The way Jack described this place, I expected to see a handful of dilapidated shacks built on the forest edge, complete with a blind banjo player propped up on the front porch, offering to duel with all comers. Instead, ‘the Manning compound’ appears more the idyllic mountain retreat. The main house, which must be at least one hundred years-old, appears immaculately maintained, looming tall and solid, built on a rough stone foundation which probably predates the structure upon it.

Behind the main house, three or four other, smaller houses cling to a steep slope. Between them is a natural quilting of lawn, vegetable patches, and blooming flower gardens. On the periphery a handful of outbuildings anchor the property. Beyond them small fields are planted with corn or fenced with horses and cattle. It’s just a small farmstead, set off on a narrow dirt lane, high up in the Virginia hills.

There nothing about it to indicate the embarrassment of ignorance or poverty Dillon suggested.

As soon as we exit the car, I catch the unmistakable scent of smoked pork barbecue. The air hangs heavy with it, making my stomach rumble with hunger.

“Smells good,” Dillon announces. “Charlie must’ve killed a hog.”

Glad we missed that part.

The kids bound out of the vehicle, tearing across the yard at a dead run, heading toward the back of the house. They’ve been here before, so they know where they’re going. I have no such advantage.

Dillon peers at me over the roof of the car, a tentative smile catching his usually easy countenance. “You ready?” he asks, nodding forward. “They’re probably all out back, by the shelter. All five hundred of them.”

He’s exaggerating, of course, but it doesn’t stop the nerves bubbling up in my gut.

“Now or never,” I reply.

There aren’t five hundred of them, but for the first few minutes of introductions, it seems like it. The shelter Dillon alluded to is an open-air barn with a steep roof and interior lofts, overlooking a wide-open dirt floor covered with straw and crushed peanut husks. On the far end there’s a giant, cast iron wood smoker with its lid propped open with greasy, savory smoke billowing out, curling into the air. A small group of men huddle around it, focused on the contents of the smoker, oblivious to everyone else.

The floor of the barn is lined with slatted wooden tables and bench seats, with a big table near the smoker crowded with bowls and covered dishes of various descriptions.

This isn’t a Sunday dinner. This is a family reunion.

“Jordan!” a young woman shouts as soon as he reaches the perimeter of the place. She leaves her companions, greeting Jordan by dropping low, then throwing her arms around him in a big, full-embrace hug—which he returns with enthusiasm. I’m astonished!

The woman appears to be in her mid-to-late thirties. She’s got bleach-blond hair, lots of make-up, heavy jewelry hanging from her wrists, ears, and around her neck. She’s dressed in colorful print, skin-tight leggings and a blousy lilac shirt, showing ample cleavage.

She looks like one of the ladies who works at the salon in Abingdon rather than a redneck from the hollows of western Virginia.

“That’s my cousin, Christine,” Dillon says. “Third cousin, or something like that.”

Christine greets Chrissy and Joey in the same way, embracing them all, telling them how much they’ve grown. As soon as she stands up, she sees Dillon and me approaching, and she breaks out into a gleaming grin. Her hand props on her hip and her expression is one of intense amusement.

“Dillon Manning, you prodigal so and so. You handsome devil,” she says.

Dillon leans in, hugging her warmly, then he quickly turns her attention to me.

“This is my boyfriend, Jack Chance,” he says. “Jack. This is my cousin, Christine McIntyre. She’s married to my other cousin, Billy McIntyre, who’s my mother’s second cousin.”

I grin, shaking her hand. “I’m not going to be tested on the twisted family tree bits, am I?” I ask her.

She laughs. “Oh, hell no,” she says in a high-pitched, fast-spoken mountain brogue. “Honey, I was born in this family and I can’t even keep up with it.”

She stands back taking a long look at me, then she glances back at Dillon. “I think he’ll do just fine,” she says. “Let me show him around.”

From there I meet what seems like a hundred different people. Someone puts a cold beer in my hand while a parade of women, old and young, welcome me to ‘the holler.’ There are kids galore running around, swinging in trees, climbing the steep wooden ladder up into the barn loft. No one seems to mind them. I watch Jordan follow a boy his age, scampering high into the rafters, wearing a gleeful grin. It’s the first time I’ve seen that child genuinely smile in all the time I’ve known him.

He peers down on us grown-ups below, and he seems absolutely confident.

If he falls and breaks his head wide open, at least he’ll die happy.

I try to put those thoughts out of my mind, focusing instead on the steaks and burgers in my cooler, and begging space on the smoker to put them on.

