The Great Depression

Having been born in 1922, I was seven when stock market prices collapsed and The Depression began. It didn’t mean much to me then, but as I look back, it had to be frightening for our parents who, until then, had no reason to expect anything but good times in the years ahead. History tells us that post-war prosperity was upon the land with mass production and new technology pointing to a rosy future. But somewhere along the line, the fundamentals of economics gave way to wishful thinking and margin buying of stocks which made many transactions a gamble rather than an investment. Even at this late stage in my life, I don’t understand how it all happened. I just know that people were put out of work and lost their purchasing power, a death blow to most small businesses.

How my folks managed to keep us afloat is beyond me, but being in the food business, we always had plenty to eat and it’s tough to feel deprived on a full stomach. As a sign of the times, I recall “hobos” or “bums” knocking on the back door and asking for something to eat in exchange for any work they could do. Mom never failed to fix a full plate and these unfortunates would sit on the back stoop and relish every bite. I often sat with them enthralled as they told of hopping trains and traveling wherever the tracks led. As I remember, these people were shabby looking but not a bit threatening, and they were sincerely grateful for the meal.

Hucksters were a common sight back then, peddling most everything, but two I can still hear. The one came through at night singing out in a loud voice, “Hot Tamales, Red Hot,” and for a dime, folks could enjoy this treat they were not accustomed to. The other guy I remember was known as Tony because he was obviously Italian, and in our predominately German neighborhood, any Italian was a Tony. Anyway, he pushed a cart with a clanging bell that announced his presence, and if you needed anything sharpened, you found your man. Tony’s cart was equipped with a wheel that he would set in motion, and sparks would fly as he put an edge on knives or scissors, or whatever. After he did our meat-market knives, my dad could slice ham so thin you could read the news through it. Well, maybe not quite, but you get the idea. Others came through offering vegetables or bakery goods, while the daily paper was delivered from a horse-drawn wagon and the lamplighter ignited the gas lights each evening at dusk. It all added up to a fascinating period.

I’m still in grammar school while all this is going on, totally unaware of just how serious conditions are both at home and abroad. In the early ‘30s, unemployment was horrendous and people were divided about President Roosevelt’s plans to get things back on track. I heard customers describe an area called “Hooverville,” where hundreds lived in tents or shacks along the St. Louis waterfront. The newspapers pictured soup lines set up to nourish those without the wherewithal to feed themselves. I heard some praise the NRA and the CCC as life-saving programs, while others claimed our old way of life was gone forever. This was heavy stuff to my young mind having no bearing on my life but interesting to listen to because of the different opinions. My folks seemed to worry that small businesses would be called upon to pay heavily for those government programs, and they were not too thrilled with Mr. Roosevelt who was to overwhelm both Alf Landon in 1936, and Wendell Willkie for an unprecedented third term in 1940. And as I now know, all hell was busting loose in the rest of the world with the Japanese attacking China, a guy named Hitler becoming Chancellor of Germany, both Japan and Germany withdrawing from the League of Nations, civil war breaking out in Spain, and Hitler tearing up the Treaty of Versailles and instituting compulsory military training. But that was all so far away.

Meanwhile, back on the home front by 1936, Prohibition was a thing of the past, the economy seemed to be coming back to life, and I was getting ready to leave grammar school. For entertainment, the radio was particularly popular because of its ability to fire up your imagination and take you to distant places and situations. I usually helped in the store every Saturday, and at a certain time in the afternoon, a program called “Hawaii Calls” came on with the sound of surf in the background behind enchanting Hawaiian music. It called to me loud and clear and made me dream of someday, somehow, visiting that tropical paradise. Little did I know that the government would pay my way just a few years hence. For family fare, Sunday nights offered Jack Benny, Burns and Allen, and Edgar Bergen with his sidekick, Charlie McCarthy, while week nights featured The Shadow, Gangbusters, Death Valley Days, Gunsmoke, and a host of other great programs providing good listening for all. Of course, the news on radio was always a big hit.

Movies helped us forget reality for a few hours and indulge our fantasies. The Granada Theater was about a mile from where we lived and I must have made that walk a hundred times. And why not? For a dime, you’d get to see Movietone News from around the world, the latest installment of a serial, and a double feature with stars of that time. The Captain Blood series was one that caught my attention and I fell madly in love with Olivia DeHavilland who was without a doubt the most gorgeous and appealing female of all time. Errol Flynn always charmed her to pieces but he was so dashing I couldn’t hold it against him. And Tyrone Power never failed to excite me when he led a charge as a Bengal Lancer during the Afghan Wars fought against the British in the 19th century. Movies did provide an escape during the “troubled thirties” adhering to Victorian principles yet carrying one into a make-believe world of drama, music, love, adventure,  and comedy. Some people were shocked over Clark Gable’s line: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” during filming of Gone With The Wind. Needless to say, there’s nothing Victorian about the dialogue in today’s screen attractions.

Graduating from grammar school must have been a simple and quiet affair because I can’t recall anything about it. I do remember my mother accompanying me to the offices of St. Louis University High School where my family thought I should register. This was a bit of a switch because I was the only boy from the eighth grade class to pick this school which was some distance from where we lived. All the other kids chose a school more in the neighborhood, so I was going to be a loner for a while. I was always great once I got to know others, but I found it hard to jump in unless I was invited, so my first few days were rough. But the uneasiness felt by most freshmen tended to grease the wheels between lost souls and I soon found others just as miserable as I was. Because I had taken violin lessons, my mom was hoping I’d end up in the orchestra, but much to her chagrin, I opted for football and a bit of boxing, gaining no glory at either sport.

Academically, I had done well in grammar school and had mastered the fundamentals, but higher math threw me a curve. I could add, subtract, multiply, and divide with the best of them, but when they hit me with algebra and geometry, I was less than outstanding. My salvation was in the literary arts where I found comfort in words and ideas and where I was often told I had a gift. To this day I’m still baffled by symbolic mathematical systems, but give me a good book to read, someone else’s work to edit, or a topic about which to write, and I’m in my glory. I’m just thankful to those who encouraged me to do the things I could do well and didn’t write me off because I did not shine at math.

Attending St. Louis U. High was a great experience. It was a Jesuit school for boys, designed to prepare them for college and instill in them sound intellectual and moral principles to live by. Rules and regulations were to be adhered to and the disciplinarian was a man to be aware of. Seeming at times like a black-robed ogre, he was really an astute academician who understood the ironies of growing through the teens and administered justice in a way that was formative rather than punitive. The student body, though small, was large in spirit, performing well in team sports and often beating teams from schools with much larger enrollments. The one thing that pops into my mind as I relive my days there is the parking lot with three or four cars as opposed to high-school parking lots today. Buses and street cars were pretty big back then.