The Path Was Steep by Suzanne Pickett Read Free Book Online Page A

lamps, sugar, coffee, chewing tobacco. Papa grew thrifty with the latter. He would bite off a chunk of his favorite, Brown Mule, savor the first chewing, and then cache it on one of the logs at the old barn.
    There was aspirin, too. Papa suffered from headaches; Miss Mildred was bothered with her teeth. The children must have clothes and shoes for winter, and school books and paper and pencils. Such were not furnished then.
    I yearned to share the expense. David sent an occasional dollar, most of which I used on paper, envelopes, and stamps. In summer, work grew slack, even in West Virginia. The company was still collecting on his debt. Board must be paid weekly; there was carbide, Prince Albert, and his own paper and stamps. He had left home almost ragged. “If you don’t buy at least one outfit, I’ll buy them myself and mail them to you when you send money,” I wrote.
    His next letter apologized, but yes, he really did need clothes. The company put them on his bill. But he was saving dimes and had a matchbox almost full. His debts would soon be paid, and he was sure to send for us by the last of August.
    So I gathered vegetables, pitched horseshoes, took all the children swimming in a creek behind Uncle Lish’s place, made some feedsack dresses for Aunt Stella’s girls, wielded my scissors, and wondered what I could do to earn a few pennies.
    Davene, a little spitfire, was petted and spoiled by all. Sharon, sweet and gentle, sang by the hour, played with the others, and longed for new shoes. Each night she ended her prayers, “And please let Daddy make some money and buy me some new shoes.”
    Often, she slipped into the house to put on her tight, scuffed patent-leather slippers. Her plump feet were her greatest pride. “My feet are like Daddy’s,” she’d boast. “And he’s got the biggest feet in the world.” Poor Davene and I had bony AAA feet that demanded expensive shoes.
    The summer before, farms had started blowing away in the Dust Bowl in the West. Drought again threatened. I’d find Papa under an apple tree or among the corn rows on his knees. When rains came just before the crop died, my own prayers would be more fervent that night.
    No one could grow peas like Papa. He firmly believed in planting by the Zodiac signs. His peas grew low and bushy, with ripening fruit as thick as porcupine quills. His corn was low, also, with big fat ears if there was sufficient rain. Okra, tomatoes: everything was prolific. “Papa,” I said one afternoon as I walked with him through the fields. There were bushels of ripening peas, low on the vines among the corn rows. “We could sell these at Majestic.”
    “You know I don’t have time to peddle.” His face was tired, but his eyes alight as always at the sight of corn and peas, and cotton across the road. He was never as happy as when walking through his fields.
    “I do,” I said.
    “You? A peddler?” He knew my pride, inherited from him. “Anyhow, you can’t drive.”
    “Lee can.”
    “He’s wild as a buck!” Papa spread his hands in emphasis.
    “I’ll watch him.” The thought never occurred to either of us that it was against the law for Lee to drive.
    And so I made a job for myself. Just after breakfast three mornings a week, Lee, Grayson, and I shuttled off in the Model T Ford. Lee, exuberant, desired speed. I threatened to tell Papa. He was not afraid. Finally, I turned off the ignition key. To start the motor, he had to get outside, go to the front, and turn a crank. After a few times of this, Lee settled down to erratic but reasonably safe driving.
    We stopped at my sister Maurine’s for a few minutes’ visit with her and Lucile, then on to the dying coal-mining town of Majestic. As men and women came out to see what we offered, I felt a mingling of guilt and helpfulness. They could scarcely afford the small price that we charged, yet each could have planted a garden for himself.
    We accepted company scrip and often, I knew, the ten or