A big man wearing a crusty Red Man chewing tobacco baseball cap, holding a rusty pair of foot-long tongs, peers down at me and my steaks. He’s obviously the man in charge of the smoker and he doesn’t look happy.

“Steaks?” he asks. “Hamburgers?”

I nod, feeling alien in his gaze.

“You don’t like barbecue?” he poses, the question loaded with the implication of insult.

“I do,” I say. “But I was instructed to bring steaks and burgers, and that’s what I’m going to do to stay out of trouble.”

“Who would tell you to do something so asinine as bring steaks to a pig-picking?”

His voice is as gruff as a mad dog’s snarl.

“Dillon?” I reply, withering.

The man clenches his jaw tight. He purses his lips. “Dillon Manning? Where is that little shit?”

I watch the man scan his eyes about the fray of people, while his equally doer companions silently do the same. He settles finally, locating his target. A second later he bellows at the top of his lungs.

“Dillon Manning! Get your ass over here!”

The crowd quiets for a second, glancing in the man’s direction. Then they as quickly ignore him, as if they’ve become accustomed to his outbursts.

I watch Dillon slowly make his way toward us, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders hunched passively.

“What the hell is this?” the man asks, pointing his tongs toward the steaks in my cooler.

Dillon draws up next to me, peering inside the cooler. He glances up, smiling awkwardly. “Appetizers?” he suggests.

The man scowls. “Don’t need no fucking appetizers when there’s a hog on the smoker. A whole hog, Dillon. A whole hog.”

Dillon, thinking on his next response. He glances down at an ancient hound dog circled at the man’s feet.

“Well,” he says. “I guess if I can’t have ‘em, then Blue might appreciate a snack.”

They are not feeding my prime, hormone and antibiotic -free Angus filets to a mangy old hound. I’ll fight someone one if I have to.

The old man half smiles, then steps forward, tongs in hand as if he’s about to strike. At the same moment, Dillon hurls himself at the man. They meet, arms wide, wrapping in a tight embrace, both grinning from ear-to-ear.

“It’s been too damn long since you dragged your sorry ass up here, son. I didn’t have a fatted calf to slaughter, so I killed a yearling hog instead.”

Dillon laughs at the old man, pushing him away. “So I see,” he says. “You also invited the entire family. Looks like you missed me. I should stay gone more often.”

The old man shakes his head, wagging his tongs at Dillon. “Screw that, boy,” he replies, a warm smile creasing his steely blue eyes; eyes that match Dillon’s in color, concealed joy, and mischievousness.

I should have known.

“Uncle Charlie, this is Jack,” Dillon says. “My boyfriend.”

Charlie nods. “We already met,” he says, leering at me. “Steaks. And hamburgers.” He shakes his head disdainfully. “You leave that cooler right there. I’ll see to ‘em. We ain’t eating for at least two hours. You put those on now they’ll be shoe leather. Then Blue won’t even want ‘em.”

Charlie turns to one of his companions, handing him the tongs. “Mac, you see to this. Keep it cool and smoking. I’ll be back when I’m back.”

Uncle Charlie is a character, and clearly the sovereign of this little fiefdom. He parts the crowd of his kinfolk, leading us through them. His big hands find their home in gently reaching out and patting heads, and shoulders of the Manning clan along our path. By their nods and warm glances, it’s easy to tell he’s a stranger to no one, beloved by all.

He leads Dillon and me out of the old barn, across the gardens to the wood’s edge, into a small, lean-to shack open to the yard before us. He plops himself down on an ancient bench seat, carved from a single tree trunk. Dillon settles on a stool nearby, while I linger, leaning on a beam just under the roofline. My arms are crossed; I’m unsure of what’s next.

Charlie’s arm reaches behind him into a dark nook. He withdraws a jar filled with clear liquid. Dillon breaks out in a beaming grin.

“You old son-of-a-bitch,” Dillon laughs. “I hope you’ve got a spare to send home with me.”

Charlie nods. “Just don’t tell where it came from.”

He unscrews the lid and takes a small swig, then passes the jar to Dillon, who does the same. Dillon huffs, swallowing hard, his eyes watering. He hands the jar to me, all the while he chokes down a breath.

I take the jar in hand, examining its contents. Charlie’s eyes rise to meet mine, regarding me and my reaction to his elixir with interest.

“Ever had home made liquor son?” he asks, his cheeks suddenly bright.

