Nuggets from the great depression by Lois Scott

Gladys Opal Reoh didn’t make much of a splash in our little world around San Perlita and Raymondville Texas. Willacy County was sparsely populated during the Great Depression, and prohibition sat upon the land like a backyard guardian with big teeth but poor eyesight. I don’t think it ever stopped anyone from drinking, if they really wanted to; only enabling big time gangsters and bootleggers to dig in and propitiate. But drinking problems didn’t invade Mama’s world much, as she was a dyed-in-the-wool Baptist with no patience with it. Keen-eyed and reserved, she saw everything from her own perspective and drew her own conclusions without reservations. To the “smile and nod” crowd, she was Mrs. Reoh. To her friends, she was Gladys---but to us, she was Mama. She had her own set of values and held her views---and silent suspicions---on the worthiness of some of the more dubious characters around San Perlita. She had an opinion on everything, from heroes to horse feathers, and sniffed in disdain at some of the self righteous crusaders that rose occasionally. Mama was not a pillar of the community; preferring instead to live quietly and unobtrusively on our farm east of the little town of San Perlita, but, as an individual, she was unique. She had to be---during those trying times----with a vivid imagination and a determination that held firm. She was Mama!

Like most farm folk Mama grew a garden, and so many of her make-do meals revolved around

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

this garden. She had chickens; therefore fresh eggs, and a cow. She could plan around this bedrock foundation of what she grew, what grew wild, and what few basics came from the grocery store, and set a good table. She could do all kinds of things with a biscuit, and sometimes---with a few additions---make it the main entrée. Mama had a variety of vegetables in her garden, but if she needed a vegetable that wasn’t in hers, it probably was in a neighbor’s garden. The Reeds lived on the next farm and Suzie Reed was a good friend. They traded off when it was convenient.

SPICY BISCUIT WITH CHICKEN GRAVY Prepare standard biscuit dough in large mixing bowl. Fold in half a cup of crumpled sausage. Add one fourth cup of grated cheese. One fourth cup brocolli (cut into bits)

(The broccoli for this entrée came from Susie’s garden,)

Add sprinkling of pimientos and fold all carefully and completely into biscuit dough. Roll out on flour board and cut into biscuits. Bake in oven at 350 degrees until golden brown. Spread open a biscuit on an individual dinner plate. Cover with chicken gravy and garnishee with several tiny pickeled onions and several slices fresh tomatoes.

Those were indeed bleak days durting the Great Depression of the thirties. South Texas was not exactly the dust bowl---but near. On some days the blowing dirt was so thick it left a film on our face, and on some days it was still and clear. It was these latter that gave hope to the people of the Lower Rio Grande Valley; a rich fertile Valley---of robust soil and tropical landscape. The little town of San Perlita nestled between Raymondville and Red Fish Bay (now Port Mansfield.) It consisted of a grocery store and Post

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Office (run by Dora Moore and her two brothers,) two churches, one service station---and an impressive school. Both grade school and high. The grade school was pretty predictable, but San Perlita High School was something else again. The top of the pecking order was the football players and cheerleaders. Next in line came Miss Lesuer’s Home Economics girls. With only twelve in the class, these girls would bond and confide in each other, and considered themselves a small force against a fortified world. They also felt duty-bound to dissect and analyze the more colorful characters in school---especially if said characters were pretty and popular. Everyone on their way to Red Fish Bay had to stop in San Perlita. It was the only road. Their last chance for gas and supplies. The few locals knew---and were interested in---every car that went through, and eagerly welcomed any friendly conversation and maybe a morsel of news. The one store and Post Office combination was the meeting place; actually the only place, folks could gather and discuss the news and weather, and each tidbit made it’s way into this bastion of speculation. An amiable Dora Moore would soon dissect it and give her opinion. The high school was not only classrooms and a center of learning, but sometimes it’s lunchroom became a showroom for outstanding recipes and home-made crochet and needlepoint creations. County Fair style. For some housewives, it was the only time in their drab lives that they got a chance to shine. During County Fair day at the San Perlita lunchroom, all recipes were displayed at their best, and samples were taken and eaten by local judges. Always two men. Women waited with bated breath---while smiling and trying to seem only casually interested---for a clue of acceptance---or rejection---by the expression on a judge‘s face. It was a small triumph when a blue ribbon of first place was placed beside a particular culinary entrée, and a collective release of breathless tension and a small titter would flutter among the ladies. The two judges were aware of their importance, and it became a matter of merit to be able to sustain an air of suspense by smiling or looking thoughtful as they tasted. They knew every eye was upon them, and sometimes---to prolong the suspense---they would go back and take another sampling of a dish that had already been tasted and passed over. By the time the judging was over and the coveted blue ribbon had been placed, the ladies were ready to collapse. Sometimes potluck dinners were also held in the lunch room and the ladies for miles around

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

brought their special dishes, as they could afford them. But there was no competition here. Everybody came, and there were some interesting variations that showed up. Some recipes are still here. But they were born in the San Perlita school lunch room. Mama’s specialty was German Potato Salad. Potatoes were an economical stable ( bought from a bin in Piggly Wiggly.) There was German ancestry in our family on my father’s side, and Great Grandma Reoh had brought some of her old family recipes from Germany.

