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Show in my father's house/ 37 Aunt Sarah declared, looking at my brother Danny. "These young rascals who've inherited their father's passion for fishing." Her eye was stern, but a smile played at the corners of her mouth. My father frowned. "Young man," he said, "you simply must be more careful. From now on, if the pasture gate is left open, there will be no more fishing poles and no more fishing." Danny studied the patches on his knees. How strange to see cocksure Danny embarrassed! "You know, you nearly drowned in the creek yourself. It's only through the grace of God that you're with us today," my father said pointedly. The room was quiet, the air heavy as Aunt Rachel's cake. "Enough said," my father sighed, closing the case. He was pale again. Most of his cake remained uneaten. "Do we have a closing number?" The mothers gathered at the piano, six of them standing in semi-circle, arms strung around each other's waists. My mother sat at the keyboard and played the opening strains of "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen." The mothers' voices melted into perfect chords. Although both were tall women, Aunt Gerda dwarfed Aunt Helga. But their voices were evenly-matched: strong, undeniable altos. Willowy Aunt LaVona, whose spectacles hid traces of earlier beauty and gave her a waspish look, sang soprano alongside the shorter, |