The factory stood, impressive in its concrete grayness; tall windows, some broken and left that way, and others boarded up. Detroit factories made cars; we wondered what this factory made. My sister thought maybe motorcycles - they were smaller than cars, and didn't need as much space as the automobile (it wasn't a very big building by comparison).
Our father drove very slowly through the downtown, pointing out the ice cream parlor, featuring Twirling Stools, which encouraged future visits there. Our father was worried about our mother and her frightening expression of disapproval. But bravely he continued the tour, exclaiming over Augusta's Grocery, where Tastee Bread was a featured item - a sign on the door said so - and a little further on down the road the Butcher Shop, with sawdust floors and carcasses of pigs and cows hanging for all to see. Store Owners waved at us as we drove by. Then there was The Grain Elevator, a place I worried about. There was an importance about the Grain Elevator; I hoped I would never have to ride the GE.
And then, the awful realization: was there not to be a school for us? Would we be forever without a school? The school with the Flag Pole in Front, the playground swings. What would we do? We nudged each other, straining our necks out of the Buick's open windows. Surely a school was somewhere near. Our mother, too, was fidgeting, sitting there next to our father in the front seat. There it was. The school. A small white school, next to a church. Our hearts sank as we considered our fate. The public school Shone in the distance, sitting atop a lovely sloping hill, perfect for sledding in the winter, a playground easily visible with swings and slides. We wanted to go to the School on the Hill. But it was not to be. Instead the little school, closer to our home and run by the Catholic Nuns, had to be endured by my sister and me.
The tour now was complete. Our house was the third house at the end of long downhill dirt road. The Purdy House, it was called by the townspeople. It had belonged to a Banker who had long since moved away. The house was painted yellow and had a big front porch and a gravel driveway with large oak trees shading the house on one side and three apple trees to climb on the other side. My sister and I fell in love with our new home. And when we discovered the Play House, painted green and yellow, there at the end of a narrow foot path (an Indian Path, no doubt) at the back of our house, partly hidden from view by a large purple lilac bush, we were elated! We were sure it was a gift to us for our goodness. We were saddened to discover it to be the Hated Out House! Our mother wanted to move back to Detroit. We didn't!
We also had inherited a Cucumber farm, along with the wonderful house. Growing in little raised hills, were the cucumber plants. As the spring and summer wore on, we were put to work picking cucumbers. Baskets and dishpans were filled with cucumbers of every shape and size; we saved some of the ugly shaped ones to fashion alien creatures not yet known to man. Our parents are making Slaves of us, we cried! But the harvesting continued, day in, day out, during the hottest summer days until not a cucumber was left on the little hills. Our parents put up Bread and Butter Pickles, Dill Pickles, Sweet Pickles, Relishes, and Chutneys. We heard that the Factory in Town had been a Pickle Factory that had gone Bankrupt because of the Great Depression! How fortunate we felt for having saved the Little Cucumber Farm!