GERMAN POTATO SALAD Peel four large russet potatoes. In separate sauccepan, put three large eggs on to boil. (boil hard until very firm and manageable.) Wash peeled potatoes, cut in fairly large cubes, and put in pot, or saucepan) to boil. Boil until very tender. Drain potatoes, mash and add a fourth of a stick of butter or margarine. Salt and pepper to taste. Beat until stiffly creamy. Set aside potato mix (you’ll have creamed potatoes.) Peel one average sized onion. Cube about half a cup into small bits. Cube another half cup of Bread and Butter pickles. Also in very small pieces. Fold both into the pot of creamed potatoes and blend well. Peel and slice two of the boiled eggs and fold carefully into the potatoes. Leave one boiled egg for garnishee. Arrange in pretty bowl with round slices of boiled egg on top.

During the thirties, everything seemed to turn against the people of the Midwest and blowing dirt was thick enough to cut with a knife. What had been productive land turned into desolation. Farms were taken over by the banks and the “Oakies” headed for California; mattresses attached to the roof of their dilapidated atomobiles, and washtubs and pens of squawking chickens attached to the sides. But the Valley held the line. They had too much to lose. Located just an hour’s drive from the Mexican Border with the Gulf of Mexico and Padre Island to the south, they had a year around growing season and the land was rich enough to grow almost anything. But it was not easy, and folks battened down

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

the hatches and looked for each outlet they could find in order to survive. To the north of the Valley, the giant King Ranch brooded and seemed to look out over everything with hooded sleepy eyes. At that time, it was the largest ranch in the world and cast a wide net of influence. Dark stories were spread---probably by the Ranch itself---to discourage anyone from crossing their fences. Folks imagined that there was something forbidding deep in the dense brush, and it was recommended that one not be caught in there after dark. It was known that there were black panthers in there, and they would scream like the dammed, with the high pitched voice of a woman, when they were coming after you. But, as the Depression deepened, desperation deepened, and soon men were slipping in at night with miner’s lamps circling their heads, (they called them head lamps) and bringing out deer and small game. At first, the King Ranch threatened anyone caught in there, but, in time, began to see the humaneness of it. These men were only trying to feed their families. So the Ranch backed off and allowed limited hunting, with the exception of their cattle. Anyone caught with beef instead of venison when coming off the ranch was going to face a stiff penalty. It was threatening, as the Valley was more or less a captive of the King Ranch. There was no road out and the Ranch held all property to the north, all the way to Kingsville. In order to get out of the Valley, they had to go around through Falfurrias. Daddy hunted in the ranch when he had to. The hunters had to go under (or over) the fence, so they went on foot. If they bagged something large, like a deer, they had to dress it out on the spot. When this happened with Daddy, he would come home in the wee hours with a large sack over his back, with only the best parts of the deer. Then it was Mama‘s turn. There was only the old wooden ice box on farms in those days---it would only cool; not freeze---so most of the meat had to be preserved by cooking. Some was cooked and sealed in fruit jars and some was served immediately---with left-overs until it was gone.

The iceman came every two or three days, and would deliver a fifty-pound chunk of ice in our ice box, and be paid on the spot. It couldn’t be compared to today’s refrigerator, or an ordinary freezer, but it was welcome. Any help at all was eagerly grasped. But the coming of the ice man was also a small diversion. Sometimes he had a little bit of news,

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

and sometimes he just hoped YOU had a little bit of news, but it kept circulation flowing around the countryside. It’s amazing how fast word will spread by simple word of mouth, when something important occurs. When our government approved the “Bracero Program;” allowing Mexican citizens to come over into the United States during harvest time and help in the fields; then allowing them safe passage back home, all of Mexico knew about it before we did. Everybody needed a job, and this was a windfall for them. On the first day of the program, crowds waited on the border---some having been there all night. Sometimes, after presenting a coup like the Bracero Program, the ice man took a break to have a cup of coffee and talk about it, before continuing his rounds. He was always a local. Someone we knew--and, if not, we soon did. He also knew a few helpful hints about preparing wild meat. Almost everyone did. But this next recipe belonged to Mama. She had her own way of doing things.

VENISEN ROAST WITH CARROTS AND ONIONS Prepare large chunk of rump meat by soaking in vinegar overnight. Salt and pepper---rub in garlic and sage---and place in roasting pan.

In a separate large bowl; peel and wash several large potatoes, an onion and three or four carrots. Chop potatoes and carrots into chunks---divide onion into rings. Add small amount of water in bottom of roasting pan and circle roast with carrots, potatoes and onion rings. Bake until vegetables are partly cooked. Add a can of Cream of Mushroom soup, and mix carefully and slowly with veggies Put lid on roasting and bake on low heat, until meat is tender--- and slice.

