V1935-DirtyThirties

Dust – Drought – Depression

These unique times were an incubation period for those who fought WW 2, in service or on the home front. Dad called this period “The Dirty Thirties” a time of financial stress. It mixed the best of times with the worst of times. We of grade school age were oblivious to adult problems, our world was growing better all the time. For those of us who lived in town our homes were being connected to electricity, running water and inside toilets. Horses were being replaced by cars, trucks and tractors. We walked on new side walks beside red brick streets sporting new lamp posts to our wonderful new Oberlin Consolidated Grade School. These were all products of the post WW I boom – until the boom turned to gloom. We were accustomed to periodic dust storms, but nestled in our little valley of tree lined streets and watered lawns, dust was like snow it came and went. Before air conditioning, on a hot summer day we who didn’t have to work could retreated to our cool basements and be quite comfortable. I was fortunate to live in a nice home with plenty to eat -- thus was pulled up short to learn some classmates came to school hungry, their need had gone unnoticed. Everyone was poor but we didn’t know it, our cloths all looked alike home made or patched in some way – but we couldn’t see an empty stomach. Each year we advanced in school we advanced in awareness and maturity – we felt the loss of classmates who’s families had to move to find a place with jobs.

Dust

Dust Clouds of Red Dirt: Our teacher, with an air of anxiety, called our grade school class together saying, “We are dismissing school for the day, a dust storm is coming from the south. You are to go home, do not linger, go straight home – everyone is to leave – right now.” Dismissing school activated smiles, but our teacher was not smiling, our smiles wilted – this was no joke. We ran out the front door to look. Sure enough, there it was, a high dark cloud of dirt south of town coming our way. We’d seen dust clouds before but not this big, dense and ominous. It was still and clear where we were, but we didn’t linger, we had a feeling of foreboding. I ran the short distance home and yelled to mom, “they are sending all of us home from school.” Mom seemed to know, perhaps mom’s had called each other and the school, she was busy closing windows. Dad had installed spring loaded weather striping to the doors and windows of our new home, to keep out the cold. Mom hoped that would keep out the dirt – yet we knew that was wishful thinking.

The wind pushing the cloud was soon upon us, whipping up local dirt as well. The falling dust blocked sunlight, it was red dirt from far away, I watched the change from our kitchen window. I’d never seen the air so laden with dust before, it was becoming dusk, though mid day, Then, we heard someone stomp their feet on the back porch and focused our attention on the back door. My gosh it was Dad, all covered with dust as if dirt had been tossed in his face! His eyebrows, eyelids, glasses and nostrils were laden with dirt! We looked at each other in silent disbelief – then he stepped back out on the enclosed porch to dust himself off before entering the house. Reentering he explained how he had a dickens of a time finding the alley and get the car to the back of our garage. He said, “the dust is so thick you can’t see to drive.” He said, “I could see when I started home but the dust came down like a blanket and kept getting worse. I made the turn up Cass Ave but couldn’t see the alley turn off, I had to open the door and put my foot out and feel the curb to find the alley – why you just can’t see a thing.” Dust had settled on car windows and his glasses obstructing normal vision. This dust was not like ordinary dirt, these were light weight particles adhering to everything as if magnetically attracted.

I wish we had a picture of Dad, when we exchanged startled looks of disbelief, we had never experienced anything like this before. We agreed, this was worse than others – and later thankful worse did not follow. I turned on the kitchen light – it illuminate airborne dust – it was everywhere like fog, we were breathing dirty air, our well sealed home had not sealed.

Mother wondered how she’d ever get the dust out of the house! I was observing the phenomenon, I knew our dog Sport was curled up under the back porch as if weathering a snow storm. Animals like humans could endure the discomfort of dust laden air. We used handkerchiefs to clean “mud” from our noses. I don’t recall dad talking much. Only later did I appreciate what he must have been thinking, He’d grown up on a farm and as a banker was concerned with farmers economic welfare, I don’t recall listening to the radio, of it being turned on or if it worked, I don’t even recall my preschool age sisters being present. Each of us fell silent dealing with our own thoughts. There was nothing we could do so we went to bed early, I lay there and thought of my aunts, uncles and cousins who lived on farms, wondering how they were doing? I drifted off to sleep, giving the dust time to settle and the wind to move on.

