Free The Path Was Steep by Suzanne Pickett Page A

employees, but if you’d like to do the feature—”
    As easy as that. A newspaper job, and featured on the front page beside Will Rogers. Pay? One dollar and fifty cents a week. And the heady excitement of recognition. A girl at the ten-cent store was as excited as if I were a personage when she cashed my pay check. “I keep a scrapbook of your poems,” she said breathlessly.
    The superintendent of education owned a shoe store. When I presented my weekly check, he looked, shook hands with me, and called his wife from the back to introduce us. “We are so proud to have someone like you in Welch,” he said.
    The local high school, when studying poets, included my rhymes in their study.
    Talent there must have been, a small amount, but it was wasted on such a stupid person as I. With such beginner’s luck, I might have been a successful, widely-known writer in a few years. But my big talent was supposed to be painting and drawing, next music, then singing, and even acting, so writing was just an accidental hobby. It was years before the urge to write became so strong that I was compelled to try my hand once more.
    Then I had heady fame in Welch. We lived in a nice apartment and had good clothes when millions were jobless across America. I knew how fortunate we were, yet I was practically dying of homesickness. The big problem was getting back home to Piper.
    In the meantime, I did the best that I could with my rhymes and tried to be a good wife and mother. David—bless him!—never complained because I didn’t have any talent for housekeeping.
    The girls loved story hour, and nightly I read to them, or told stories of Washington, Lee, St. Valentine, etc. Sharon and Davene were deeply interested in hearing about the one who was “first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.” I showed them Washington’s birthday, February 22, on the calendar, and both girls marked the date.
    On February 23, a visitor arrived from Piper: McClaine Jones, David’s former wall boss*.
    “Do you know who this is?” I asked Sharon, thinking she might remember Mac.
    “I know,” Davene said.
    “Who is it, darling?”
    “George Washington,” she said triumphantly.
    Mac—an experienced fire boss, wall boss, and machine man—landed a job, and the sofa was occupied again on weekends. David and Mac both worked night shift. David caught every extra shift he could, and he and his buddy worked long hours, cutting coal. Each place they cut added to their income.
    Times grew steadily worse. Men were laid off. Work dropped to two and three days weekly. My check helped with the grocery bill and bought a few toys for the girls. We didn’t charge Mac for board; his family at home was in desperate need of far too many things.

8
    We Never Knew Our Cruelty
     
    One morning David and Mac panted up the hill and came in exhausted, as usual. An extra ring of white was around David’s lips. “Well,” he announced grimly, “we are moving.” He put his lunch bucket on the table and went to brush his teeth.
    “That Dave.” Mac sat in one of the leather chairs. “Made of steel. Just sails up that hill.” His face was tired, his fingers clumsy as he rolled a cigarette.
    Davene climbed the chair and perched on his knee. Sharon lay on her stomach behind the sofa and looked at shoes in a Sears Roebuck catalogue.
    “He’s too tired to hold you,” I reached for Davene. My knees felt weak. Fear tied a knot in my chest. Papa would take us in again, but what about David? There was no work anywhere, especially at home. Mentally, I counted the money in my purse. With David’s pay—thank goodness they held back two weeks—there might be enough for current bills and bus fare home.
    “Were you laid off, too?” I spared a moment to pity Mac.
    “Laid off?” He licked his cigarette, struck a match, then let the flame burn as he stared at me.
    “What gave you that idea?” David came in and kissed me, his breath smelling of