There is always a way, and the people of San Perlita did what men have done for generations. They turned to the land. With flora and fauna all around, they persevered. Sometimes there were chicken thefts and small poaching, but the rurals usually took care of that themselves, with a blast of rock salt. And it’s surprising some times, the creations that can come from a fertile imagination. Some of the

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

hats worn by the ladies, seemed a testimony to that. All women of importance wore hats, from the silver screen to politics.---some were cute and saucy---and some were ridiculous---but who attempts to understand fashion. Then, of course, women began to wear slacks. The general consensus, at first, was outrage. The new Sears and Roebuck catalog was full of models, and women smiled and giggled over the new trend. Mama held her counsel on the new style, but Grandma Reoh was vocal---especially to her grand daughters. It was a disgrace and everyone knew that a prospective husband would never choose a woman who wore pants. But it didn’t go away, and, in Hollywood, the movie star, Carole Lombard, put her stamp of approval on it, and it became a model for women to emulate. Women were coming up in the world. But, emancipation did not mean she was free from her usual duties. Man still had to have his dinner and women still had to be creative about it. Pecans are native to South Texas, and it was inevitable that someone would come up with Pecan Pie. The pecans in Texas are especially large and paper-shelled. There are several varieties; separated and meted out at pecan warehouses. They are the Cherokees---especially plump and delicious---and the Chocktaw---next to the largest. They can be put in the machine and shelled on the spot, or bought as they came in. No polishing is necessary in Texas. The Texas pecan stands on it’s own merit. One prominent outlet for pecans---both buying and selling---calls itself “The Nut House.’

PECAN PIE Four whole eggs One cup sugar One and a half cups light Karo Syrup Three tablespoons butter---or margarine Three fourths cup of pecans Beat egg yolks and set aside. Then stiffly beat egg whites until it stands in peaks. Cream butter and sugar until lemony. Add to beaten egg yolks. Add Karo syrup and beat well. Fold in stiffly beaten egg whites---slowly with an under stroke. Add pecans and pour into unbaked pie shell. Bake at 350 degrees

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

until a knife comes out clean when inserted. Pecans will rise to top while baking, and form a pecan crust.

Some of those creations made their way up the ranks and were used during World War Two. One of these was Chipped Beef on Toast. It was adopted by the armed forces and nicknamed S.O.S. Everyone knew what that stood for. They made jokes about it, but we had a well-fed army, and this particular dish did itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s part.

CHIPPED BEEF ON TOAST One cup cooked roast beef, chipped into small pieces One cup beef broth Two tablespoons cooking oil One half small onion---finely cut Three tablespoons pimiento One half cup chopped bell pepper Two teaspoons cornstarch Salt and pepper to taste. (Multiply this recipe by hundreds for the U.S. Army.) Heat cooking oil in saucepan. In medium bowl, stir cornstarch, salt and pepper together. Add beef broth slowly and stir until smooth. Add to cooking oil and cook over low heat, stirring constantly until thin gravy happens. Add chipped beef, onion, bell pepper and pimiento, stirring at a 300 degree setting, until mixture is thickened. Remove from heat. It is now done. Serve over a piece of toast Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s also good on a shingle.

Mama was not afraid to experiment in her kitchen, and, maybe the fact that she was part Cherokee from Oklahoma had something to do with the fact that she seemingly knew every plant that had possibilities of any kind, and utilized what was promising. She knew where to find the wild cranberries that

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

grew under the grass, close to the ground, and how to make jelly from watermelon rind. She gathered wild asparagus in the lap of her apron as she went to milk the cow and washed the dirt and small rocks from a pot of pinto beans, (also bought from a bin in Piggly Wiggly.) She made a luscious Custard Pie that would stand alone. By adding caramel, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s now called by the more sophisticated name of Flan, but it had itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s roots indesperatrion.

CUSTARD PIE Prepare pie crusts and set aside. In medium sized mixing bowl beat three eggs One fourth cup powdered unflavored gelatin Two cups milk One tsp. vanilla Beat well and pour into crusted pie pans Sprinkle dash of cinnamon over top Bake on medium heat until firm. Remove when done and refrigerate to chill. Makes a delicious dessert.

PIE CRUSTS Two cups all purpose flour Half cup shortening With a manual crust cutter, infuse the shortening into the dry flour. When mixture is a slightly oily crumble, add several teaspoons water---and knead it. Keep working it until it becomes a ball of moist dough. Roll out in thin spread, then spread over pie pan Trim edges and crinkle edges with a fork.

