Always, always, we had a garden.  Dad was a great supervisor of garden work and Mom was a great cook, plus a canner of the food for our fall and winter supply.  We also had our own chickens, eggs, apples, turkeys, hogs and milkcow.  We even gathered watercrest from the creek which made a great salad.  Therefore, we had food, milk, cornbread -- always something to eat.   Most of the people who lived in the cities did not have gardens but were able to buy food. The year I was born -- 1929 -- was the beginning of the great depression.  Money  was very scarce and it was difficult for many families to buy food.  We  were fortunate in that we always had enough to eat.  Farmers had food so eating wasn't a problem for us but lack of money was.  Money to buy clothes and shoes was a problem for us. Dad probably worked with other farmers and started one of the first co-ops by trading food for clothing and shoes.  Dad would gather the vegetables and produce and take these items across Big Walker Mountain to Bluefield, West Virginia where he would trade food for clothing or the necessary items we needed.  This was a Barter System.   Also, the same tradeoff took place when Janet was in the hospital. (At that time the hospital was just 2 or 3 rooms in the back of the doctor's house.) A few weeks after Janet came home from the hospital, Dr. Phelps' wife came to our house.  Mother escorted her in each room to look around.  Later on she chose two pieces of mother's furniture for payment of Janet's hospitalization. Mother operated a very small store in Hollybrook, just keeping necessary items for the community.  It was strictly on charge accounts for each family.  She had a file that contained each individual account.  Usually at the end of each month they would pay with money, garden produce, ham, eggs, or whatever Dad could trade some place else.  Before we moved to Clintwood, the store was closed -- this was still depression time and I remember one Saturday I watched as Mother and Dad looked over each individual family's account.  One or the other would say, "They haven't got any money...they can't pay this six, ten or twelve dollars."  I watched as Dad took out a match, lit it with his thumbnail, and destroyed the first book.  Slowly, he picked up each account and laid it on the fire.  I always felt proud that my parents were caring enough to not think twice of trying to collect the money.