Christmas 1983 promised to be rather bleak for us. In April I had lost my position at U.S. Steel's Geneva Works and had practically worn out a pair of shoes pounding the sidewalk in a futile hunt for stable new employment. We had battened down the hatches, canceled magazine subscriptions, ended piano lessons and scaled back discretionary purchases of all kinds — and learned to live on very little.
We were truly blessed throughout this experience. It seemed that whenever we hit a new low spot, some good friend or neighbor, usually anonymously, dropped off a box of groceries or a $50 bill.