Mama was imaginative in other ways too. She made house shoes from used cotton sacks, bleached

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

to a grainy white, and school lunch pails from lard buckets. Clothes, for the most part, were washed in lye soap, and flour-sack bloomers were nothing to be ashamed of, when it’s a matter of modesty. She stripped the buttons and small velvet colar from Grandma’s old coat to rejuvenate and revive, to a certain extent, a little girl’s school coat. It took a lot of determination and imagination to survive the Great Depression and some of the recipes that were born then, have become staples and bedrock foundations for many today. Some have needed no additions and some have substitute ingredients now, but they pulled us through.

Mama made Curd Cheese. Today a similar version is called Cottage Cheese. They’re cousins, but not at all alike. Mama had her own way of doing things.

CURD CHEESE Two quarts whole milk. Salt and pepper Pour milk in bowl, cover, and leave to clabber at room temperature. Do not refrigerate. After milk has clabbered solid, add salt and pepper to taste. Stir well. Select a small cheese-cloth bag or clean, bleached flour sack and pour clabber mixture into it. Pin on an outside line to drip. After it has dripped, the remaining curd will be solid and loaf shaped. Chill in cool place---in Mama’s case, a wooden ice box. Slice and serve.

Sometimes it became necessary for a short impromptu visit to the grocery store. The wives always car-pooled when they could, and Mama, with her Model T, and Susie Reed, with her old Chevrolet, would usually go together; taking turns with the transportation. San Perlita was the nearest and most easily accessible, but even this brief trip was a big deal. A little trip to San Perlita gave them a chance to wear their good dresses and shoes, and they anticipated the smells and slight bustle of the grocery store. Then there was always a pleasant visit with Dora Moore; of the Grocery Store and Post Office.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

A trip to Raymondville was saved for Saturday and socializing---if we could manage it. San Perlita had only the one grocery store, so everyone knew when a fresh face appeared on the street. Greetings were exchanged and welcome was extended, but underneath it all was that imperceptible probe for news of some kind. How were the family? What did Daddy think of the drought, that had been hanging on for six months? And last, but not least, how were the kids doing in school. With the lively connection between the school lunch room and the interaction of the teachers into the local population, an “F” or reprimand of someone’s child was a bit of news, and all San Perlita knew about it. It wasn’t that they actually wished bad luck on anybody---but if there was a problem, they wanted to know all about it. It was a small break in the monotony. Another lively---but low-key---segment of San Perlita High, was Miss LeSuier’s Home Economics class. Nothing got past these girls. Behind closed class doors, they examined and dissected everything---and everyone---in school. Over recipes and dress patterns, they gave their interpretations with dry humor and irreverent banter. And in neighboring Raymondville, opinionated housewives met on the street and in grocery stores; greeted each other, and reported on their latest needlepoint (or embroidery) accomplishment. Sometimes they loaned each other a dress---or blouse---pattern---with an explanation of how well theirs had turned out, and there was always a report on the latest football game, with special emphasis on which Valley team the opponent had been. San Perlita was acutely conscious of the limitations of their little town, and knew that the sophisticated elites of Raymondville considered them Serfs and Bumpkins, and they always tried to hold their chins a little higher. Each little triumph was polished and burnished, and each little failure kept carefully under wraps. And in logical pecking order, San Perlita, in turn, looked down on the folks who lived at Red Fish Bay---calling them Bay Runners. But when the chips were down, we were only one---and all rooted Americans. Selective placement can go just so far before it begins to step on it’s own cultural toes. Americans think there is nothing they can’t do, if they set their mind to it. And they are so right.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER TWO Most people have a survival instinct that drives them to search for new ways of utilizing the resources around them, and, if there ever was a time for that instinct to be tested, the Great Depression was it. Mama knew a lot of edibles for the table that grew wild and that could be used to spice up a mundane meal. Take those little bright red peppers that grow so plentifully in the arid Southwest. Nestled in their bushes of vivid green leaves, they are so pretty. But watch it! Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re also potent, and are to be used with caution. Several of those cute little red pods, crushed and separated, can flavor a whole pot of beans. As a transplanted child of rural Oklahoma, Mama had known hardship and braved struggle. She knew how the bottom could drop out of a vegetable market and had seen rising rivers and strong winds that swept like a scythe over ripe grain. She knew about torrential rains that left crops rotting in the fields and droughts that left big dry cracks in the pasture where water had been. Those were hard years for us, but together we made it. We made it because we all pulled together.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Mama finally joined ranks with the people of San Perlita; closed her eyes to their short comings, and tried to keep her opinions to herself. We might not all like each other, but we needed each other.

Mama used gravies to spark a little interest in a mundane dish. Milk gravy was used liberally over fried potatoes and breakfast biscuits. A good gravy can cover a multitude of culinary sins.

