“Go see John. John is a riot.” Grandma would say that every time my brother choked on a fruit pit. We would crowd in the doorway and watch John heaving up and down in front of the toilet in an uncontrollable dance. My oldest brother Jessup would, eventually, strike him on the back with a piece of timber fencing, and the pit would shoot into the toilet like a tree-born rocket. John would stand bent over his namesake, one hand on one knee, catching his breath, and grandma would make the rounds passing out cake on small squares of cream-colored wallpaper. Eventually the commotion would die down, John would gather his cake, and we’d all thirteen of us head to the parlor for rounds of “hangman” and “sodapop squirrel.” Those sure were fun times.