Picture my father's brothers, all unmarried, all in bib overalls, hands stained red from making elderberry wine. The brothers, with names like Levi and Nehemiah, digging a pond, though my grandmother didn't want a pond.

She stood beside my mother, an almost new bride and large as a cow, breasts swelling with tissue making new milk. And my grandmother said, as she clucked and she swore, putting her mouth to my mother's ear, "Why do you reckon they're diggin' that hole? Silly boys, getting all sweaty for nothing more than a pond. Digging it, I bet, so they can drown the baby." Then my grandmother laughed, rubbing floured hands around her face to check tears of glee.

This is what passed for humor in my father's family.