TOMATO GRAVY Heat four tablespoons oil in frying pan. Add three tablespoons all-purpose flour and stir until thoroughly mixed. Lower heat and stir until slightly browned---just slightly. Salt and pepper to taste. Add one cup stewed tomatoes---with juice. Stir constantly over low heat until thickened to consistency desired. Any other ingredients are optional. Tomato gravy has a sharp spicy flavor that enhances a meal. It’s great poured over a meat loaf or simply a biscuit. . For a good many years San Perlita school held the title of prettiest school in the Valley. It also cast a wide net during the early thirties. It’s buses collected students from brush camps and the shores of Red Fish Bay to some who lived in the store vacancies left by bankrupt businesses. The Great Depression was devastating, but, through it all, the school buses brought kids to school. In the United States the school system never wavers.

During those lean times, San Perlita’s two Protestant churches stood firm and dedicated. The First Baptist and the Church of Christ were bastions of strength and encouragement. It was these two churches

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

that provided what social life there was, and dictated puritan standards to the citizens of San Perlita. Both churches took a narrow view on most social issues, tempered with understanding of the necessity of survival, and the absence of money, and there was the usual competitativeness. Each had it’s own particular set of doctrines and litany of authoritative dogma. And every body knew that to deviate from this narrow blueprint was to reserve oneself a seat on that boat crossing the River Styx. They crossed swords occasionally, and sometimes inflamed members lined up on opposite sides to “debate,” which usually meant red-faced flares of temper. But, as with most unimportant arguments, they would eventually all come together again and keep San Perlita on the straight and narrow. Then there were the beer joints. Every town, no matter what size, has them. The Baptist and Church of Christ members of good standing always held their noses a little higher and stepped carefully around these places---as if they were walking in something nasty. The haven for these offended parishioners was their church, where righteousness lay in great layers and judgmental wrath was knee deep. Here, also, the ladies exchanged recipes and kitchen secrets, with nuggets of gossip for a little spice. Mama did her part, and contributed several of the recipes she had worked out herself.

SAUCY MEAT TRUFFLES Half pound of ground beef---shaped into meat patties and arranged in bottom of medium saucepan or skillet. One small can Campbell’s Vegetable Beef Soup. Soup will be thick. (Mama always made her own vegetable beef soup herself---in advance.) Add three ounces tomato sauce to soup. Mix thoroughly, adding small amounts of water until desired consistency. Pour mixture over patties in cooking pan. Cook over medium heat until sauce begins to bubble slightly. Turn down heat and simmer; turning patties occasionally, until done. Check insides of patties with a fork to determine readiness

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

I started to school in San Perlita the first year it opened. There was still sawdust on the playground and dried plaster in shallow pans against outside walls. We had both Anglo and Spanish students and a special class for those immigrants arriving from Mexico who needed to learn English. Each day, after the students had eaten lunch, they would all troop to Dora Mooreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Grocery Store and Post Office. Some fortunate ones had a nickel for candy. Dora was always pleasant and busy, and interested in everything around her. A heavy-set woman with an easy smile and an eye out for any emotional stress, she knew everyone for miles around and suspected their secrets. Dora had that intuitive something that probed beneath the surface and glimpsed raw soul. She and her two brothers, Will and Byron, were landmarks in San Perlita; having been there almost as long as the town. Dora had never married and had no family of her own, so she seemed to live through the lives of others. She was the daily news, the inanimate soap opera and the Oracle of Delphi, all rolled into one. Dora was also a good cook and collected recipes. She always had feelers out for a tasty bit, be it food or gossip---and she knew when she was looking at a winner. Cotton-tail rabbits were plentiful in the Valley and can make a very fulfilling dish. Dora won a blue ribbon at a San Perlita lunch room exhibit with this one.

CHEESE AND TOMATO RABBIT Broil and prepare in advance, five pieces rabbit meat. In top of double boiler, mix--Two tablespoons butter One cup grated sharp cheese. Three tablespoons flour Three fourths cup of milk One teaspoon of sugar One teaspoon of salt One half cup pureed tomatoes Let butter melt in the double boiler over boiling water. Blend in flour and stir constantly, while gradually adding milk, then continue to stir until sauce thickens. Stir in grated cheese, sugar and salt.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Cover and allow cheese to melt, stirring occasionally. Add pureed tomatoes gradually, stirring to mix well. Serve while hot over rabbit meat with hot biscuits.

I was the oldest child in the family, and was five years old when my brother, Pete, was born. He was born at home, as were so many babies of that time. He was a big baby and Mama was a small woman. Doctor Conly, with the help of my grandma Reoh, delivered him, but Mama was weak for a long time. I had to stay inside a lot as she was not able to chase after me, and it was hard for me. I was an adventuresome child and loved going to the frog pond to catch tadpoles. I usually had a pocket full of the poly wogs; thus my nickname “Tad.” I wasn’t fast enough to catch a frog. During the summer months, our cousins came out from Raymondville to spend their summer vacations on the farm. They were kids near our own age and we opened our lives to the hot Texas sun, and knew no boundaries. Brown as berries and hair like light straw, we prowled the fields and pastures that seemed to stretch endlessly. But with more children came the challenge of preparing wholesome meals for more kids. However, Mama was up to it. She simply doubled her recipes and looked around for challenging ingredients. She knew that blackberry---or better known as dewberry---thickets sprang up wherever they could find root. Farmers hate these thickets and they are classified as thorn brush, and destroyed to make way for cotton fields. But what stands as a nuisance to one, are bounty to someone else, and in the South Texas climate, they produce bumper crops of large juicy berries. Mama knew where every remaining blackberry thicket was, and each summer morning, we kids were given a lard bucket and asked to fill it with blackberries before going about our adventuresome day. After that, we were free, and Mama made blackberry cobbler.

