This picture is of a painting of the drafty, rambling barn of a house in which my 10 siblings and I grew up. It was hotter than blazes in summer and suitable for meat storage in winter. The fridge was empty, but for milk, margarine and dad's shirts awaiting the iron. We slept in beds together and we fought like dogs together. Our social media had a rotary dial and a party line. Our gaming involved lumber and leather. We were spanked a little, fed a little more, clothed enough and loved a lot - the toughest love you ever felt from a shoe or a belt or a wooden spoon. And all 11 of us are still here. Our parents are gone, yet their DNA and their favorite Catholic epithets live on in the eleven of us.