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West Virginia Memories

West Virginia Memories Elsa Peters Appalachian Heritage, Volume 30, Number 3, Summer 2002, pp. 16-18 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2002.0046 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436129/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:31 GMT from JHU Libraries TRIBUTE Elsa Peters Fall of '34 came to Martinsburg suddenly. The blazing summer was in back of us, and we could breathe again. The apple factories were running, and the crisp smell of cooking apples filled the air. Outside the factories, women stood on line in case someone got sick or just didn't show up. Then a lucky person got to take her place and was temporarily tapped for work. My mama stood day after day in those lines, wearing her hat with the feather and grasping her empty purse tightly with both hands. By noon no one else would be chosen and there was nowhere to go but home. Brown Street School waited for me, dark and scary, steep steps leading upward to the unknown. My dress had been let down twice. Mama had starched it stiff. My knees and elbows stuck out. I was so afraid. The gloomy halls smelled of floor oil and chalk. On http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

West Virginia Memories

Appalachian Review , Volume 30 (3) – Jan 8, 2014

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Elsa Peters Appalachian Heritage, Volume 30, Number 3, Summer 2002, pp. 16-18 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2002.0046 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436129/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:31 GMT from JHU Libraries TRIBUTE Elsa Peters Fall of '34 came to Martinsburg suddenly. The blazing summer was in back of us, and we could breathe again. The apple factories were running, and the crisp smell of cooking apples filled the air. Outside the factories, women stood on line in case someone got sick or just didn't show up. Then a lucky person got to take her place and was temporarily tapped for work. My mama stood day after day in those lines, wearing her hat with the feather and grasping her empty purse tightly with both hands. By noon no one else would be chosen and there was nowhere to go but home. Brown Street School waited for me, dark and scary, steep steps leading upward to the unknown. My dress had been let down twice. Mama had starched it stiff. My knees and elbows stuck out. I was so afraid. The gloomy halls smelled of floor oil and chalk. On

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

There are no references for this article.