asked， concerned.<br > "No， to get to the outhouse!" Papa replied， laughing， the<br >pumpkin pie splotching his chin like stuffing coming out of a<br >turkey.<br > "To feed the horses， Justine said. Oh no， Papa said， to get to the<br >outhouse!" By next year the story had grown and when his Great-<br >uncle Win told it to his Grandma Percy they laughed while the<br >coffee steamed up out of their cups and life went on， yes on:<br >Brightly beams our Father s mercy from His lighthouse ever-<br >Wlore.<br > Then， hunched over the oak table， the whole house of them，<br >fat and thin but mostly fat， would lean on their elbows and<br >stretch forth their pudgy hands to hold out delicate green glass<br >plates for more apple pie， peach pie， pumpkin pie and someone<br >would tell "How We Killed the Pig，" usually his oldest brother，<br >Fred， already grown to be a man. Fred didn t like to kill things so<br >he told the story with a lot of up and down in his voice， as if to<br >get it over with and into the open， out of the dark where maggots<br >grew. It began in the orchard with a big cauldron of scalding<br >Q<br ><br >
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