Growing Up During the 1930's - As Told To Me

An acquaintance in his mid-70's recently shared the story of his childhood during the Great Depression, and gave me permission to use it on the blog.

Bill was born in Oklahoma in 1932. His mother was of full Cherokee ancestry, and his father was of caucasian ancestry. Soon after his birth the family came to California, where the parents parted due to marital problems.

He remembers living in a small house with a picket fence near an airfield, in the San Fernando Valley. When he was four or five years old he watched parachuters coming down during practice there. Bill and his brother played in the backyard, which was large. He says lots were bigger then.

Bill's mother became ill and he was sent to live in an orphanage of about ten children, which was somewhere in Los Angeles. He remembers his father coming to get him, and taking him to a hospital where his mother lay in bed. She died from pneumonia, and Bill and his brother went to live with his father.

Bill's father worked on farms in the California Central Valley. They lived in a tent. Bill remembers his father dragging a long bag when picking cotton. Bill would sit on the bag to go for a ride while his father pulled it along.

At Christmas when Bill was about six years old he got his first toy. The Christmas Tree was a dried out cotton stalk with cotton balls on it for ornaments. For Christmas Bill got a little car, about four inches long. Up until Bill was ten years old he played with make-believe toys. A block of wood might be a car or a tractor. Bill said he would push these blocks around and make motor sounds, "Vvvrooooom" or "put-put-put."

When Bill was six years old or so, he began working in the fields too, picking cotton or doing other work. He went to school off and on, but the regular farmwork was necessary for survival.

He said his father eventually put some money down on a house, perhaps around 1937. It did not have plumbing or electricity, and was small, about, 600 square feet.Once a week or so they would take a bath in a large metal tub. For a bathroom there was a place with a blanket hanging over a tree limb for privacy, and a hole in the ground with a shovel nearby.

They often only had one type of food at a meal. But Bill says there would be large servings to help them have energy for work. To this day Bill's favorite place to eat is at a buffet where there is a huge variety. They ate very quickly in order to get back to work. Bill says he still eats in a hurry, as eating slowly would have been a luxury.

They didn't have much money. But Bill says he always knew he was loved by his father and brother when he was growing up, both of whom have passed away. When he was growing up he didn't know they were poor, so he just accepted life as it was.

Bill said that he likes to think that when people pass away they become stars, and the good people are the brightest stars.

When Bill was 11, and his brother was 13 years old, his brother managed to join the military service, during WW II. Bill went to school sporadically, as he was needed for field work so they could survive. After the eighth grade he did not attend school any more at all.

When he was about 17 he, too, joined the military service, and he went to Korea. He was injured twice, stabbed by a bayonet, and then hit by shrapnel, and sent to Japan for medical care and recovery.

Hearing Bill H. tell about growing up during the Great Depression gives a personal insight into history. Today Bill, age 74, lives in a beautiful home in Greentrees Village, Florence, Oregon, where he enjoys the Oregon coast scenery. There's a swimming pool heated to the high 80's, a jacuzzi, and other amenities.

It's been a long time since the Great Depression. The memories of the good times he shared with his father and brother are always close to his heart.

Thank you, Bill, for sharing this story.

Countryside, Wildflowers, and Hobson Road

When I go out into the countryside and see the sun and the green and everything flowering, I say to myself Yes indeed, all that belongs to me! ~Henri Rousseau

It is the summer of 1960 in the midwest. A group of neighborhood children roam fields and forests, exploring the creeks, looking for jack-in-the-pulpit plants, and picking wildflowers. Huge red barns, silos, and farmyards with chickens, dairy cattle, horses, and sheep are part of the landscape.

The days begin with the sounds of roosters crowing, as the early sunlight streams in through the windows. Birds awakening chirp and sing, otherwise it's quiet in the countryside. Leaves rustle or shake in the breeze, and the fields of hay or oats ripple in the wind.

A country lane called Hobson Road has driveways to white clapboard farmhouses surrounded by tall shade trees. Occasionally a car or truck from a nearby farm comes down the road. Black and white dairy cattle graze in green pastures.

A large pond with willow trees has a smaller road next to it. Down that lane there is a circular drive of about 1/2 mile with eight or ten houses scattered around it on small acreages.