The next morning the sky and air were clear. I walked outside and observed layers of powdery dirt everywhere. I knew the wind would come up again, it always did, it would blow the fallen dust into drifts, it always did.

The topic of primary discussion among adults was how to keep dirt from blowing? This new dirt was imported from the south, but local fields could blow dirt all day, some much worse than others.

Everybody wanted rain – but rain didn’t come, there was no quick fix. We little kids could run off to a fresh day at school, oblivious to major concerns adults had to live with.

Walking over Fences: All of us had experienced blizzards and the weirdly shaped snow drifts that made it possible to walk over a fence. Still it came as a surprise when I could walk up and over fences on dirt drifts. I received a single shot 22 rifle for Christmas and would walk for miles over the country side, often to visit aunt Nina my fathers youngest sister. I became well acquainted with pastures, draws and fence lines along the way.

I often paused to study a buffalo wallow in a buffalo grass pasture on top of a bluff and take in the view from the site. I let my imagination create scenes of how it must have been when my grandfather was my age, and buffalo still roamed these plains – and his homestead. That old buffalo wallow was not that old.

The scene changed after a heavy dust storm – snow drifts melted but dust drifts remained. Tumble weeds collected on fences, then dirt piled up in the tumbleweeds, On many occasions, in many places, I walked on blow dirt over fences. Wind carved the landscape with dust drifts just as it did with snow. Farmers were quick to remove drifts where fences enclosed livestock or interfered with farming. But some drifts lasted, becoming part of the permanent landscape. In fact western KS landscape is blow dirt, accumulated over the centuries, covering coral that once lined ancient inland seas. But this the new dirt was barren, inducing a feeling of uncertainty. Many farmers simply had to pick up, pull out, and start a new life elsewhere. Thankfully the dust storm region was limited to a central state region, elsewhere there was green grass.

Selling what couldn’t be seen: Years after dust storms were under control I was home from school on winter vacation. Dad asked me to give him a hand while he clerked a farm sale, I’d never attended a farm sale, having been busy earning money so I could go off to school, so this was a new experience. Dad said, “just stay near by, when the auctioneer starts selling I have to keep track of what he’s doing and can’t break away,” It was cold out and he could not wear a glove on his right hand, used for writing. He’d blow warming air on his fingers when given a chance. I kept near by and followed the action. There was a large crowd, mostly men, where machinery was being sold. When they moved on the auctioneer paused at a pile of blow dirt and asked the owner, “what’s there?” There were heaps of dirt covering no longer used equipment, much of it horse drawn. Without hesitation the auctioneer called out what was believed to be under the dirt and began his rhythmic call for bids. I took note of a fellow called Jalmer, always one of the bidders for these hidden “treasures”. I wondered if this guy was some kind of nut, he couldn’t see what he was bidding on? The auctioneer called out “Sold for 50 cents,” At least the price was right. There was no slack in interest as they moved to the next pile – there was a lot of dirt covered stuff. That hidden asset had cost Jalmer the price of a gallon of gas. As they moved again dad turned and handed me a check book saying, “have Jalmer sign one of these checks.” I said, “but it’s a blank check – he’s not going to sign a blank check.” Dad said, “don’t argue, just do it, he’ll sign the check.” I thought who is this guy, eagerly buying hidden stuff, why would he sign a blank check? I’d been told what to do so with blank check and pen in hand I went up to Jalmer, held them out and said, “Rell Landau wants you to sign this.” Without hesitation Jalmer signed the check and handed it back – keeping focused on what was being sold. I returned and handed the signed check to Dad. Dad said, “thanks, I was afraid he might start loading up get away before I caught him.” On the way back I asked Dad, “who is this guy Jalmer?” Dad said. “he’s Jalmer Alstrum, his daughter Nadine was in your high school class.” I said, “I’ll be darned, she played Obo in the band and is a good friend. What does Jalmer do with all that junk he buys?” Dad said. “he collects it on his farm as scrap metal, selling parts to those who need something.” Dad continued, “it’s not out of the way I’ll drive by so you can see his collection.” My gosh, a large pasture was filled with all kinds of stuff mostly old cars and farm machinery, somewhat lined up in rows – it went on and on. What happened to Jalmer’s junk is another story, a story of converting junk to gold. Jalmer could see worth, others could not see under that blow dirt.

