STOICS / William Blythe IN SEPTEMBER OF 1964, when my younger sister Sarah and I were already on the way to learning stoicism in the face of the unexpected, we were taken like the orphans we had become to Hoover Hansen's farm in the tobacco country outside of Danville, Virginia. The summer haze had been blown away by early winds from Canada, and the air was as distilled as bottled water. Sounds traveled easily in such air, and often that fall at first light, we heard hunters' shots from as far as Pleasant Grove Presbyterian, two miles away. For Hansen, as we learned, the church might as well have stood in China. He preferred to celebrate his Sundays by drinking gin and gazing at birds (which God had made better than preachers, he said) through his binoculars. Had my parents been given a choice, they probably wouldn't have chosen Hansen's as the place for Sarah and me to endure our first fall without them. His was the kind of backwater farm that my father, a Southern farmboy himself, had become a diplomat to escape. And I would have to do without proper schooling—Hansen would tutor me. But, since our nearest relative, Uncle Randall, was a pilot in the Navy, and the foster homes closer to Washington were booked full of the homeless and delinquent, the State of Virginia sent us south to Hansen's until something more suitable could be found. Mrs. Davenport, the social worker assigned to our case, drove us to the farm on a Sunday afternoon after we had gone to Catholic mass with her family. When everyone else went up to the front of the church for the bread and wine, we were allowed to stay behind in the pew with the Davenports' youngest boy, who was scribbling vigorously across the pages of a Walt Disney coloring book. Mrs. Davenport was a chubby lady with closely-cropped grey hair and a sheepish manner; she kept stopping to buy Coca-colas on the way down. "I'd offer you children one," she said, "but they're really not very good for you." We had been staying with her family since our parents' accident, and were happy to be leaving, since her children ignored us, and we weren't allowed to play with their toys. The farther south we went that day, the fewer cars we saw; the highway narrowed until it seemed no more than a crumbling blue path twisting through the woods and tobacco fields. Sarah fidgeted in the front seat, belted in next to Mrs. Davenport. I had the whole back seat from which to look out the windows (gummy with childrens' prints) and dream that we The Missouri Review · 33 were going back into a time before even our parents had been born. When we arrived late that afternoon, Hansen met us at the car and disappeared into the house with our bags. He was a balding, grey-haired man who wore khaki pants and a torn woolen sweater caked with dirt. Straw clung to his boots and the back of his sweater, and he seemed sleepy, almost as if he had been napping in the woods. We stood by the car facing the large white house with the red-tinned roof for almost ten minutes before Mrs. Davenport decided that Hansen wasn't coming back out and that we had probably best follow. "Oh isn't this a nice house," she said, lugging our paper bags of toys onto the porch. "Mr. Hansen?" she called. "In here," came the reply from an adjoining room. "Well," said Mrs. Davenport, sighing and squeezing our hands. "Perhaps you should go on in. And there's nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing. I'm convinced of that." She kissed us on our cheeks and waddled down the steps, letting the screen door slam behind her. We found Hansen in the kitchen. The room was warm and smelled of smoked meats. From the ceiling hung an array of skillets and pots, hams and sausages and long strings of chile peppers. Hansen was leaning over a cast-iron stove, cooking supper: scrambled eggs with chile peppers...