Apropos of which, yesterday I was flipping through the pages of, “A Pictorial History of the Talkies,” (compiled and edited by a Daniel Bloom, who had done a similar service for the Silent Screen), and came across a still - probably staged for the press - of a movie which had a powerful impact on the world of the cinema, and on the audiences who viewed it. The year was 1940, the film, “The Grapes of Wrath,” by John Steinbeck, and adapted for the screen by Nunnally Johnson. The film garnered innumerable Academy Awards and the book led to Steinbeck receiving the 1962 Nobel Prize for literature. Steinbeck’s stirring drama, about a family displaced by the Great Depression, is believed to be the most discussed novel in the history of American literature.
“With dialogue and scenes that rank among the most moving and memorable ever filmed, it's a classic among classics--simply put, one of the finest films ever made.” --Jeff Shannon – Amazon film reviewer.For me the photograph, that of the displaced family, was a travelogue into my own past. The reality more terrible than the film it depicted.
Being born in 1929 made me a bit young to have been writing in a diary or putting together a journal o
n my childhood at the time, but my Mother was never at a loss for stories of the terrible years known as “The Great Depression.” I believe, and I could well understand, that that ugly time was stamped indelibly on her memory. . . . . . . 
Arthur Rothstein, photographer, 1936. (Library of Congress)
Her recollection of the day on which the wheat fields, surrounding and encompassing our miserable, prairie shack of a home, shriveled and died, made my flesh crawl when I heard it. I was about fifteen years old, and will always remember the afternoon she passed the story on to me. I now pass it on here, that others may learn of things they may not have known before. . . . .
Mom told of how she had woken early, that fateful morning, from a restless and enervating sleep. Her superstitious Scots mind had filled her with a dread, a foreboding. Wandering through the tiny house, sweat moistening her worn cotton dress, she could not erase a fear that the coming day held some terrible event.The weather during the last week had been unseasonably hot and dry, worrisome, but such days had been known before. Each evening, my father - as did the other farmers nearby - stood on the farmhouse steps looking at the sky and sniffing into the still air, apprehensive and wondering. The golden wheat was almost ready for harvest, almost, but not quite – another ten days and a much anticipated bumper crop would be ready for mowing. A steady, comfortable heat from the sun was needed to finish the ripening of the wheat, but each day appeared to be hotter than the one before, not a steady heat, a steadily growing heat, rapidly sucking every drop of moisture from all living things within its horizon.
Great DepressionThen it happened; as my mother looked out at the endless fields from her kitchen window, the wheat began to waver and sag, as would a runner, having gone beyond his endurance. Horrified, she watched as the acres and acres of golden, chest high grain, like ambushed soldiers set upon and slain, fell to the scorching heat. A moment before there had stood a forest of softly rustling wheat - now the horizon was eerily empty, and far away. The valiant crop had not been able to hold on till harvest time arrived. Its trusted friend, the sun, had turned against it. This hoped for harvest, forecast to be the savior of the beleaguered prairie folk, now lay, shriveling to useless straw, upon the burning soil, beaten to the ground by the impossible heat from its great benefactor. The giver of life - had taken it away.
Farms in the west such as this one were devastated not only by erosion but also by droughts and plagues of insects (courtesy Saskatchewan Archives Board/Saskatchewan Wheat Pool Collection)
Tears flowed freely from my mother and myself, when she had finished. Each tale she told of those days was washed with tears. I don’t believe that anyone who lived through that time, when they recount their stories, to themselves or when they are begged to have them told by their children, and grandchildren, can come from the telling dry eyed.
"T
ractored Out", 1938. Dorthea Lange, photographer. (Library of Congress) The section of the Canadian Prairies where my father had chosen to farm was known as the worst section in Canada for farming, This was underplayed and openly denied by the Government of the time in an effort to induce more European investment in the country, and more immigrants to migrate into, and populate, the Prairies. Saskatchewan, Alberta and British Columbia, suffered the worst of the Great Depression - the drought and the terrifying dust storms, that swept away the rich, over worked top soil of the great plains, had not only devastated their farms, it had taken away their future.
Dust Bowl
The prairie dry belt was unwisely opened for homesteading and was struck by successive droughts in the 1920s that contributed to hardships during the Depression (courtesy PAA).
During the 1930s, drought and economic depression forced prairie farmers to abandon their farms to find work in the cities. Pictured here, settlers leaving farms in the "dry belt" areas in southern Saskatchewan moving along No. 4 Highway north of Battleford. (National Archives of Canada, PA-044575)The Great Depression, with its dust storms, drought, homelessness, eviction and brutal poverty, showed the worst and best in the millions who lived and survived it. Written in the pages of those years there is a clear message; so much of what occurred in that decade of wrath man brought upon himself. We can only trust a lesson was learned that will stay learned: how the human race, if it tries hard enough, and is thoughtless enough, can do so much damage to this wonderful home we call Earth, that a day will come, when it will be no more than a misty memory, in the ageless mind of the Cosmos.
