Today I am taking time to think about the Depression and Casey, my brother who died of scarlet fever two years ago, when I was nine. We were only two years apart, and he died when he was just seven. We could not even lay his beloved flour sack bear with him in his grave, because we got so desperate for warmth it is now being used as a mitten for one of the almost two dozen people in our one apartment. Dad just came home from trying to find any kind of job and, as always since he lost his job at the supermarket when the stock market horribly crashed, is still unemployed. At least he goes to the local soup kitchen to get our dinner. Now I must take my weekly bath in the bath bucket.
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