Poor Kids

 

Poor Kids

Len L. McDonald

1.       Diggin’ in the trash can look for wheels

My brother and I made an automobile.

Cans for the lights, reflector for the horn.

Did you ever wonder why you were born?

Chorus:

                That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

                That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

                Devil meat spread and honey on the bread.

                That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

2.       Twelve little young ‘uns running under their feet,

My mom and my dad wondering what we gonna eat.

Fried potatoes and gravy sounds good.

My mom tried to fix the best that she could.

Chorus:

3.       Wait ‘til the farmer gets out of his field.

Scrounge for the leavings to make another meal.

Wishing all the time we had a dollar bill.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

4.       Cardboard linings for the bottom of our shoes.

Wasn’t the best but we had to make do.

On a winter morning with the rain and the sleet,

Anything to keep the wet off our feet.

Chorus:

5.       But we knew Mom and Dad loved us,

Sure as the Lords up above us.

Wasn’t their faults that the times were so bad,

My mom and my dad tried to give us what they had.

Chorus:

                My dad wrote this song depicting his childhood and it was the epitome of The Great Depression Era. Growing up, we were constantly reminded of how life was from listening to Dad and his siblings talk about that period. They were just young kids making the best out of a very difficult situation. They revered the memories with a sense of sacredness.   It was from these experiences that I developed a robust love for history.  And even as I write these words, I cannot adequately express my feelings for this love -just that I can attribute it to my dad and all the stories that he and his family told. Like the pioneers from the Willey Handcart Company in LDS history, they did not fault anyone. They were grateful to their parents just because. And to my knowledge, Dad never once complained about his parents within my ear shot.

                When Dad sang this song, I could always hear his younger sister, Joyce, very clearly commenting on how hard it was (and she has been gone since 1996). My grandmother was incredibly resourceful and made things work despite the challenges. This knowledge was always in the back of my mind as I faced my own heartaches – whether it was deciding to have an epidural during childbirth or wondering how we were going to make more space in an already cramped apartment. I knew a way could be made. My grandmother was the inspiration to me getting through a very difficult circumstance and I knew without question that she was nearby. She endured so much that I would think back on how she might have handled the situation. With the epidural, I was in labor with my first child and I kept thinking that she bore 14 children without one, why shouldn’t I? The thought immediately came to me in the wee hours of the night as I contemplated this that if it was available, she would have had it. I calmly made the decision to have the epidural.

                For some reason I though Grams avoided doctors because she lost two babies due to their errors. In the summer of 1988 Dad clarified this myth by saying she didn’t always go because they were not available. Nothing more.

        Wait ‘til the farmer gets out of his field.

Scrounge for the leavings to make another meal.

Wishing all the time we had a dollar bill.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

Devil meat spread and honey on the bread.

                That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

       Twelve little young ‘uns running under their feet,

My mom and my dad wondering what we gonna eat.

Fried potatoes and gravy sounds good.

My mom tried to fix the best that she could.

                I never liked my dad’s cooking. To him, at least it was food. I remember one time when I was visiting him in Lancaster with my young son, Johnny. Dad went to make us a tuna sandwich. There wasn’t any seasoning to it, simply tuna spread on the bread with some Miracle Whip. I was sickened by this because there wasn’t any seasoning. Moreover, I also hated eating turnips with a strong passion because the summer of 1978 we were so poor that was our mainstay. But again, it was at least food.

                In some ways, and like a lot of kids from that era, Dad never got over it. He and his brothers and sisters, especially his brothers, were pack-rats. “Might need this someday” was the ideology. Their garages were full of “stuff”. One of his sister-in-laws who was affected by The Depression  would hoard boxes and boxes of clothes even after they were long out of style. She was a talented seamstress who collected patterns. These, too, were hoarded even though she would never use them. With food, she had a wonderful storage full. I know her family was truly impacted by this experience having come to California as an “Okie.” Okies were people who lived in the Dust Bowl, an area of the United States and Canada that was affected by severe dust storms. This particular aunt came from Oklahoma as a young girl and lived in the labor camps along the San Juaquin Valley.  “The camps were intended to “rehabilitate” the Okies, transform them into productive citizens, and assimilate them into California culture” (O’Reilly, 2012).They came looking for work, food, and a better living. This aunt once told me that her family came to California due to health issues. California, with all its many promises, also gave hope of better health.

When Dad died, there was mixed emotions about going through his stuff – especially the tools. It was like going through his underwear, so personal was his work bench. I took things just to have a part of him close by. My daughter kept insisting that I take a particular green shirt of his. At first, I hesitated then gave in. It still had his scent woven into the fibers. As a result, it has stayed at the end of my bed and I hold it close now and then so I can feel his presence.

                As kids, we struggled for a number of reasons. Dad could never keep a job for very long so we moved a lot. A young mother with three little ones, I was privilege to finally meet Dad’s best friend from his youth, Roger Campbell. Roger talked of how he, Joyce, and Dad all received scholarships to BYU (Brigham Young University). Dad turned it down and went into the Navy. I was so angry with him! We struggled because of that decision. How naïve I was! Little did I know of his reasons for joining the Navy instead of going to BYU on a music scholarship. He went because at that time, if a man did not have military experience, they were passed over for those who did. Often they were also fired. Dad was trying support his widowed mother, whom he adored. He only joined in effort to make sure her needs were met. In several of his letters that survive, he begs her to go to the Red Cross to get him out. So often in my later years have I wondered about this. Had we not struggled the way we did, would I have the survival skills, along with the appreciation of history, music, the fine arts, and technology that I am so grateful for. I don’t think so.

I was able to keep my emotions in check until my brother read the lyrics at Dad’s funeral. Then I lost it. The impact this experience had on this family was so personal and definitive. It was a relief when Dad died because of his suffering and longing for those who had gone on before him. Still, when these words were read, I missed my father with such a yearning that leaves me at a loss for words.  When Shannon gave the eulogy, I saw many of my dad’s habits in me. For one, I, too, hold onto things because “you never know if you might need them.”

Sources:
The picture was taken at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center's Pediatric Unit, August 2013. I do not know who the artist is, although I would love to know. 

O’Reilly, K. (April 2012). “Oklatopia”: The Cultural Mission of California’s Migratory Labor Camps, 1935-1941. Senior Thesis Department of History Columbia University.