Next to one of the long, gravel driveways is a red mailbox and a clump of evergreens. Beyond is a brick ranch house, with evergreens and petunias in the front yard. Several acres stretch behind the house. Then there is a wire fence, and beyond that a field of corn, then a forest.

This was the house, 15 miles outside of Naperville, Illinois, 45 miles west of Chicago, where I lived from age five to age fourteen.

Today, 2007, I hear that the area is heavily populated. But in the 1950's and 1960's, we were a long way from town, and there were only a few friendly neighbors there sharing the peaceful countryside.

Each year there was a Christmas party, that moved from house to house, singing Christmas Carols. We always finished the evening with a potluck at the house of a neighbor who had decorated the basement.

Most basements were cement walls and floors, with windows below ground level that looked out at a "window well" that held the dirt back. The ceiling was the bare underside of the first floor of the house. A few light bulbs with strings hung down.

On the last day of school each year, the children from the surrounding houses were picked up by a neighbor pulling a hay wagon with a tractor. This was the way we celebrated the beginning of summer vacation.

The country school had two or three grades in each room. There were only about ten students in each grade. In the lower grades, when it was time for our class to practice reading, we went to sit at a circular table in the front of the room with the teacher.

Girls wore skirts or dresses, and boys wore slacks and shirts. At the beginning of class we recited the Pledge of Allegiance and sang a song, such as "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or "America The Beautiful."

For recess we would run outside to play in a mowed field with big trees. There were several crabapple trees, but the crabapples were too bitter to eat. The branches of these trees spread out and reached to the ground in places. We used the places under the crabapple trees for meeting places. During school we'd say to our friends "see you under the crabapple tree."

Under the crabapple trees we planned what games to play. A favorite for the girls was pretending to be wild horses. We were all "horse crazy" and we drew pictures of horses on everything. We named horses we saw in pastures, and imagined the day when we could be old enough to ride horses, flying across the land. We could all toss our hair like a horse tossing it's mane, scrape the ground with one foot like a horse pawing, and make noises like horses when they whinney, neigh or nicker.

We would dream of horse names for ourselves and whole horsey backgrounds. One of us might be a black and white spotted horse, with a name like "Beauty," and be from somewhere around the Grand Canyon. The horse's likes and dislikes, personality, and home were all part of the story. We each had two names, our own and our horse name.

Looking back from 2007 at 1960 it's hard to believe it all happened almost 50 years ago. But, it's easy to see where my love of the countryside comes from.

Opening A Closet Full of Memories

It's not an autobiography of the rich and famous, but it is my own life story, clutched in my arms, as I head into Life Story Writing class.

This week we focused on early childhood. What did our house look like when I was six years old? Who were the kids in the neighborhood? What were the family activities? It's all written down, and the memories have been refreshed.

It's a clear, October morning today. As I drove over to class I saw the sun shining on the Pacific ocean, next to our small town. A group of us visit for awhile on the steps of the Grover Beach Community Center before going inside.

After pushing the long tables together, end to end, there's a bit of rearranging the chairs. Then we sit expectantly, and the conversation quiets. The instructor reads excerpts from life stories that have been published and from associated historical events.

It's a good way to get warmed up, before starting to read our own stories. It's nice to get comfortable with the group, visit a little bit, and have some mental preparation before it's "showtime."

Somebody says, "I want to go first, if it's OK." The rest, who might prefer NOT to go first, smile and nod.

There are some people who may hold back and go last. That's fine too. After three hours of class we're still listening intently to each other reading the true life stories. There's always somebody else who has had similiar experiences, but in a different way.

Each week's writing focuses on a specific time period, such as birth to elementary school. This is an Adult Emeritus class, so people in it are over 50 years old. It's amazing how much people remember from childhood, a brief silly moment, an embarrassing event, or a happy time with kids in the neighborhood. The details can be so vivid. There's too much to write it all down.

It's like opening a closet stuffed so full that everything falls out when you open the door and lands in a heap. Boom. It's a closet full of memories. You have to sort it out. Some things get rearranged.

A chronological approach seems to be the best way to organize the memories as they fall out of the closet. Lining them up by time, according to dates and years, straightens out the jumble and puts them each in a place. Winter, 1954. Summer, 1970.