I nod. “Once or twice,” I confess. “In the navy. I think they made it in a plastic bucket, hidden in the head so the officers didn’t find it.”

Charlie grins. “Not the same,” he says. “Try it. It’ll put ideas in your head.”

“He don’t need no more ideas in his head,” Dillon says, slipping into his comfortable mountain-brogue.

“Is that a fact?” Charlie asks, amused. “I got every idea he ain’t inclined to trying new things.”

Dillon laughs, urging me on. It’s been a long time since I buckled to peer pressure, but what have I got to lose? Only the respect of Uncle Charlie, the man who raised Dillon since he was a little kid, and who helped make him the beautiful person he is.

I tip the jar back, taking a generous gulp, feeling it numb my tongue then burn the back of my throat. It’s surprisingly sharp and smooth, with a nutty, baked flavor, sporting overtones of oak and honey. It’s good, not harsh at all; though it does come back with a fire that makes breathing after swallowing more of a challenge than I expect. I cough while Dillon and Charlie nod and laugh their approval.

“You ever seen a still, young man?” Charlie asks me as soon as I’ve recovered.

“Oh, here we go,” Dillon says, smiling knowingly. He takes another deep swig and then replaces the lid, setting it down on a bench beside Charlie.

“No sir,” I say. “Can’t say I have.”

“You’re not law enforcement, are you?” he asks, furrowing his wiry, gray brow.

“No, sir,” I reply. “EMT.”

He nods. “Oh, you ride around in one of them ambulances. Flashing lights. Loud sirens.”

“That’s me,” I say, smiling. “I do have a badge. I can give you CPR if your hearts stops.”

“Useful,” the old man says, standing up. “Dillon. You stay here and keep an eye on those children. Make sure they don’t get their cousins in trouble. Jack and I are taking a walk.”

We are?

I look to Dillon for help. He just grins at me. “Sorry buddy, you’re on your own,” he says, patting me on the back. “If ya’ll aren’t back by the time food’s ready, I’ll send out a search party.”

“Ha!” Charlie says. “We’ll be back in half an hour. This city boy probably can’t make it up the mountain. It’s too steep for anybody that didn’t grow up in this holler.”

“Is that a challenge?” I ask Charlie, glad I wore my good hiking boots. “I might surprise you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Nobody’s ever surprised me, son.”

We leave Dillon behind, heading into the cover of woods. Charlie leads me through a narrow trail into the forest canopy. He’s got a fast, steady pace; with how tall and wiry with muscle he is, he’s surprisingly fit for a man his age.

The path takes a steep turn up as we pass an outcropping of boulders, and here even Charlie starts to breath hard. I stay close on his heel; he’s working harder than he needs to and with the way he glances back at me several times, I think he knows it, too.

He’s trying to leave me, and he can’t. For a moment, disappointment shrouds his face, but then he redoubles his efforts, picking up pace as the trail goes even more vertical. I let him get a lead of twenty paces ahead of me, just to give him the satisfaction. As soon as I hear his breathing catch, I jog up to him and catch up with ease.

He turns around, glaring at me as he pants.

“Smart ass,” he says, halfway grinning. “I thought I’d walk away from you at the rock fall.”

I shake my head. “No sir,” I say, keeping my expression and tone deadpan. “I’m a big fan of the thrown-down challenge. That, and I’m thirty years younger than you. You should pick on somebody your own age, with a beer gut.”

“You are a smart ass,” he says, sizing me up. “You’re all right.”

Charlie’s whiskey still is a feat of backwoods engineering and ingenuity. Little curls of smoke erupt sporadically from its many-chambered chimney while a sealed steel cauldron cooks a fragrant brew of sour mash, sending steam and distilled liquid up and out through coils of copper piping into more sealed steel containers housed under a lean-to structure with a rusty metal roof.

He opens a door on a box below the cauldron, shoving a few short logs into the fire. Then he settles down on a tree stump a few feet away from his contraption, taking in the full picture of the thing with satisfaction.

“My daddy raised five children in this holler,” Charlie says. “Put shoes on our feet, bought books and paper for school by making and selling ‘shine. He got caught a time or two, went to jail once, but came back and never altered course. He didn’t want us kids doing the same. He wanted us to get out of here and make something of ourselves.”

Charlie opens a small box nestled beside the cooling barrel attached to the still. From inside, he produces two stout glasses. He pours a half-inch of liquid into one glass from a small drum behind him, then the same amount into the other. He hands the first to me, taking the second for himself.

