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The sun warms the worn wood of the front porch, casting long shadows across the yard as it dips behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. Grandpa Zebulon Walton sits in his rocking chair, a slow, rhythmic creak accompanying his voice. He’s telling Elizabeth, his youngest granddaughter, the tale of The Brave Little Tailor . Eight-year-old Elizabeth’s eyes are wide with wonder, her pigtails twitching as she listens.
“And with one blow, he killed seven of 'em,” Grandpa says, his own eyes twinkling as he leans forward.
“I got five!” Elizabeth exclaims, holding up her small hand. “I killed five flies with one swat.”
Grandpa chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that shakes his belly. “That’s a mighty fine start, little bug.” He points a gnarled finger toward a single fly buzzing lazily around the porch light. “Don’t you kill that one, though. I think he’s a Walton fly.”
Elizabeth tilts her head. “A Walton fly?”
“Yes, ma’am. That one’s been around for three generations. He’s got history,” Grandpa says with a wink. “Most folks don’t know that the common housefly can beat a racehorse in a mile. It’s their sheer determination. Never give up on a crumb.”
Inside the house, Ben, at fourteen, finds Grandma and gestures toward the door. “Maude let Myrtle in,” he whispers.
Grandma, her hands busy kneading dough, doesn’t look up. “Tell that girl to tie that goat securely to the apple tree, and she better get back here before supper gets cold.”
“But Grandma, she’s right there,” Ben says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Can’t she just come in?”
“Ben, you know what I think about livestock in the house. Now, you get out there and do as I say,” Grandma says firmly, pushing a strand of hair from her face with a flour-dusted hand.
The long table is full of Waltons, the clatter of silverware a melody to John-Boy’s ears. He watches as Bobby, the guest of honor, sits across from him. Her smile is as bright as a spark, her hands graceful as they fold over her lap.
Mary Ellen, fifteen and feeling quite grown-up, leans forward. “Erin and I were just saying how romantic it would be to be a wing-walker,” she says to Bobby, her voice dreamy.
Erin, who is thirteen, nods enthusiastically, a wisp of auburn hair falling over her eye. “It must be so exciting, flying like that.”
Elizabeth chimes in, her voice small but clear. “Momma flew in an airplane once. With a man who delivered the postal mail.”
Bobby smiles, her gaze meeting John-Boy’s for a moment before flitting back to the girls. “The wind feels like satin against your face. You feel like you could touch the clouds.” She then looks at John-Boy. “John-Boy, I told you that ‘strom,’ my last name, means electrical current in Scandinavian.”
John-Boy nods, and a private glance passes between them.
Grandpa, ever the storyteller, clears his throat. “I remember the early barnstormers. They weren’t much of nothing but play-actors who rode around on horses, playing in barns.”
Grandma lifts a spoon from her bowl, her face grim as she speaks below her breath. “It’s a terrible thing. Making such a spectacle of yourself, risking your life for entertainment. That girl is tempting the devil, and she’s going to get what’s comin’ to her.”
Olivia, noticing the hurt flicker across Bobby’s face, nudges Ben. “Did she hear what Grandma said?” Olivia asks him quietly.
“Oh, she heard it, alright,” Ben mutters, his eyes wide.
Grandma, as if sensing the conversation, looks at Olivia. “I said what I said. And I had better get ready to meet my maker.”
Suddenly, the front door bursts open, and Jason and Jim-Bob come flying inside. “Grandma, you’re not gonna believe what we saw!” Jason, seventeen, exclaims, his face flushed.
“Myrtle is on top of the shed’s roof!” Jim-Bob, at eleven, adds breathlessly.
A stunned silence falls over the table.
John-Boy sighs, a small smile playing on his lips. “Looks like the goat’s gonna get it from Grandma.”
Bobby, her eyes gleaming, says softly, “As I did.”
John-Boy leans forward. “Grandma feels it’s sinful to endanger one’s life for entertainment. She worries about you, Bobby.” He reaches for her hand, his voice a low, comforting murmur. “But the whole family will pray for you so that you will return safely from your flight.”
Bobby pulls her hand away and stands, her chair scraping against the floor. “It’s getting late. I should go.”
John-Boy follows her out onto the porch, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She doesn’t turn around, but her voice is soft. “It’s not you, John-Boy. It’s just… a lot to take in.” She closes the door behind her.
John-Boy stands there for a moment, then knocks softly on the door. “Bobby? Can I ride along with you on your next ‘come-on’ ride?”
After a pause, the door opens a crack, and Bobby’s face appears. She looks at him, her lips curved into a small smile. “It’s difficult to say no to you, John-Boy.”