To someone who was taught that a man is made of his habits, it was plainly obvious what my grandfather found regular – and domestic life wasn't it. And yet, he busied himself with bragging about work and burning his food. He ate it messily, and then decreed I was to wash all of his dishes, even though he was only cooking for himself. Not that I wanted to eat what he'd cooked, anyway. Apparently he'd been shifted off of drilling for oil, and was working now as a stove-piper, on-site. He helped assemble stoves out of sheet metal, and barrels out of metal rings and wood. The stoves were used for smelting ores from the mines, and the barrels for transporting whale oil, which the whalers up north had stripped from flesh in the colder waters. The barrels were sealed with wax, which kept the liquid from leaking as it warmed; as well, they were built to the tightest possible compaction to prevent the flow of air. He'd learned how to make them from his grandfather, who was a lineaged barreler from Scotland. It made me wonder why he bothered with the oil-fields at all, given that barrels were just as lucrative to sell here as they were anywhere else. He'd built a few during his stay back at home, and in one of those rare moments in which we tolerated the other, he showed me how to build one myself. Mine wouldn't seal, so it was filled with dirt and used as a flower pot. He was capable of some impressive work, if anything should be said for the man, and he took his skills seriously enough to repair things like faucets, windows, walls, and doors. I began to see him in a new light, for whatever anger he stomped out on the floors seemed a fitting price for running well-water. That we had pipes at all, I learned, was his doing in the first place – there were none when they arrived. How could someone of such inventive skill be so thick-skulled and stubborn?

The next day, another shipment arrived, and I witnessed my grandfather at first playing nice, but then shouting him off on his way out. I found the sulking man as he was leaving, and said: "I know exactly how you feel – they're practically slave-drivers if not for the food and shelter. You're lucky you get to leave."
I gave him a pipe that was given to me for my 'birthday', which was absolutely not on November 24th, but was for some reason crucial to celebrate on that very day. The party had been their idea, and mostly benefited them anyway – they'd exclusively bought presents and snacks that only they themselves could enjoy, and made a show of how much they cared.
The man took the pipe meekly, uncertain because I lived in the house where all the money in the village ended up, and thanked me. The man had a beautiful wife and daughter, and the daughter I was smitten with on sight – but I was, as it turned out, too meek and uncertain as to whether or not I deserved her attention, either. She was with her parents, which seemed awkward somehow. I didn't feel like they'd be proud of me for trying, given my disfigurements.

After a long day's work, I'd retire to the kitchen to fry myself some eggs, chug some milk, and toast bread for a handful of berries and some honey to drizzle over them. I was eating finely, no doubt – between cattle steak, home-baked sweets, pork pasta, chicken soup, campfire roasted fish, and buckets upon buckets of fruit and yogurt, I laughed that I might make The King go hungry. Living with an accountant and a barrel-maker had its perks. My grandfather was yet a constant, stomping annoyance to the floors, but my door had a lock on it. If he wanted to stomp in my direction, he had to knock first. I thought my grandmother would be a gentler sort, but if she was just as loud, and twice as intrusive. Every third bird's call from outside, it seemed, would be met by a knock on my door – her, asking of me some menial chore. Taking out refuse, cleaning up after the dog, chopping vegetables for dinner. At least when it came to making dinner, I could enjoy myself: my grandmother had a lot to teach, when it came to cooking. She taught me to start with oil, and the hardest vegetables – then to throw in more and more as they 'sweated'. Next came the chopped lamb, and while I was upset to think of the poor thing's little face while it was alive, I had to admit – it seared nicely. Then, she'd fill the entire crockpot with water, put the lid back on, and simmer it for hours over flaming coals. Though keeping those coals with breath and small branches was tiresome, I had to admit – it made for a much better stew. The low heat and longer time had a way of softening the meat and vegetables so much that they melted in your mouth – and with the right rack of rib, it was impossible to resist. But after the first two months, I got tired of blowing on coals, and she became bitter that she had to return to doing it herself. After that, the crock-stews stopped, and we went back to frying things and boiling regular soup. It was still good, but it wasn't AS good. Maybe one day there'll be a way that nobody has to empty their lungs for it.