BLACKBERRY COBBLER Wash two quart lard buckets of blackberries thoroughly, and put on to boil. (If this sounds like a lot, remember Mama was feeding more kids now.)

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

In separate bowl, measure one cup sugar and three tablespoon of cornstarch. Mix well. Roll out large pie crusts divide in half. Set aside one half and cut the other half into wide strips. When berries have reached a boil, turn heat down to low and simmer. Slowly blend in the sugar and cornstarch mixture; stirring constantly until thickened. Spread the remaining half of crust over bottom of deep dish cooking pan. Pour simmering mixture over it, and place wide strips hap hazardly over top. Sprinkle sugar over top and bake until top crusts are a golden brown.

Mama would use this same recipe with wild plums. Sometimes it took a little more sugar as the plums are a bit tart. But barefoot kids around the table didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mind.

To save money, she bought cheddar cheese in large blocks. Block cheese is much more economical than sliced or shredded, and can be more easily utilized in recipes. Besides, if shredded cheese was needed, Mama had a shredder. There are so many recipes using cheese that it was always used, even if simply a chunk of cheese and crackers. And with more to feed, Mama sometimes surprised herself with some of the results of her imagination.

CHICKEN AND CHEESE CASSEROLE One cup of boiled and cubed chicken breasts---prepared in advance. Reserve broth One and one half cup long spaghetti---some prefer it broken into pieces before cooking. Three fourths cup shredded cheddar cheese---set aside generous amount for topping. Remaining chicken broth One can of Campbellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cream of Chicken soup. Cook spaghetti in chicken broth until tender. Add more water as needed. Remove from heat and add cubed chicken to spaghetti mix. Stir in shredded cheese. Mix well until cheese has melted and mixture is of consistency desired. Add Cream of Chicken Soup and stir until thoroughly mixed. Pour into casserole baking dish and sprinkle remaining shredded cheese over top. Bake at 350 degrees until cheese has melted into the casserole, and you like the way it looks.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

I was in first grade when that first lunch room was installed in San Perlita School. There were no units available at that time, so it was set up in an empty classroom. During those first months, the farmers in the area brought vegetables to help out on the hot lunch program. What was on the menu depended a lot on what vegetables had been donated---and they must have had the biggest turnip crop in history that first year. I hated turnips. All morning long I smelled boiled turnips drifting down the hall. At noon we were served and told we must eat everything on our plates. That meant I had to eat boiled turnips, whether I wanted to or not. I tried them every way I could think of. I mixed them with my main entrée, and even tried a spoonful with dessert. But it only made everything else taste like boiled turnips. I tried to trade-off with classmates, but it seemed everyone else had the same aversion to boiled turnips that I had. Finally, I hit upon the idea of swallowing them without chewing---and washing them down with milk. This seemed to work, but it didn’t do much for my digestive system. Years later, I found that there is a way to cook turnips that renders them downright palatable. So many times the food we think we dislike can be made into something acceptable. It’s all in the way it’s prepared.

FRENCH FRIED TURNIPS Boil turnips until tender. (Here we go with boiled turnips again.) Drain Salt and pepper to taste Roll in flour or shake in shaking bag. Drop in pan of hot oil and cook until golden brown. I couldn’t believe it! They were good! I won’t go so far as to say they are delicious (after all, they’re still turnips) but they were acceptable and maybe I could have even learned to like them. Too bad someone didn’t inform those early cooks in San Perlita. It might have saved a few digestive systems. Down in the lower part of the Valley, where the Rio Grande made a slight bend, was a settling

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

place where there were catfish. Many people from San Perlita frequented this place with a cane pole and hook. They were usually successful, and this spot was known as the Catfish Hole. Everybody shared the catfish hole. Both Mama and Daddy liked to fish and we had fish when they could find a moment to get away from daily chores. Mama would dress out the fish; salt and pepper it in the raw stage, and either fry of bake. A catfish has a large head, and when it was all dressed out, and tail and fins discarded, there wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all that much left, but Mama always made the most of what she had.