1936 high school marching band on Oberlin main street, in our home made uniforms

1936 marching band in front of grade school that won tri-state contest in Enid OK,

Source of the Red Dirt: There is an excellent 1936 photo, above, of our high school band on the new grade school steps. This band, under Bert Hostinski, went to Enid OK to march in the tri-state band contest. Virgil McKinsey and I were sixth grade drum majors, on each side of Bud Raymond the main drum major and enjoyed the opportunity to make the trip with the big kids. The trip was in private automobiles down through wind swept farm land, the likes of which will never be seen again. As we passed southern KS into OK we could see the barren red soil, the source of the red dirt that fell on us. Some eight inches of top soil had been lifted away, exposing plow marks in the undisturbed solid earth below. The landscape looked devastated. No wonder there was a mass migration of farmers from this region. I’m sure other passengers minds lingered on those heavy dirt storm years and how it had been for farmers who’s crops had quite literally been blown away. Our band, decked out in home made uniforms, marched flawlessly with great pride, winning first place in our class. We owed our success to Bert, a wonderful talented “band man”, a dear friend to all of us. Westley Benda is the only other person left who was in that band.

Drought

Dirt you could draw in: When I drive past the Oberlin Grade School I look at the space between side walk and street across from the SE corner of the Grade School. It’s now covered with grass, it seems unreal that it had been so dry nothing would grow there -- you could run your fingers through well trodden dirt.

We’d been practicing for a marching band contest at a Tractor Show in Colby KS – it was a summer contest for prize money. Bert Hostinski abruptly halted the band and called me front and center, I was puzzled why? Virgil McKinsey and I were no longer “little” drum majors but played cornet in the back of the band, Bert took me to the side and started drawing the plan of march in the dirt. He said, “you are to drum major for the contest tomorrow so memorize this plan, it’s important for the final number.”. I had just graduated from grade school and high school had not yet started. Zola, our wonderful new drum major, could not always keep in step and Bert, the perfectionist, was not going to risk loosing on that account. As Bert drew in the dirt, he explained the plan of how we were to march. He drew the street layout and plan for how we would progress, each maneuver had a following meaning causing the band to be properly oriented when in front of the judges for the final number. Each section of the band would be front and center as they played their lead in Bert’s arrangement of Semfi Fidelous. We won the contest, the prized money and bought new uniforms for the band. Had it not been for that loose dirt “drawing board” I don’t know how Bert would have embedded his plan in my mind in short order. It was a good thing he explained the plan in detail because the crowd moved in behind us, as we were the last band to march. I had to improvise and modify the plan of marched so the band was properly oriented in front of the judges. That corner serves to remind me of how dry it was some 70 years ago. It also brings to mind the wonderful people who are no longer with us. I wish I could share my memories of them as well – you’d enjoy knowing each of them – life is so fleeting.

New Band Uniform Driving Cat for Earl

Too dry for buffalo grass: I worked for my uncle Earl during the depression years, most often driving his Alis Chalmers cat, I went with him to check things out on a section of pasture land. The entrance gate was up on the flat at the NE corner from which a path lead down to a draw with a few trees shading a dependable but limited amount of grass. He took care to not over graze. yet make the most of available grass. We paused near the entrance, now mostly dirt, where there had been a good stand of buffalo grass. There had been no grass in the tire tracks, though seldom used, for some time. I have a vivid recollection of how we searched the area to find strands of buffalo grass. Earl kept muttering it can’t come back if there is no grass. I said, buffalo grass is tough stuff with long runners that extend deep – I’ve tried remove it when I’ve hoed weeds, but it comes back from it’s deep roots. Earl knew this, there had been good grass there before the drought. Earl said yeah, but it still needs water, I hope the roots are still alive.

