The Trail to Magic Land
Times were good in the mountains of home. But part of being good was having nothing to compare it to.
Twenty-five cents an hour was good when it bought two hotdogs, fully-loaded, and a drink to boot. And all the guys I worked with made the same twenty-five cents an hour. My mountain home was tight and warm, and I knew all the people of the village- never alone. I was satisfied—until
I heard of the fabulous wealth in the distant cities of the north. Pittsburg, Cleveland, D.C., Lexington,
We all had a relative in Detroit. No phone- we all wrote letters in those days. The letters told of hourly wages I had never dreamed of.
How to get there? Where to stay? Then my Aunt and Uncle went that way. Now I had a place to stay. I was 14- 15 maybe- and I went along with Grandad to move his only daughter to Detroit where her husband had landed a job at Dodge Motor Co. (big money). I rode the whole way in the back of a pick-up truck-the Clampets- wasn’t that the Appalachian Way?