The line extended past the town hall and around the corner beyond the library. Mama and I had left the house before eight o’clock that morning, hoping to beat the crowd. Yet there were already more than a hundred people ahead of us when we arrived at the scene to take our place in line.

Within a few minutes, more and more people showed up for the supplies of surplus food that the government was issuing for those in need. To me, it seemed like half the people who lived in town had showed up on this chilly April morning to pick up their share.

"I hope there’s some left when it gets to our turn," I said. I twitched my shoulders and craned my neck to try to see how long a wait we had before we reached the front of the line. It looked as if we’d be here forever.

"The Depression has put an awful lot of people out of work," Mama remarked. "We’re not the only ones who could use the extra food."

Plopping down into the battered old red express wagon we’d brought with us, I dangled my legs over the side. Goosebumps formed on my bare arms as a cold gust of wind blew through the crowd, making me wish I’d remembered to bring my blue sweater that Mama had told me not to forget.

In all my eleven years, I couldn’t remember when it wasn’t, as Daddy said, ‘hard times’.

Daddy sat with his shoulders slumped and puffed on his pipe. "It was 1929," he said, "the year the Depression started. Black Friday--the day the stock market crashed. Businessmen were jumping out of windows left and right."

"Do you think the Depression will ever be over?" I asked in a horrified voice. I could picture in my mind all those men flying out of the window, all because of the terrible Depression. Daddy flipped through the newspapers. "No good news here in these pages. All we can do is pray that someday it will all end and we’ll be on the road to prosperity again."

Here it was 1937 and still no signs of prosperity. I squirmed with impatience as I waited for the line to move forward. I tugged at Mama’s skirt, and asked, "Do you think we’ll have to wait much longer?"

Mama shrugged. How could she be so patient, unlike the restless, noisy mob surrounding us? Shouts and boos filled the air with angry complaints.

"Let’s get the show on the road," I heard someone shout.

Mrs. Rizzo, our next door neighbor, turned and said, "They said nine o’clock and it is almost ten already. They don’t care how long it takes. What do they care about us poor people?"

An impatient sigh rippled through the crowd. At last, the door to the fire station creaked open as it slowly rolled up.

Mr. Brady, the mayor, stepped out. The chattering voices simmered down to a slow buzz, and then complete silence, when he held up his hand. Clearing his throat, the mayor said, "I appreciate your patience. There’s plenty here for everyone, so please bear with us and wait your turn and you’ll all be taken care of."

I jumped out of the wagon and ran ahead, snaking my way through the waiting people, and squirmed to the head of the line.

"Don’t think you’re going to sneak ahead. We were here before you," I heard someone shout. "If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to the end of the line where you belong."

"I’m just trying to see what’s happening," I retorted as I ran back to Mama and squeezed my way back in line.

I paused to catch my breath. In my excitement, words stumbled out of my mouth. "I’ve never seen so much food piled up in one place in my life. They have bags of flour, potatoes and dried apples stacked all the way to the ceiling."

Mrs. Rizzo sniffed. "Big deal."

Mama said, "It’s better than nothing. I can make a whole lot of bread with ten pounds of flour and potatoes taste wonderful when they’re fried untill they’re brown and crispy."

Mrs. Rizzo yawned deeply. "I’m tired of this Depression," she said. "As of now, I’ll settle for some hot sausage to put in the spaghetti sauce for a change."

"At least we still have our houses," Mama replied.

"But for how long? If I don’t come up with some money soon, they’re going to sell my house for taxes. With six kids, where are we going to find anyone to take us in?"

I listened carefully to every word the two women said. Mrs. Rizzo wiped away some tears with the edge of her red flowered apron. Mama tried to console her. "This Depression can’t last forever."

Depression! How I hated the sound of that ugly word. It was all anyone ever talked about. Even in school. Last week, Miss Wilson had stood behind her desk and said, in a shaky voice, "Please remind your parents to buy Baby Bonds to finance your teachers’ salaries. Otherwise, the town won’t be able to pay us."

Now, at long last, it was our turn to be first in line. One of the volunteer firemen loaded the express wagon with sacks of flour, potatoes and dried apples. The man winked at me. "You look like a little girl who likes apple pie." He topped the wagon with an extra sack of apples.

White puffs of flour dust drifted in the air as we prepared to leave. The same nice man who’d given us the apples pointed to the back of the town hall. "If you need a pair of new shoes, go over there. Someone donated a big box of shoes to give to needy children."

Needy children. Was I considered one of the ‘needy children’? I hated the sound of the words. I glanced down at the scuffed brown and white saddle shoes. One look at the run-down heels and I knew I needed a new pair of shoes. On the way home from school, I always stopped to admire the black patent shoes in Pesile’s shoe store. They cost two dollars and ninety-eight cents and Mama promised she’d buy them when Daddy returned to work full-time.

The shoes were stacked in cardboard boxes according to size. I rummaged through the carton containing my size. Disappointed, I stood up empty-handed. "There’s no girl’s shoes left, only boy’s black oxfords."

Mama looked defeated. "Might as well take a pair. They’re better than walking around with holes in your shoes."

I reached for a pair of size fours and flung the ugly things into the wagon. I knew I’d never wear them. I’d throw them in the back of my closet and forget they were there. At least until the soles of the pair I wore came apart altogether. I’d be the laughing stock of the class if I went to school wearing ugly boy’s shoes.