"How many of us have had a Christmas morning, the memory of which comes back each and every year? I have one of those, and when I think of my childhood it is the only Christmas I actually remember in detail. There were
others, but to me this is 'the one.' “I was 9 years old, it was Christmas 1938, the Depression was winding down and 'The War' was waiting in the wings. My father had finally, through the incredible kindness of a wonderful man, found a job. This man, whose family kept us from starvation, picked us up, brushed from us the dust of the prairies, and with unselfish kindness helped our family make a new start. ‘Our family’ was small compared to his: there were five of us; his numbered nine; later, would come number ten. That was a lot of mouths to feed, but still they managed to extend an unstinting generosity to the five of us. The name of our benefactor was Bill Collins, and he had, after years of trying, managed to get my father a job in a bakery, where he himself was a delivery van driver. Dad worked at the bread ovens, and though the wages were small, they were better than the nothing there was before. Still, what little my father made was only sufficient to pay the rent, and supply the necessities.
“This particular year, about two days before Christmas, my parents asked my brother, sister and me, to stay seated at the table after supper. Not really unusual, but there was a heaviness hanging over the meal that evening, and we had a sense that something was afoot. Mom and Dad sat quiet, just looking at each other, as we kids cleared the table. That done, we sat down to wait for what might come. After a moment Dad glanced over at Mom. She nodded a yes, and with an expression of gentle loving tenderness on her face, looked at each of us in turn, tears swelling in her eyes. As Dad began to speak they fell.
“What Dad said, was that there would be no Christmas at our house that year. There was no money whatsoever, for anything but food. Then Dad’s tears started, and he reached his arms around us as we scrambled to hold him and Mom. He apologized over and over to us, as if it were something he had done. Then arms were everywhere, as we reached out to each other, hugging and sobbing. My sister, brother and I, devastated far more by the tears our parents shed than by a Christmas without toys, said as one, as though we had rehearsed the scene before supper,'It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.’ Then, my dear little sister said it right, ‘It doesn’t matter, because we have each other, and that’s enough! That’s all the Christmas we need!' Oh yeah! There was a lot of love in that house!
“Christmas morning, after checking through or socks, which we had hung over the bottom bed frame - just in case - my brother and I were surprised to find within each a tangerine, and some nuts snuggling down in the toes. Tiptoeing to my sisters room, we found her with one of her tiny arms pushing its way down into the sock she to had hopefully put up, searching for more treasures, not wanting to miss a single nut. After nibbling our goodies we made our way downstairs, to sit by the tree and wait for Mom and Dad to wake up - so we could wish them a Merry Christmas. Dad did have a tree for us, he went into the woods, which were nearby in those days, and cut one down, and set it up in the living room. Of course, it’s not to hard to find things to use as decorations, so, we had a decorated tree to sit in front of. As we quietly slipped into the living room – so as not to wake Mom and Dad whose bedroom was right next to the living room - the three of us let out a whoop! so loud it must have wakened the whole neighborhood. We stood and stared in eye popping wonder, hardly believing what we saw. There before us, spread all around the tree and spilling out across the living room floor was a world of gifts. Brightly wrapped packages were piled one on top of the other, those too large to wrap, sported huge bows and brilliant ribbons. The three of us just stood, dumbfounded before this mirage, and could only stare, 'it wasn’t possible,' written on each of our faces. But it was, it was right in front of us, a Christmas morning wonderland, in our own house!
“I realized that Mom and Dad were not asleep, they came into the living room so quickly, dressing gowns on and wide awake, that they had to have been waiting for us.
“Well, it was truly the Christmas of all Christmases that year. Dad had somehow managed to go into hock for the money to do what he did. I was told, years later, by Mom, that it took all of five years to pay back the money they borrowed to give us that incredible Christmas morning. Five years! My folks were sure something else. Imagine, a train set with everything for me, a brand new bike for my Bro, and for my sister a dolls house – made by Dad – filled with all the things every dollhouse and doll needs. I can’t recall what all the other gifts were, but they had done themselves proud, had my parents. What a lesson their sacrifice taught me about parenting. There are times that doing the right thing is more important than anything else.
“Oh! and hey! It wasn’t just toys and sweets that made it memorable, that Christmas long past; there was turkey and all the trimmings on our festive table that night! A Christmas straight out of Dickens.!"
May Christmas bring joy to you,
and love to all. May the memories
of Christmases Past, fill our hearts
this festive season. And may the
spirit of love dwell in all of us!
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