Earl was paying me standard pay, a dollar a day plus room and board. That summer I’d driven the tractor pulling the combine through a wheat field searching for the best wheat to see if it as worth cutting. The best only made 11 bu per acre, disgusted Earl waved to pull out, it would not pay the cost of cutting. Those were very discouraging times, frugality was essential.

Depression

Free Milk: Mid morning members of our class were called out into the hall and provided a small bottle of milk to drink. After a few times the teacher called me aside saying, please understand but I’ll not be asking you to come out for milk, There is not enough for everyone, you have milk for breakfast at home but for some this milk is the only breakfast they get. I said I understand, thank you for telling me. I don’t know who provided the milk – but for the first time I became aware some class mates came to school hungry. We the lucky ones found ways to share what we had, without our friends knowing it was deliberate, Kids are not always inconsiderate.

Eggs 9 cents a dozen: Farmers never went hungry but most were “dirt poor”, They had land and very little cash. House wives used the cream, chicken and egg money to pay household expenses. I working in a produce house, often called a cream station, and helped unload worn out cars carrying produce to market. At the sale barn they turned piglets loose, they had no market value. But farm wives made use of every chicken and egg she could market to make ends meet. A dozen eggs would almost pay for a gallon of gas at 11 cents a gallon. I felt compassion for those whose car needed repair, when you could hear rods knocking as their engines idled, they were barely hanging on. Eggs were down to 9 cents per dozen because people in the cities couldn’t afford them after the price for hauling and selling them was added on. This environment instilled the value of knowing how to fix things, improvise and save money.

Feed lot economics: Before starting to school I went with Dad when he stopped to see Charlie Frickey, a key board member of he bank. He left me in the car with a good view of Charlie’s Cattle feed lot. I noticed that he was fattening the cattle before shipment by feeding them corn. Some of the corn would pass through, softened but as kernels in cow poop, that formed fresh “brown pies”. I noticed that the feed lot also included hogs who would eagerly follow, rooting their nose in a fresh pie to find corn kernels as if they were candy. I realized the hogs were there to salvage the “spilled” corn. I also noted there were chickens who followed the hogs picking their “left over’s”. I marveled at the feedlot economics but lost my taste for ham and chicken. That was about 1928 before I started school,

Market Uncertainty: I heard people speak of the Stock Market Crash, later referred to the “Crash of 29” I assumed what happened far way in New York didn’t effect us. When I expressed this to Dad, he gave me a glance indicating I didn’t understand. The world was full of things I didn’t understand which is why I was always asking questions. I vaguely understood that stock was paper that showed ownership of something, and that the crash was a plunge in value of the paper representing ownership. So I asked Dad, “how did the crash in New York effect us?” Dad explained those who owned stock were called investors and if the stock was worth less the business was probably in trouble and people were being laid off. With people out of work and investors broke things accumulated and would not sell. When people were in soup kitchen food lines the price of food went down because there was more food than customers. He continued, you saw Charlie Frickey’s feed lot, Charlie’s investment was not in stock but in cattle and corn, When Charlie put cattle on the train to ship them the market in KS City he had made money, they were worth more than his costs, but while they were en-route the price for those cattle dropped and by the time they were sold they were worth less than he had invested in them. Yeah, the crash effected people here too, Charlie took a huge loss on those cattle. Having seen Charlie’s feed lot I could understand, they had consumed a lot of corn. I could understand how local people were effected, the price of what they sold went down when the stock market crashed.

