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.

It Was the Road She Needed

          They say you can’t teach an old dog a new trick. I do not believe it, for it is faith that moves the Earth. It is faith that will cause a rock- hard soul to soften as sand when touched by the Spirit. It is by faith that will push undaunted missionaries into the unknown while expecting a miracle. And it is by faith that I met Blanche Evelyn Mattson.

Evelyn was a crusty old soul who hated everything connected to the Church, at least until failing health forced that crusty old soul to move in with Gary and Sandy.  They were her son and daughter-in-law who had joined the Church some years earlier. Evelyn was not supportive of this new religion. When she began to live with them her views began to change. She could see the difference in their everyday living and she wanted to be a part of it.

The day after Christmas, my companion, Sister Jones, and I were asked to speak with Evelyn. And while we were not having much luck finding investigators, we did have complete confidence the Lord would provide for us. So this invitation was a welcomed relief to some serious praying.

 Talking with her the first day was easy. For someone who held such animosity towards the Church, she never let it show. By the second discussion two days later Evelyn expressed her desire to be baptized. Sandy, a humble and quiet woman who kept her opinions to herself, was not expecting this, at least not this soon. Her eyes filled with tears as Evelyn expressed a sincere desire to be baptized.

Before new converts were baptized, we would ask them to attend Sacrament Meeting at least once. This was a problem for Evelyn because she could not walk very well, let alone stand. Gary rented a wheelchair, very much against his mother’s wishes! She was determined to walk into that building on her own or not at all. To my surprise, she accomplished this fete two Sunday’s in a row. I can still see and hear her as she hobbled into Sacrament Meeting saying, “See Sister McDonald. I did it!” She glowed with pride in her efforts. We also asked them to follow the Word of Wisdom and abstain from smoking and drinking coffee. She was dying of cancer. As her health deteriorated, so did her selection of available foods. It got to the point where one of her main source of nourishment was drinking coffee. She gave this up to abide by the Word of Wisdom.

On a foggy Saturday afternoon in January 1986, Blanche Evelyn Mattson and her eight-year-old grandson, Jay, were baptized at the Myrtle Beach, South Carolina Chapel. The joy this woman felt was incredible. She kept asking me if I could hear the angels singing. This seemed to be the only way that she could describe what she was feeling. Sadly, I could not hear the angels singing but I did feel a strong impression that the room was filled with more than what our eyes could see. The Relief Society Room seemed much brighter than it usually did. I also do not doubt that Evelyn could hear angels singing. I do not think she ever felt such peace in her life.

In Matthew, we are admonished to “be perfect even as your Father in Heaven is” (Matthew 5:48). To this day, I still believe that she tried with all her heart, might, mind, and strength to fulfill the covenants that she made at her baptism.

On February 25, 1986 I was given my transfer orders. Very hesitantly I went to offer my farewell to my friend, who by that time had been unconscious for a little over a week. Gary called me early the next morning. She had died only a few short hours after I had left their home.

To some, it was viewed as an easy and insignificant baptism –an old lady decides to be baptized just before she dies. To me, it meant that one is never too old to have faith, grow, and ultimately change for the better. To Blanche Evelyn Mattson, it was the road she needed to travel in peace back to her Heavenly Father. Those that judged her are not aware of what this dear lady endured to follow through on her covenants.  I still think about her often and am so thankful for the experience of helping her to meet that road. It has made me a better person. 

Kelli McDonald, 19 January 2013.

Obstacle or Challenge?

CANADIAN BACON AND SHRIMP PIZZA, PLEASE

Admiring the purple, marshmallow jacket that had just arrived for Lizzy, Brook giggled that it reminded her of the jacket I may have worn when I snuck the pizza into the movie theatre. “Mom, didn’t you write that story?” Meaning, had I written about the now-famous incident? “I love that story,” emphasizing love.