Then the historical events of that time can be tied in to the story. Internet "on this day in history" sites can give you quick lists of events, trends, and costs. When you went on your first date, what was going on in the world and how much did a movie cost? What style clothing were people wearing? What were the music trends? What kind of cars were they driving?

People, stories, history. The class is over before we know it, and we go out into the noontime sunshine, smiling and waving good-by to each other for another week.

Putting Together Pieces of Our Lives Into One Mozaic

Is telling our life stories a way of becoming more comfortable with our memories? Could it be a way to organize the jumbled pile that sits in disarray at the back of the mind?

Telling life stories has been a part of human culture since people sat around the fireside in a cave and drew illustrations on the walls. Now we can sit around a table to share our life stories and pass around photos or even show life story videos.

Putting together the pieces of our lives into one mosaic is part of telling a life story. Starting with birth, a chronological narrative that moves from year to year takes the pieces and builds a picture.

Adventure, laughter, drama - they’re all part of your life story, whether you are a quiet homebody or a celebrity. The characteristics of a classic novel with a hero exist in the story of your everyday living. Your struggles against the world, other people, or yourself, create the plot. Your strengths and “fatal flaws” can make your character complex instead of one sided.

__________________


This week my Cuesta College Adult Emeritus Life Story Writing class met for the fourth time this Fall. We sit at several rectangular tables pushed together at the ends to form one long table, and each of us reads at least two pages of our life stories.

The class is held at the Grover Beach Community Center, and it begins at 9:30 am and goes until 12:30 pm, with a breaktime in the middle. Anthropologist Myla Colllier, who has taught at California Polytechnic University in San Luis Obispo and Cuesta Community College, is the instructor.

After each person's weekly life story reading, Myla and the class discuss interesting aspects of the story excerpt. This often includes related historical events which may have been associated with events in the story. For instance, someone who moved to California from the dustbowl during the 1930's would have experienced the depression.

As we read the material we’ve written for this week there is laughter, and sometimes there are tears. There is humor, there is tragedy. The nonjudgmental aspect and the privacy of the class helps us to keep our writing real. Historical events, trends, and styles are woven into the life stories.

___________________


Reflecting on the popularity of life history and personal narrative writing today led me to consider the following question.

What does it mean when people pursue opposites? Two trends today seem contradictory. We see more personal narratives told through life stories, journals, and personal blogs than ever. Books based on life stories have been topping The New York Times Bestseller Lists. At the same time, we spend more time around machines and technology. As life has become more technological, we have become more personal as if to find a balance. Being more modern might be causing us to do more old fashioned storytelling.

This week the top 16 books on the New York Times Bestseller List include 7 personal narratives, and 4 books that are biographical. It’s not necessary today to be a celebrity to write a bestseller, and everyday people writing about their struggles and dreams can appear on the list. “Louder Than Words, A Mother’s Journey in Healing Autism,” by Jenny McCarthy, is listed as number four this week on the bestseller list.

___________________


Sharing personal details of our life stories is common these days, although many of us still remember when our personal lives were kept private. A greater tolerance and a less judgmental attitude means we feel more comfortable about being open than we did before.

Telling a life story can sometimes be like opening the door to the storage closet. You have to dodge the tumbling heap that bursts out and then try to sort through it. Could it be that we are straightening our mental filing systems, and rearranging the facts in our minds? Perhaps it’s a little like giving the house a good spring cleaning, opening all the windows, rearranging the furniture, and redecorating. It can be very refreshing.

At the Hallmark Pressroom an article titled “Journal Writing Increases in Importance” predicts this will be “a banner year for diaries and journaling.” Hallmark offers 75 different journals, and an estimated 12 million journals are sold a year in the U.S.. Writing down thoughts, feelings, and details of our lives is described by Hallmark as part of a personal writing trend today. Some life stories are written with organized facts and others are streams of consciousness.

____________________


Being able to look back at ourselves in a life story from the perspective of a later time helps us to see ourselves as others might see us. We can objectively learn from mistakes, and make plans for the future.

Events that were once painful may be seen from a distance of decades as softened by time. Humorous situations can gain additional comedy with retelling.

As the writers share funny moments with each other the laughter in my Life Story Writing class frequently continues as we end each session and stroll out to our cars.