The Path Was Steep by Suzanne Pickett Read Free Book Online

never been proof against his charm, so we set up shop under the pear tree. I took the scissors, snipped the air a few times, then aimed at Lee’s curls. Soon I was snapping away like a turtle. His hair was much shorter, but I frowned. “Your neck is fuzzy,” I said.
    Grayson had watched happily as I cut away at the pale gold field of hair. “I’ll get Papa’s razor,” he offered, and ran to the house.
    Expertly, I swathed lather on Lee’s neck. Then, like a baseball player making false moves, I twisted and flourished my razor. I’d watched often enough to know how to use a straight razor. You must approach at a certain angle and scrape away. Either Lee’s good angel watched over him, or I was more expert than I thought. I took a trial run down his neck, and the fuzz miraculously disappeared.
    Grayson had brought the razor strop. Pride now bouncing off my hands—my no-longer-useless hands—I sharpened up my weapon and started on the bowed, sacrificial neck again.
    Lee had never been a coward. Now love added to his bravery. He didn’t flinch as I scraped around his ears, at fuzzy temples and the back of his neck. At last, hair shorn and ears still attached to his head, Lee rose, felt around his neck, and—eyes bright with gratitude—thanked me.
    “Would you cut my hair?” Grayson asked, as always ready to follow Lee into any danger.
    Sure of my skill now, I began work on Grayson’s equally thick mop of brown hair. Papa, coming to the house for a drink of water, saw me flourish the razor over Grayson’s bowed neck.
    “Sue!” He started to run. “You be careful!”
    For his benefit, I did an expert turn around Grayson’s left ear. Papa stopped; his waving hands stilled, and he sat down under the pear tree until my second haircut was finished.
    “I didn’t know you could cut hair,” Papa said.
    “I didn’t either,” I boasted a little. “Easiest thing I ever did.” It wasn’t necessary to tell the state of my knees, which had begun to tremble the moment the razor was in my hand. Only now that the haircuts were actually over did they seem to have strength to hold me erect.
    Word of my skill soon spread, and I became the community barber. Uncle Lish, who lived the second farm away; my cousin Rob on the next farm; Forrest, whose land lay at the back of the pasture (Papa rented his farm from Forrest); and his sons Earl, Ed, and Junior—all Mosleys, close kin, soon came to sit under the pear tree for weekly haircuts.
    It would have been an insult to them, to me, and to kinship to offer pay for my services. Didn’t they share fruits and vegetables with us if they had any we didn’t have? And didn’t the fact that I was of use make the long summer days pass more pleasantly?
    The boys dug washer holes and set up stakes for pitching horseshoes under the pear trees. My tomboy childhood returned, and soon no one could beat me at those games. I became so expert at mumblety-peg (knife-throwing at porch planks) that I must have been county champion if we’d held a tournament.
    The Depression was not so hard on farmers as on wage earners. Farmers had never been wealthy, but they did not fear hunger, which daily became a great national scourge. Strange tales began to circulate. Society demanded stern Victorian morals, so we were shocked at the tale of a young, pretty mother of three children. She had gone to the road, stopped a bread truck, and offered to sell herself for a few loaves of bread.
    Gossips, eager to find fault, said, “She just wanted an excuse to have an affair with the man.”
    “No,” a person who knew her well said. “She is a virtuous woman, but her children were starving.”
    I’d look at the wide fields, hear the cackle of hens, the lowing of cattle with full udders. I’d gather baskets of vegetables from the field and be humbly grateful that Papa lived on a farm. And yet, Miss Mildred’s check would go only so far. Even on a farm, many things had to be bought: kerosene for the