          Middle of a Utah summer, some good people brought by badly needed clothes for Lizzy. She and Brook had recently returned to live with us from California. Winters in this part of Utah can get mighty cold; never mind how deceiving the summers can be. Brook was going through the bounty when out of nowhere she was reminded of an incident that took place years before her own birth and even longer from when our sweet Lizzy was even thought of. My…what nostalgia came over me…

          It was 1983. My family had recently moved to Lake Los Angeles, California from Mission Hills - which was part of the San Fernando Valley. Lake Los Angeles was situated about 27 miles from both Lancaster and Palmdale – way out in the middle of the desert. Developed mainly as a real estate ploy, the small “lake” was in actuality a pond named “Lake Los Angeles” and a means to get people away from the city.  It was surrounded by buttes - mountains that looked like islands in the middle of the sand. There was very little to do, except to hike the buttes or get your car stuck out in the desert. Forgive me for the errors of my youth but I am guilty as ever of this.

I wanted to show my brothers a good time, prove to them their sister was “cool,” not some innocent, air-head.  So we tried to climb a butte with my white, two-door, ’66 Chevy Impala. I mean, others were trying it with their vehicles, why couldn’t I? We also drove out in the sandy soil, off the beaten, paved road, just to see if we could do it. Remember, this is well before cell phones and intelligence as we now know it. It was near dark and the nearest house was in the distance. Leaving my young siblings in the car (they were 17, 14, and 9) I hiked to the house to ask the man to call my family. Bill Arndt, a family friend rescued us. If memory serves me correctly, this was not the last time this happened. As I write this, I feel a strong urge to send a text to my step-mother, apologizing AGAIN for my errant youthfulness. Still, I can forgive my own kids a lot easier because of adventures such as these.

          For a good time, we had to “go to town,” meaning Lancaster or Palmdale. Lancaster had a mall with a cinema. A Christmas Story, starring Peter Billingsley was showing. My friends from Mission Hills came up to hang out one exceptionally fine, December Saturday. Billy, my off and on again boyfriend, was wearing his Los Angeles King’s jacket. The Kings were the hockey team that we all idolized. The jacket was large, even on him, and he was tall – or so I thought. So imagine how it would look on petite, little me.

          We went for pizza at a joint across from the theatre with the intention that we would sneak it in. Deciding to be creative we chose two large pizzas: Canadian bacon with shrimp and I believe pepperoni. It was unusual but I wanted to be different. We also ordered drinks that conveniently fit into my purse. But what about the pizzas? How do you sneak two large pizzas into a movie theatre and especially a crowded theatre without provoking some sort of suspicion? Easy! I would wear Billy’s jacket and pretend to be pregnant. He would cradle my arm into his as if he was trying to be extra tender, considering how far along I looked.

          Cautiously going through the “check point” where they take your tickets, I clearly and distinctly remember the looks the employees gave us. Mark Dow, one of our friends, had such a childlike gaze about him. Billy was as tender as he could have been, gently telling me to be careful. The smell of shrimp eluded from the place a child was supposedly attached under the watchful eyes of the ticket masters and yet…not a word was said.

          Once inside we sat near the back. The theatre was dark. Commercials and trailers blazed across the screen. Patrons munched on their popcorn and candy while we insidiously passed around the forbidden cache of food. Umph…oh so delicious! Who would have ever guessed such a delectable savor could come from this unique choice of toppings!

          Tinged with minute regret at leaving the empty boxes for the staff to clean up and discover our indiscretions, we left. Never have I been able to see this movie without the reminder of a simple fete of Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza being snuck into see it. It represents not only the ingenuousness of youth, but too, the simple pleasures of life that only come from trying something new.

          Nearly 30 years later during a particularly sticky summer the smell of that period prevailed like a warm blanket on a cold, winter morning beckoning me to come home to a time that no longer exists except in the crevices of my memory. I am ever so young and naïve again, wishing for them to walk through the door as if they had simply gone to the market for a soda.

          I called local pizza place to order a small Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza. “Sorry, we don’t carry shrimp on the premises” was the reply. Hmmm…so off to the store to get some just to see if the taste buds could still handle it.