Formation of Perspective

Questions without answers: Though I was only in kindergarten, I readily understand how a buyer seller market worked, Dad was good at explaining things like that. I had far more questions than answers – my questions often didn’t have answers. When the answer to my questions to Dad or others was “because” or “that’s just how it is”, I realized there was a limit to what adults knew.

9-11 Gullibility I’ve wondered if I had been born into a different society, if I could have been programmed by elders to believe in killing myself in return for a life in paradise -- at prekindergarten age being catered to by young ladies would offer nil incentive. There is no way of knowing, but I would have been less gullible as a teen ager than at preschool age.

Credibility limits: There were also limits to what I believed, I knew Santa was not pulled through the air by reindeer, that was fantasy, but good fantasy. We kids were instinctive masters of play like, we knew our mud pies, cakes and candles were not real, but such flights of fantasy were harmless fun trips. There was also bad fantasy like the saying “step on a crack and you’ll break your mothers back”, I knew that was not true, yet had to convince myself it was all right to step on a crack. I dutifully said my prays each night ending with “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” But I just plain didn’t believe we had a soul, though I didn’t outright say so. When my Aunt Ruth died, they buried her body but said her soul went to heaven. That was another problem I couldn’t understand this heaven bit, particularly when they populated it with angels, that looked like people with wings, sitting on heavenly clouds, Heaven was always up and Hell down. Neither made sense and I struggled to find merit, even in play like belief, I understood the value of rewards and punishment and the desire for a happy ending. But those angels sitting on clouds and the idea of “pearly gates” made it seem ridiculous. I couldn’t reconcile being told God was our forgiving loving father – who would flip temperament and put us in hell forever as punishment. My emotions had their own set of feelings but my thinker would not tolerate illogic. I don’t believe I would have been a good terrorist candidate.

Gullibility galore: I realized a lot of nice people seemed to believe what we were told. I decided since I wasn’t supposed to be old enough to understand that it was best to keep my thoughts to myself. It seemed there were a lot of gullible people – but I was convinced there were many more like me who kept their own council. Many things required faith in a positive outcome but that was reason not gullibility.

“You were a nice one”: Years later, after I retired, I met with classmates at the Legion Hall the afternoon before Alumni Banquet. I was delighted to see Alex Francis, my high football coach for three years come in – I’d first known him as a 6^th grade water boy for the high school team. Several of us stepped forward to shake his hand, and I wondered if he even recognized me, it had been over 50 years since I’d seen him. His eyes swept about and he spoke to me asking, “did I coach that fellow?” I said I don’t believe so, his wife was in our class but not him. Alex was relieved -- I thought my gosh he’s constantly put on the spot to remember each of thousands he’d coached at one time or another. Before moving on Alex turned to me, shook my hand, smiled said “you were a nice one”. I knew then he recognized me, though perhaps not my name – but his “nice” description didn’t make sense? I couldn’t perceived others I’d known referring to me as “nice”? I pondered this, replaying many dealing with Alex – I knew he knew me – by name as well.

As a coach Alex taught to not smoke or drink and most of us on his football team did not – while in high school. I also did not swear and use foul language, but most of us did not. So why did he have me logged as “nice”? Slowly it began to make sense, compared to some trouble makers, I was a nice guy and often stepped in to help settle disputes – insisting guys be fair and nice to each other – or else. I wasn’t a big guy but could do battle with the best of them on the football field and did enough hard manual labor to make it obvious I could put up a good fight if contested – I was not nice nice.

How had I been programmed: to be “nice”? My “nice” values had been implanted at a very early age. I had been taught good manners and behavior by parents and relatives and our Sunday School teacher Mrs Banta at a very early age. This was not difficult as I was a happy kid by nature who wanted to help. I’d been crushed when my friends the little red ants bit me after I’d befriended them by providing play things they could climb over. My instincts did not tolerate doing harm, though I would squash bugs and swat fly’s could , – but would just as instinctively fight to defend a friend.

Search for knowledge: I was always in search of answers, most of us are made that way. Learning keeps things exciting when your too old for what used to be fun.