Hard times

 Little dust tornadoes popped up as drought claimed the crops again this year. Farming was all we knew on land; my great-grandpa settled long ago. Daddy did everything he knew how to do, and seeing him feel so low made me want to cry. There were four mouths to feed, and Momma did her best with what we had, mostly potatoes and small game if Daddy or Junior got lucky and shot something.

We sold off everything we could, usually at the market in town, which every first Saturday became an auction. I knew it bothered Daddy to part ways with his Daddy's tools, but he said they were just objects, and selling them meant more food on the table. Momma parted with a quilt she made, with my sister Mary's help, and she cried, wrapping it in old newspapers, hoping it would go to a good family.

I had nothing to give besides who would want a pair of worn-out shoes or a toy gun Grampa carved for me on my tenth birthday. I helped Daddy load up the old truck, pouring in the last of the petrol he had saved for a rainy day, and today was that day. Momma had made four potato pies, and Daddy's final donation was four beautiful wooden chairs he had made with his Daddy that lay under a tarp in the workshop, only to be sold when all else failed.

The market was packed with trucks lined up and goods displayed as the better-off folks walked around, occasionally finding something they liked and insulting the seller with a ridiculous offer. Momma's pies always sold quickly, fetching two dollars apiece, but the beautiful quilt went unsold as it was worth ten times the offers she was getting.

Daddy saw a well-dressed couple standing by the four chairs, and he went to them, explaining that all the beautiful details were like something they'd never seen anywhere else. They offered forty dollars for the chairs, and Daddy had no choice but to accept.

We had forty-eight dollars, enough for food and seeds he would plant in the spring. I would get a newer pair of shoes, which Momma found for three dollars, but I hated getting them. I told Momma I'd rather go barefoot, but she bought them anyway.

Daddy walked down the street to the petrol station, filling the can with enough gas to get us home and a little leftover for the tractor. As he was headed back, he saw Momma running towards him with a smile on her face. She told him she had sold the quilt for forty-five dollars. We had made a small fortune that day, and Daddy took us to the bakery, telling us to pick out one thing. My choice was a jelly-filled donut, and Mary chose a cream-filled one. We savored every bite as Momma and Daddy went without knowing every dollar was needed.

We sang songs on the way back home, each of us happy but sad. Family heirlooms had gone to other homes, but I'd always feel great pride knowing my parents' sacrifices gave us a better life. "You can't eat a chair, can you?" Dad asked. And you can't use a quilt for kindling, Mom chimed in.

The following year, the crops flourished, and Daddy sold almost ninety percent of his crop to the mill for more money than ever before. The bad times were gone, replaced with plenty of food and full pantries. Daddy and I painted the house and the barn, and he taught me to make chairs like his Dad taught him. Momma continued teaching Mary how to quilt, and I put a tarp over the four chairs, never knowing when I might have to sell them. But not today and not tomorrow, because to me, they are a constant reminder of the sacrifices my parents endured to give us the best possible life they could provide.

Mike 2025