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morning, and Noah was glad she seemedto be feeling better. Yesterday she’d looked tired and acted kind of shakylike.
    His mother shuffled over to their gas-operated refrigerator, withdrew a slab of bacon, and handed it to Noah. “Some of your daed’s best.”
    He chuckled. “All of Pop’s hogs are the best. At least he thinks so.”
    Mom’s head bobbed up and down, and a few brown hairs sprinkled with gray peeked out from the bun she wore under her small, white head covering. “My Levi would sure enough say so.”
    “You’re right about that. Pop gets up early every morning, rain or shine, and heads out to feed his pigs. Truth is, I think he enjoys talking to the old sows more than he does me.”
    Mom’s forehead wrinkled as she set three plates on the table. “Now don’t start with that, Noah. It’s not your daed’s fault that you don’t share his interest in raising hogs.”
    “That’s not the problem, Mom, and you know it.” Noah grabbed a butcher knife from the wooden block on the cupboard and cut several slices of bacon; then he slapped them into the frying pan. The trouble between him and Pop went back to when Noah was a young boy. He was pretty sure his father thought he was a sissy because he liked to cook and help Mom with some of the inside chores. That was really dumb, as far as Noah was concerned. Would a sissy work up a sweat planting a bunch of trees? Would a sissy wear calluses on his hands from pruning, shaping, and cutting the Christmas pines English people in the area bought every December?
    Mom took out a container of fresh goat’s milk from the refrigerator. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we? Your daed will be in soon from doing his chores, and I don’t want you all riled up when he gets here.”
    Noah grunted and flipped the sizzling bacon. “I’m not riled, Mom. Just stating facts as I see ’em.”
    “Jah, well, you have a right to your opinion.”
    “Glad you think so. Now if you want to hear more about what I think—”
    “Your daed loves you, Noah, and that’s the truth of it.”
    Noah nodded. “I know, and I love him, too. I also realize that Pop doesn’t like it because I’d rather be in the kitchen than out slopping hogs with him, so I’m trying to accept things as they are.”
    Mom sighed. “None of my boys ever enjoyed the pigs the way that husband of mine does.”
    Noah realized it was past time for a change of subject. “I baked a couple of lemon sponge cakes while you and Pop went to town yesterday. One with sugar and one without.”
    “Are you planning to give one away or set both out on the table at the meal after our preaching service?”
    Noah pushed the bacon around in the pan, trying to get it to brown up evenly. “The cake I made with a sugar substitute is for us to have here at home. I figured I would give the one made with sugar to someone who might need a special touch today.”
    “Guess God will show you who when the time is right.”
    “Jah. That’s how it usually goes.”
    “I just hope you don’t develop baker’s asthma from working around flour so much.”
    Noah snickered. “I don’t think you have to worry none. That usually only happens to those who work in bakeries and such. One would have to be around flour a lot more than me to develop baker’s asthma.”
    Pop entered the kitchen just as Noah was dishing up the bacon and scrambled eggs. Noah’s father had dark brown hair, with close-set eyes that matched his hair color, but his beard had been nearly gray since his late fifties. Now Pop was starting to show his age in other areas, too. His summer-tanned face was creased with wrinkles, he had several dark splotches on his hands and arms, and he walked with a slower gait these days.
    “Something smells mighty good this morning,” Pop said, sniffing the air. “Must have made some bacon.”
    Noah’s mother pointed to the platter full of bacon and eggs. “Our son has outdone himself again, Levi. He made sticky buns,