CHAPTER THREE When Mama raided her garden, our dinner sometimes depended on which vegetables were ready for picking. During those lean days, we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get much of a choice. We got whatever she had the makings for. And Mama was one of those few who like beets. When she became enthusiastic over something, she

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

went out of her way to make it as tasty and inviting as she could. Then set about urging us to “Just try it. You‘ll like it.” She always had beets in her garden, and chose the most tender, before they became coarse and dry. Looking through the pantry, she was stumped at first, until she thought about a basket of oranges a neighbor had given her. The kids had been eating them, but she still had half a basket. However, citrus fruit grows very well in theValley and it was no problem obtaining them. There were a lot of orchards that made a business of shipping the fruit to other states. Without much trouble, she came up with a delicious recipe.

BEETS A LA ORANGE Ten small tender beets One level tablespoon cornstarch One teaspoon grated orange rind. One third cup of fresh Orange juice One tablespoon of lemon juice Two tablespoons of sugar One fourth cup butter Boil beets until tender---reserving half a cup of liquid. Set cooked beets to one side. Dissolve cornstarch in reserved liquid. Add orange rind, orange juice, lemon juice and sugar. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until thickened. Add beets and butter. Finished product will be translucent and delicious.

What’s amazing is the small perks that can spruce up a meal, and Mama seemed to know them all. Like the turnips, it depends a lot on the cook’s imagination and interest. Sometimes a dash of orange or lemon juice, or maybe a teaspoon or two of vinegar. We found lemon slices over a piece of fried catfish and

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

rose radishes tucked on the rim of a plate of spinach. I have recovered some of the recipes Mama used to make, plus others that have come down the pike over the years. Many were born, some died, and some made a name for themselves. The denizens of the Depression couldn’t afford to be picky. On wash day, Mama always put a pot of pinto beans on to cook early. This pot of beans would cook very slowly all morning on lowest heat, and would be the main dish of our noon meal. She would have spent considerable time the night before, picking tiny rocks and washing dirt out of the beans. In those days, one bought beans raw and unabashedly “as is.” Exactly as they had been scooped from the fields. There would be a big bin of speckled beans in the grocery store; along with a small scale, and housewives would weigh them themselves. Before cooking, everybody washed and picked their own. Sometimes a pot of beans would have gone through four or five “washing and pickings” before ready to cook. Sufficient water would be added, and it would then be let “soak” overnight. This made them more tender. Washday was usually on Monday and Mama would bring out her big wash tub; set it upon small stilts, (usually four large bricks) and fill it with water. Then wood had to be carried to buildup under and around it, to make a fire. Once the fire was going, she cut a chunk of lye soap into small pieces to add to the tub of water, and the tub would then be left to heat---and eventally, with enough goosing and encouragement with dead wood---it would boil. Clothes were scrubbed on a rub board, boiled in the tub of boiling lye soap water, rinsed, and hung out on a clothes line to dry. It wouldn’t take long to dry as the sun usually beat down from a cloudless sky, smoke hung in the air from the boiling tub, and the clean smell of lye soap seemed to be everywhere. On washday, our noon meal was simple. Beans and fried potaoes.

POT O’PINTO BEANS Two pounds dry pinto beans---washed and picked through at least four waters. Put in large pot---or pan---and add enough water to liberally cover beans Let set overnight to soften the beans The next morning, drain off water---add fresh water---enough to cover beans (beans will have swollen and

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

become more tender as a result of the overnight soaking.) Salt and pepper to taste and add bacom or ham hock for flavoring. Bring to a boil. Adjust to low and let cook slowly, stirring often. If water runs low, add more. Cook until beans are very tender and the juice is thick. (Mama always cooked hers on very low heat for most of the morning.) When lunch (we called it dinner) arrived, everyone was flushed and tired. Mama served everyone and made a plate for herself, but Mama ate with one eye on her plate and one eye on the tub of boiling lye soap. If the fire died down, she had to add more wood---sometimes rousting one of the kids out to help gather. When the day was done, Mama had several lines of white billowing clothes. But, even then, there was danger. Sometimes a dust-devil would swirl down the length of the clothesline---almost as if it had a mind and a purpose of itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own---and ruin the whole dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work. Summertime in South Texas produced numerous dust devils in the still, bearing-down heat. I have seen grown women cry.

However, this was not the end of it. Clothes were gathered and had to be ironed. Some were starched and needed special attention. This was no simple task. All wearable and useable items had to be sprinkled with clear, cool water and rolled into a ball, in order for the dampness to penetrate through the whole garment. The dampness enabled the old flat iron to make a smooth surface and produced a finished product. This flat iron had to be heated on the cook stove. That meant that a fire had to be built up--sometimes in the middle of summer. The ironing board was set up and one of the most hated jobs on the farm would begin. Especially troublesome were those heavy khaki pants and shirts that Daddy needed for work. Later, Mama got a kerosene iron that would heat itself---without building up a fire in the cook stove. We were really moving uptown. Needless to say, the kids sometimes wore their play clothes for a day or two, with special clothes that they wore to school. So many little girls wore dresses with a wide sash pulled around in back and tied in a large expansive bow, with puffed sleeves and small collars. But styles donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t change much for little boys

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

and they looked more or less then, like they do now. Usually jeans and a T-shirt. And when the dust of the retreating school bus had settled and the youngsters had entered the house, mothers were always diligent in insisting that they change out of their school clothes and into their “every day clothes,” before going outside. Everyone was always tired after wash day and had a healthy persistent respect for clean clothes.

