about me?

"They finally decided there was something wrong with me. They took me to our doctor. He was a meanminded little man and asked me the

filthiest questions imaginable. I wouldn't answer. He raged. His face. twisted with fury. I can still see the hate in his eyes. He called in dad. I got an unmerciful beating but I didn't give in. When I told my granddad about it. he lit into my parents. He was the only one of my family I ever loved or gave. me any love. I didn't have to tell him about myself, he knew. The day he died I left home. I wiped that slate clean."

Al, a half smile on his lips leisurely lit his pipe then said, "From what I've heard and seen Harold Benson's had a tough time of it. His father was a bullheaded bull in every sense of the word. He drank up or gambled away every cent he made. Fortunately it was Mrs. Benson's home, otherwise she and Harold would have had to go to the county poor farm. Benson was shot in a poker fight. The only person who helped Mrs. Benson was Bea Palmer. She not only gave her money to clean up all their debts but has kept her going by having her do her laundry, cleaning and baking. Harold was about six when that happened. But his impressionable young mind certainly sponged up the horror of it. Since then he hasn't been able to do enough for his mother. After school he goes straight home and works. They can't afford coal so he's got to haul wood off the mountain. Those pine and cedar logs are heavy and a job to cut up. And it takes a lot of kindling to last through the winters here. Besides all that he runs errands for Bea Palmer and her girls, takes care of their yard, keeps them in kindling and clears off the snow. Other boys of his age play ball, go hunting and fishing. They call him a sissy because he

one

doesn't. I imagine those magazines Pete gives him mean a lot to him. Evidently they represent the world he dreams about and longs for."

"Where do they live?"

Al took him to the window and pointed to a small unpainted frame cottage with a makeshift wood shed. a chicken coop and a backhouse at the far end of a barbedwire fenced yard. Behind it at the foot of the mountain stood a patch of scrub oak and Harold's wood pile.

It was here Fred found him sawing a pine log.

Harold, excited, welcomed him with a wide grin. "Gee, you're sure swell. My mother thinks so too. I bought her some thread and buttons with that money you gave me. She's making over a dress Miss Palmer gave her."

"Miss Palmer's been kind to her, hasn't she?"

Harold nodded. Embarrassed he looked down, scuffed his feet in the dirt. "They say things they shouldn't about her but we like her just the

same.

"You should." Fred sat on a log. Smiling wistfully he said, "People saying things remind me of something my grandfather said when I was your age. You can think about it. I do and often. 'Listen to your heart,' he said. 'It knows what's right for you regardless what others think and say. People will call you names and try to force you to think and do as they do but you'll have to go alone if you want to be square with yourself. It won't be easy but it will be worth it.' Fred stopped and pointed to a scrub oak separated from a nearby clump. "There was one like it near our ranch. My granddad pointed to it one day and said, 'It looks like the rest of them but its not. Inside its tougher. Its had to be. None of the others protect it. But being out there alone it gets more sunshine than they do.' Don't ever forget that."

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