“The stuff we had down at the house was aged six months. This is brand new. A little more edge in this,” he says, warning me.

He’s not wrong. This stuff bites hard, straight away. It sets my mouth on fire, leaving only the aftertaste of scorched cherries and broken promises. I’m inclined to think this would make excellent embalming fluid.

“Good God!” I hack. My eyes water from the sting.

Charlie swallows without batting an eyelash; he must have a calloused tongue.

“It’s rough,” he admits. “Let it sit in an oak cask a few years, then it’s smooth as a newborn baby’s ass.”

I’ll take his word for it.

“How are the kids doin’?” Charlie asks, changing the subject, waving me toward a wobbly, weathered chair near his stump.

I take a seat, risking a second sip of the moonshine. “They’re doing okay,” I say. “It’s been hard. They’ve been through a lot, but they’re adjusting. Jordan’s having a harder time than Chrissy or Joey.”

Charlie nods. “He’s been dealing with his mama’s bullshit longer,” he observes stoically. “Dillon’s just like me. All of a sudden his world comes down to raising somebody else’s children, with no warning and no preparation.”

“He’s doing okay,” I say. “He’s stepped right up to it. And we’ve got help. My sister, Gil’s sister. We’ve got a regular baby sitter, Gretchen.”

The old man nods, smiling. “You’ve got more help than that,” he says. “Those kids are Mannings too. They’ve got aunts and uncles and cousins galore, ready and able to step up to do whatever we need to do to keep ‘em safe and happy.”

Good to know.

“Why’d Dillon never think to ask any of this extended kin for help when he first got the kids?” The question pops out before I can stop it, but Charlie isn’t too pressed about the potentially rude inquiry as he answers with a somewhat bitter chuckle.

“Child Protective Services doesn’t have a real high opinion of folks who live out here in the sticks. Nosy neighbors and weekend people see the kids running around out here, barefoot and dirty from playing in the woods or working in the gardens, they see a kid on a tractor, and think they’re neglected or abused. Those Child Protective Services people look at us like we’re a lesser species. Dillon knows this. He was right to wait ‘til the court proceedings were over. He knows those kids are family to us too.”

I nod, trying to wrap my head around what it means to have a family this big and complicated. Makes sense.

“When my sister-in-law died, and my brother was in jail, I got Dillon and Kimmie because I was living in town, looked respectable. My daddy and momma said they didn’t want another batch of grandchildren stuck out here. They wanted them in school, getting an education. Did my best. It didn’t quite take with Kimmie, but Dillon’s done alright, and we’re all mighty proud of him.”

“You should be,” I say. “He’s a good man.”

Charlie nods, giving me a small but approving smile. “He’ll have it easier than I did. He’s got a good partner to help him, who’s also a good, solid young man. I saw you watching Jordan climbing up into that loft. I saw the worry in your eye. Then I saw your face when that little boy started grinning and laughing. It made you happy to see him happy.”

He’s right.

“Take care of those kids,” Charlie says to me. “You and Dillon, do it together.”

I nod again. “That’s what we’re doing,” I assure him. “We’re both doing our best.”

“You’ll do alright,” he says, swigging the last of his drink. “Now come on. We need to get back to the house. It’s time to eat.”

I follow Charlie down the mountain, thinking on our odd conversation and his story. People have their own strange ways of welcoming new blood into the family; I guess this was Charlie’s. He shared his secret still its product while sharing a small but important slice of his life story. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m gay, or a city boy, or that I can’t quite tolerate his alcohol. He noticed that I care about his nephew. He noticed that I’m willing and able to step up and accept a tough challenge.

As the trail grows wider, leveling as we near the farmstead, Charlie walks alongside me.

“Kimmie never wanted to come out here when she was a kid,” he says. “Even when she was little, she wanted to stay in town with her friends, so I just went along. I regret that now. You and Dillon should bring the kids out here regular-like. Fresh air, old buildings, farm animals—they’re all good for the inside of kids as well as the outside.”

I smile. “I know, and we will. My sister’s got a small farm too, near Chilowee. We’ve taken them out there a couple times. Chrissy and Joey love the goats.”

Charlie nods approvingly. “I ain’t got any goats,” he says. “But if it’ll get Chrissy and Joey out here more often, I ain’t opposed to getting’ some.”

“Cool,” I say.

This guy wants these children to be part of his life. Part of his family’s life. And he’ll do whatever it takes.

I envy Dillon this big, warm family. They may be a little rough around the edges, but that’s nothing compared to the love they seem to have for one another.