During the depression my mother, teetotaler, but thrifty to a fault, surprised my father and me when she cobbled up a still, kept it on a shelf behind the kitchen stove, and salvaged a crate of too-ripe pears by making brandy, pouring it into Mason jars, and storing them on the cellar stairs. When my father found a better job at last, and movers came one day to move our stuff, "A shame to have this go to waste," we heard my mother say, offering them the brandy, which they polished off. They soon grew happy at their work, hanging a chamber pot and her Sunday dress on outside panels of their battered truck and speeding off into the dusk before she could protest. We closed the house, cranked the Model-A, and started out, following over stony mountain ruts, but soon were stopping now and then when headlights showed familiar shapes lying in the road or ditch: first the chamber pot and dress; next, a chair, a bucket, and a box of sheets. But drunk with hope, we praised our luck, sang "Bringing in the Sheaves" as we collected what the truck had dropped.