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In those days between the
wars, everyone worked hard. Certainly the Harmons did.
They lived in Memphis and were blessed with their only
child, George, in the year 1934. Mr. Harmon was
sixty-three years old then, a timber estimator born a
mere six years after the Surrender at Appomattox. He had
finished third grade; his wife, sixth. They believed in
education but lacked the opportunity. They were working
folk. They laughed and prayed and worked and saved. And
now they had a son. But soon Mr. Harmon’s health broke, and his wife went to work in sales at the Sears & Roebuck department store to support the family. Seven-year-old George became a helper on an afternoon paper route, making 75¢ per week. He worked on a milk route too, weekend mornings in the school year and every day in the summer. They didn’t have much, but they had each other. It was enough. It was everything. The war came and went. Mr. Harmon lived to see Hitler defeated but not much longer, dying after a series of strokes. George became the man of the house at 13, sacking groceries after school, slinging the Commercial Appeal at dawn. He had his own paper route by then. And nobody stiffed him. PREVIOUS PAGE | PAGE 1 OF 5 | NEXT PAGE |
