In
September
1960,
I
woke
up
one
morning
with
six
hungry
babies
and
just
75
cents
in
my
pocket.
Their
father
was
gone.
The
boys
ranged
from
three
months
to
seven
years;
their
sister
was
two.
Their
Dad
had
never
been
much
more
than
a
presence
they
feared.
Whenever
they
heard
his
tires
crunch
on
the
gravel
driveway
they
would
scramble
to
hide
under
their
beds.
He
did
manage
to
leave
$15
a
week
to
buy
groceries.
Now
that
he
had
decided
to
leave,
there
would
be
no
more
beatings,
but
no
food
either.
If
there
was
a
welfare
system
in
effect
in
Southern
Indiana
at
that
time,
I
certainly
knew
nothing
about
it.
I
scrubbed
the
kids
until
they
looked
brand
new
and
then
put
on
my
best
homemade
dress
and
loaded
them
into
the
rusty
old
51
Chevy
and
drove
off
to
find
a
job.
The
seven
of
us
went
to
every
factory,
store
and
restaurant
in
our
small
town.
No
luck.
The
kids
stayed
crammed
into
the
car
and
tried
to
be
quiet
while
I
tried
to
convince
whomever
would
listen
that
I
was
willing
to
learn
or
do
anything.
I
had
to
have
a
job.
Still
no
luck.
The
last
place
we
went
to,
just
a
few
miles
out
of
town,
was
an
old
Root
Beer
Barrel
drive-in
that
had
been
converted
to
a
truck
stop.
It
was
called
the
Big
Wheel.
An
old
lady
named
Granny
owned
the
place
and
she
peeked
out
of
the
window
from
time
to
time
at
all
those
kids.
She
needed
someone
on
the
graveyard
shift,
11
at
night
until
seven
in
the
morning.
She
paid
65
cents
an
hour
and
I
could
start
that
night.
I
raced
home
and
called
the
teenager
down
the
street
that
baby-sat
for
people.
I
bargained
with
her
to
come
and
sleep
on
my
sofa
for
a
dollar
a
night.
She
could
arrive
with
her
pajamas
on
and
the
kids
would
already
be
asleep.
This
seemed
like
a
good
arrangement
to
her,
so
we
made
a
deal.
That
night
when
the
little
ones
and
I
knelt
to
say
our
prayers,
we
all
thanked
God
for
finding
Mommy
a
job.
And
so
I
started
at
the
Big
Wheel.
When
I
got
home
in
the
mornings
I
woke
the
baby-sitter
up
and
sent
her
home
with
one
dollar
of
my
tip
money
-
-
fully
half
of
what
I
averaged
every
night.
As
the
weeks
went
by,
heating
bills
added
a
strain
to
my
meager
wage.
The
tires
on
the
old
Chevy
had
the
consistency
of
penny
balloons
and
began
to
leak.
I
had
to
fill
them
with
air
on
the
way
to
work
and
again
every
morning
before
I
could
go
home.
One
bleak
fall
morning,
I
dragged
myself
to
the
car
to
go
home
and
found
four
tires
in
the
back
seat.
New
tires!
There
was
no
note,
no
nothing,
just
those
beautiful
brand
new
tires.
Had
angels
taken
up
residence
in
Indiana?
I
wondered.
I
made
a
deal
with
the
local
service
station.
In
exchange
for
his
mounting
the
new
tires,
I
would
clean
up
his
office.
I
remember
it
took
me
a
lot
longer
to
scrub
his
floor
than
it
did
for
him
to
do
the
tires.
I
was
now
working
six
nights
instead
of
five
and
it
still
wasn't
enough.
Christmas
was
coming
and
I
knew
there
would
be
no
money
for
toys
for
the
kids.
I
found
a
can
of
red
paint
and
started
repairing
and
painting
some
old
toys.
Then
I
hid
them
in
the
basement
so
there
would
be
something
for
Santa
to
deliver
on
Christmas
morning.
Clothes
were
a
worry
too.
I
was
sewing
patches
on
top
of
patches
on
the
boys
pants
and
soon
they
would
be
too
far
gone
to
repair.
On
Christmas
Eve
the
usual
customers
were
drinking
coffee
in
the
Big
Wheel.
These
were
the
truckers,
Les,
Frank,
and
Jim,
and
a
state
trooper
named
Joe.
A
few
musicians
were
hanging
around
after
a
gig
at
the
Legion
and
were
dropping
nickels
in
the
pinball
machine.
The
regulars
all
just
sat
around
and
talked
through
the
wee
hours
of
the
morning
and
then
left
to
get
home
before
the
sun
came
up.
When
it
was
time
for
me
to
go
home
at
seven
o'clock
on
Christmas
morning
I
hurried
to
the
car.
I
was
hoping
the
kids
wouldn't
wake
up
before
I
managed
to
get
home
and
get
the
presents
from
the
basement
and
place
them
under
the
tree.
(We
had
cut
down
a
small
cedar
tree
by
the
side
of
the
road
down
by
the
dump.)
It
was
still
dark
and
I
couldn't
see
much,
but
there
appeared
to
be
some
dark
shadows
in
the
car or
was
that
just
a
trick
of
the
night?
Something
certainly
looked
different,
but
it
was
hard
to
tell
what.
When
I
reached
the
car
I
peered
warily
into
one
of
the
side
windows.
Then
my
jaw
dropped
in
amazement.
My
old
battered
Chevy
was
filled
full
to
the
top
with
boxes
of
all
shapes
and
sizes.
I
quickly
opened
the
driver's
side
door,
scrambled
inside
and
kneeled
in
the
front
facing
the
back
seat.
Reaching
back,
I
pulled
off
the
lid
of
the
top
box.
Inside
was
whole
case
of
little
blue
jeans,
sizes
2-10!
I
looked
inside
another
box.
It
was
full
of
shirts
to
go
with
the
jeans.
Then
I
peeked
inside
some
of
the
other
boxes.
There
was
candy
and
nuts
and
bananas
and
bags
of
groceries.
There
was
an
enormous
ham
for
baking,
and
canned
vegetables
and
potatoes.
There
was
pudding
and
Jell-O
and
cookies,
pie
filling
and
flour.
There
was
a
whole
bag
of
laundry
supplies
and
cleaning
items.
And
there
were
five
toy
trucks
and
one
beautiful
little
doll.
As
I
drove
back
through
empty
streets
as
the
sun
slowly
rose
on
most
amazing
Christmas
Day
of
my
life,
I
was
sobbing
with
gratitude.
And
I
will
never
forget
the
joy
on
the
faces
of
my
little
ones
that
precious
morning.
Yes,
there
were
angels
in
Indiana
that
long-ago
December.
And
they
all
hung
out
at
the
Big
Wheel
truck
stop.
Passing
this
on
to
anyone
you
consider
a
friend
will
bless
you
both.
Passing
this
on
to
one
not
considered
a
friend
is
something