A screen door slammed as hungry, squabbling youngsters ran through the kitchen and got underfoot. The women, with Grandma at the head were dishing up the fried chicken, mashed potatoes, baked beans and slaw and setting them on the table in preparation for the meal. It was cousin Ethel's job to fan the fly swatter over the table keeping the darting insects away. The curtains fluttered in the breeze and the smell of hot rolls floated out to the porch where the men sat in white shirts, thin black ties and black glasses. It was our normal Sunday family dinner.