Hailstones, the size of golf balls, took everything in Mom and Dad’s garden that year, everything that is, except the beets. Mom and Dad considered the beets a blessing. But I knew if I had to eat another boiled beet I'd throw-up. I watched with sympathy at the pale nauseated faces of my two younger brothers, Dean and Bry. They were sick of beets as well. My baby sister, Kristen, took her chubby arm and cleanly swept the mashed beets off the tray of her highchair. The beets made a splatting sound when they hit the peeling floor tile of our single wide mobile home. Mom bent down to clean up the mess. She was muttering something about not having enough food in the house to feed her babies. That's when I saw her cheeks wet with tears. Dad didn't seem emotional at the time, until, Dean and I scooted our chairs out from the table and ran to our bedrooms. I came back with a dollar I'd been given for my birthday and Dean brought out his pink piggy-bank.
"Look, Dad," I said. "We've got some money. Will it help?" Dad turned away from us, but I could see his broad shoulders shaking and he was hunched over like he was sick. I didn't mean to make him cry. I thought he would be happy if we could help out with our money.