Sundays, Grandpa made us set a place for whichever Saint might decide to swing on down from heaven to share our stringy roast. Head of the table, even.
When they never showed up, he’d grow disappointed and lock himself in the basement. Mother would hurry us off to bed. Sometimes I’d wake up and hear him crying in the other room.
One time, we found the Pastor fishing our trout creek, so we asked him why these lousy Saints never came to dinner. He started talking just as his rod bent, but he was distracted so the fish got away.