One day, I came back to find a room full of people I couldn't recognize. It was another holiday, I presumed, and these were our relatives whom I barely knew. None from my grandfather's side were close enough to attend, and neither was I – often snuck back to my room to write, or guess cards facing down. There was a merriment to The Rationeer's constant family gatherings – my grandfather kept entertained by telling jokes, and I'm afraid some of his sense of humor did impart onto me, for I found them rather funny.
He posed, "What do you call a horseshoe with no horse?"
"What?" an uncle asked.
"A black eye. WHU-DONK!"
He pantomimed being struck, and his sound effect was convincing. All of us were unable to help but laugh, and several more jokes followed. It was enough to finally get me out of my room, and make me want to remain. But I also wanted to ask about our family, and learn our history. My grandfather was busy being the center of attention, and my other relatives all told me not to talk to them until later. He told of how he was bound to return for Arabia, to farm more liquids for their barons and tycoons. Though he bragged about his role as spokesperson for the other employees, as their representative, I had an odd feeling he was overstating his helpfulness to them – because he always seemed to have a little more money than you'd expect from someone who'd just traveled home. I wondered how long that would last, given the way Silk Roads are sewn so fast. Something was bound to change, eventually. By the time he was finished speaking, it was time for everyone to go. I felt dashed, and cursed his comedy under my breath. If not for his barstool theatre, which he chose to have at home, I might have learned something of where I came from... like who my mother and father were. I began to wonder if anyone knew at all, or if they'd been instructed by someone not to say; it made me a more suspicious child than I needed to be. But not too much to enjoy the stew, which someone else had lent their lungs for, this time.

Some months passed, yet again. My grandfather was away for work, and the frozen venison had run out. Not that he'd been hunting for it – unlike his father, he didn't know how. He'd simply been buying it for us. I was happy to return to picking at vegetables, anyhow – meat had a way of turning my guts. I still had soy milk, anyway, and The Potionist was right – it settled my stomach better.

Eventually, I began to crave more yardwork to expend all my excitement. My early waking and steady work impressed my grandmother, and she began acting more fondly towards me; complimenting my work, and giving me hugs before bed, which I hadn't had in years. Like I'd earned some kind of commendation, I suppose. But then my grandfather returned, and brought new anger home with him. His knuckles were bruised, and he told us that he'd gotten into an accident, and been sent home to sleep it off. His wife consoled him, and salved his wounds. Something, to me, felt... off. Why was he back so soon? When asked what accident occurred, did he change his story from falling off the second floor, to having his hand crushed by a stone. Then, he decided it was both. It cast suspicion.
He told us, "I'm alright, though. That's why they call me The Chief."
But I didn't, and nobody else around town did, either. It was just him. The Rationeer would make a far better Chieftan (or Chieftess), in my eyes, for keeping to her promises and focusing on the sale of their house, instead of gambling. Even with her faults, she was a leader in ways he wasn't. At the same time, she had only disdain for my diet, once she realized I was getting thinner again and staying strong – to her, I suppose, it looked unnatural. Like some kind of comedy. They refused to be informed of how I'd done it, and told me "it'd never last" and that I was mad. I couldn't explain why I felt better, but I just did. But I also felt the need to wander, and between the hours I spent working, I barely managed more than a few walks in the woods. To be inside, all of a sudden, felt like being cramped. The yard, most days, was just an easier place to be.

Around the time the yard was finally finished, it was time to harvest the small, fenced garden in its far corner. I'd built wooden boxes and shoveled dirt into them for which the food to grow, and The Rationeer had made her mornings out of watering them every second day. I'd also heaped so much soil into those muddy pits they'd turned into flat, even ground, right up to the boards. Practically at the same time, I was turning a hill into a stone sidewalk, complete with gravel beds for the trees, wood-chip beds for the bushes, and even a brick patio by the back door. My grandfather, though rarely present, had managed to build a wooden deck and a set of patio chairs for the family to lounge around in. It was the nicest thing he'd done since he'd made his return. He was forced to remain until the house had sold, and even if he left off for the oil-fields again, he was (as far as he knew) still married until the house sold. It made him bitter, grumpy, and sullen. He was obviously not happy with the arrangement, knowing he was to be ousted but not yet allowed to leave. Between the two of them, my grandmother was clearly in charge.

A week later, I met The Collector, The Rationeer's eldest daughter. She had decided to move back in. I asked if she was my mother, and was met with uproarious laughter. So, no, apparently she was not. But that meant they knew who was, and were still refusing to say. It made me grind my teeth to think they could keep such a secret, and for so long. Regardless, none of that was my aunt's fault, and she'd been through a lot herself. She (three children in tow) had just left a messy divorce of her own, with a man she'd called The Ogre. They'd had a house together two towns over, but he'd wasted away her goodwill and wife-hood on drugs an' whores aplenty. He worked for the whalers, but his task was to bring the take home from their ships so the meat could be salted; so the bones could be fashioned however seemed necessary; and so the fat could fuel lanterns and be used to start campfires. He was never expected to go along, and this left the man almost entirely to his own devices – in a place he knew like the back of his hand. Whether he was piss-drunk, smogged, or everything in-between. After enough nights of him coming home to vomit on the furniture, she finally decided she'd had enough.