Kelli McDonald, July 28, 2012, Lehi, Utah

The Picture

Years ago I wanted to write a book about the women of Kern County dating from the 1910’s through the early 1950’s. That era and the area seemed to encompass the fortitude of strength. These were women of diverse cultures such as the Mennonites, Blacks, Hispanics, Whites, Catholics, Mormons’ Baptists, Japanese decent and so on. They lived through World War I, the building of new settlements, The Great Depression, The Exodus of migrant workers, World War II, and the Korean War.

 My grandmother was LDS. She came from strong LDS pioneer stock. Her people came west from Nauvoo, Illinois to Utah in the 1850’s. Brigham Young sent her family south to the dry, arid land of Southeast Arizona to cultivate a settlement. Grams was active in the Church her entire life. My dad says his mom attended several different churches just so she could attend Sunday meetings.

 Grams married my grandfather in 1913. His family was also LDS and came from Indiana. Tradition holds that he broke every promise he ever made to her. I don’t remember how they ended up in Kern County. They had a family of fourteen kids – two of whom died in infancy – and most likely transverse to the area looking for work.  

 When I moved back to Utah in December 2002, I was looking for places to research the Bakersfield area from the confines of Utah. Some suggested the Archives of the LDS Church in Salt Lake.  So, I did. What I did not anticipate was the plethora of information on my own family. I began looking through the attendance rolls of the various auxiliary meetings. Of special interest was the Relief Society Meetings.  They included notes of who was sick, who died, who was moving, as well as the progress on the new Relief Society Room. In these notes I found many members of my family mentioned – those who I would never have suspected of ever stepping foot inside a church, let alone the LDS Church!

It was the summer of 2003. I was out of work and earnestly searching. Perusing the notes on a daily basis left me with a sense of wonder at what these fine people looked liked. As if in answer to my prayer I came across an entry telling about the photo that was to be taken for the Relief Society Magazine. I quickly ran downstairs to the library that held all of the magazines from the past. Upon finding their picture I got the distinct impression they were saying, “Here we are!”  I copied the picture along with the names of those long-ago-women who now seemed like old friends, including my grandmother, Zella Dodge McDonald.

 Fast forward to July 2011. Climbing to the top of the stairs in the Mount Timpanogos Temple in American Fork, Utah, there stood a woman by the last name of Gabbitas. Gabbitas was the name of a family frequently mention in the notes I had been transcribing the summer of 2003. I asked her the whereabouts of her family. She said her husband’s family was from the Bakersfield area. I told her about the picture saying I was sure her mother-in-law was in it. Sadly, she was not but her name was one that was mentioned. As promised, I delivered a copy of the picture for her at the temple.

 In August, Cheryl Gabbitas was visiting with old friends, Roger and Jackie Campbell. She mentioned my name. Roger wondered if I could be the same one whose father he had hung around when they were teenagers in the early 1950’s. He called and left a message. Yes, I was! The last time I had seen Roger and Jackie was when my second child was just a baby. He had brought out a chair my dad had made for her. My daughter now had a child of her own.

Roger and my dad had been close friends. Roger dated Dad’s younger sister, Joyce. Cheryl and her husband were good friends with Dad’s older brother, Dean, and his wife, Anna. Both Joyce and Dean have long since crossed over to the other side.

In October 2011 we were all able to get together in American Fork, Utah for dinner. It amazes me at how I was looking for material to write a book about one particular topic and stumbled into an unexpected surprise – the picture and the stories connected to it. I wasn’t trying to find information on my family but I did – much more, some of which ended in completing further temple work along with developing a better understanding of my own family.

I have found that researching family history is more than collecting data for temple work. It’s looking past to the past and seeing who these people were with all the smells, sounds, and feels of the time. “And like the warm breezes blowing through the fields, they are felt too. Remember? They were here just yesterday.”

~Kelli L. McDonald, January 3, 2012