The sermon began in Genesis, leapt forward to Philippians, zigzagged through the Gospels, and rewound to Isaiah. An hour in, Pa was washed down in sweat with his denim shirt displaying the evidence of his vigor. And a chorus of growls were coming from the younger twins sitting to my left. At age six, I was impressed they were both still awake.

Knox tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Ox, I’m starving.”

I looked down at him, his freckled nose wrinkled and his lips parted just enough to see the space missing a front tooth. He was identical to Nash with big blue eyes and a mop of dark-brown hair. Even their missing teeth were in identical spots. Having come prepared, I pulled a pack of Nabs out my back pocket, rousing Pixy from her nap long enough to snatch one before leaving the rest for the boys.

Without missing a beat, Pa went from preaching to singing and then returned to preaching. Don’t get me wrong —he was magnificent and could capture anyone’s attention when he had the right wits about him. But those times were getting fewer and further between.

How did we get here? Is there a route away from it?

Those questions haunted me more and more these days with things spinning out of control, and I wished we could just turn back the pages to a simpler, happier time.

Nights spent frolicking in the swimming hole just past a patch of woods at the back of the farm. The moon and stars the only light, making the entire experience even more mischievous.

Tobacco-worm grenade attacks, leaving us covered in neon-green goo and needing another swim.

Lazy Sunday afternoons on the front porch with each of us taking turns cranking the ice cream maker, churning out the best peach ice cream in the world.

One of Mama’s laughing spells that wouldn’t quench until the entire Foster house was infected. Laughing until fat tears rolled down our faces and we had deep aches in our bellies that only righted with some of that peach ice cream or a pack of the Hostess snack cakes that Mama always snuck in the buggy at the Piggly Wiggly.

Looking through the innocent lens of adolescence, those happier days were perfection. Sadly, they had an expiration date just like those snack cakes. Happiness staled and nothing was pleasing after that. But just like the expired cakes in a meager season, we had no other choice but to stomach whatever life tossed our way next.

Chapter 1: THE FORTUNE-TELLER

October 1980