Several years after Dad died, my sister went down to the big house where mother lived alone, to visit and check her well-being. She found her seated in the middle of the kitchen floor cleaning out the cabinets with pots and pans scattered all around her. She was crying, her tears falling on a cheap, thin aluminum, one quart pot with a riveted-on handle which she held in her lap.
“What in the world is the matter?”, my sister asked.
Through her tears mother told this story: “During the worst of the depression when your Dad had been out of a job for years, he came home one afternoon after a trip to town looking for work, with this little pot. He said he was passing by Gann’s Bargain Store and saw this little pot in the window with a sign on it which read ‘10¢’. He felt in his pocket and
that was all he had----one thin dime.”
“I just knew you could use a little pot like that so I went in and bought it for you”, he said.