Dad was enraged the night we left. I had never seen him act this way. Times had been tough. He had to close his store. He had extended so much credit that he couldn't stay in business anymore. Unfortunately, the eggs, a jugs of milk, fresh vegetable, and bread he received as payment for goods, didn't count for much at the bank for the mortgage. Everywhere, I went people talked of "The Great Depression." And then the drought that hit our valley in 1931, didn't help much either.
There was a permeating silence in our small home that night. Mother tried to maintain her composure, but I could tell it was wafting. There seemed to a loss of hope. I heard them speaking in muffled whispers.
"The children, how will we feed the children?"
"Maybe Ed could help?" mother replied
"After all, he is their father."
I was in the other room, but these words stung. Had I stayed longer, I would of heard my dad's response,
" No, Marie, I am their father, " he replied quiet and stern.
That's when I bundled Ruthie up and we left the only place we had ever called home.
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