The Depression was deepening and we were beginning to feel the pinch more every day. I think Mama felt it less than most. It was almost as if she never doubted for an instant that we would be alright. However, the Valley Morning Star---the Valley’s leading newspaper---reported it every day and it looked bad. “As farmers, we would eat,” Mama told us with tight lips and a hard determined look in her eyes---and we still had our Model T Ford. We also had an old farm truck (that looked something like the one the Clampetts drove) and our land. Some folks had nothing. Mama optimistically believed that anything could be overcome if one would just apply a will and imagination, and this philosophy carried her through some of the darkest and most turbulent times of our history. Sometimes we would see a watery glint of frustration in her eyes, but she never seemed to waver. June was born during those turbulent times. She had the dubious distinction of being a “Depression Baby.” She was a winsome, petite little girl, but born with a determination that belied her small form. It was amazing the volume of demand that came from this tiny child. When Mama left the bed, June came too. Where Mama went, June went. It wasn’t easy having June in her arms as she went about her daily chores, but June---in her own loud way---insisted. And June was also progressive. When she was old enough to talk, she would help Pete along with his vocabulary. Pete was an easy-going child and had lagged behind with his talking skills, but June soon had him talking fluently.

It’s hard to believe that there was a time in this country that children were deprived of the bright

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

lights, the carols and the glitter of Christmas. But the Great Depression challenged all that. The teachers of San Perlita school always managed to have a tree in each room. Each class made their own tree decorations, and drew names from a shoebox in order that each student got a gift. The gifts brought to school weren’t much and some bore an unmistakable imprint of “homemade.” But, for some, these little gifts at school were the only ones received at all. Carols were sung weeks in advance and Biblical pictures were colored by the students and pinned up around the room. The grade school kids were ecstatic and the high schoolers extolled an air of quiet, subdued anticipation. The air was filled with Christmas and simple, childlike faith, by old and young alike. In retrospect, I have wondered how in the world our parents managed it, when we could hardly keep food on the table. But hope springs eternal, and Mama worked when she could.---mostly field work--and felt fortunate if she got a job clipping onions or hoeing weeds. Daddy took any job, on the side, he could, and every penny was set aside for the children’s Christmas. One year, Daddy was fortunate to get a job building a fence---just before Christmas. We had a nice one that year.

And, as the great day approached, all kids were warned that they had better be good. Santa Claus was watching and if their behavior was not exemplary, he would pass over them on Christmas night. The old saying was that “they would get a lump of coal.” Or, in the case of the tropical Valley that never had to use coal---a double-crusted mesquite chip. Not that they had ever had all that much at Christmas, but they looked forward to Christmas Eve night when they would hang up their stocking. And in the morning---if they had been good---it would be bulging. Each child got one present and it was usually a cheap one. For years I got a “straw-legged” doll; a cloth job with painted hair and eyes, and a body stuffed with sawdust. To me, it was beautiful. Pete would get a toy gun set and June would usually get some kind of rubber toy. She was still so little that she really didn’t know what it was all about. One Christmas, Montgomery Ward advertised in their catalog, that they would give a free gift to anyone who sent in their name and address. Mama always took advantage of every little tidbit, and was one of the first to send in her application. She wanted to make sure that it arrived before Christmas---whatever it was. Montgomery Ward didn’t specify just what the free present was---or for which gender---but Mama would accept it either way. Our presents, during those bearing-down years of

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

the Depression, never varied much, and this mystery present usually turned out to be something neutral that could be given to either girl or boy. For several years in a row, it was a wooden clown (no special attributes like moving or talking)---just a brightly painted clown. But we accepted it along with the other goodies. After all, it was Christmas.

And the children all knew that Santa Claus would come during the night, but they weren’t sure what he was, or what he looked like. Some had seen pictures of him and proudly relayed to the uninformed that he was a jolly rotund saint in a red velvet suit who loved them and would bring wonderful things to pass on Christmas Eve night. The informed ones knew about his sleigh of reindeer and his journey down through the chimney. But from this point it became a little vague. I don’t think there was a chimney in all tropical South Texas. And on Christmas, the churches outdid themselves. Each tried to attract as many people as they could, while still fulfilling their duty to the children. One particular year, it was the Baptists who scored a Coup de Grace by announcing they would have Santa Claus in their program on Christmas Eve night. There would be a Christmas tree and anyone who wanted to place a gift to a loved one under the tree, was welcome to do so. The name would be called out and the recipient would walk up and claim his gift---for all to see. Most children knew about Christmas trees---there were those at school, and a large one in the lobby of the bank in Raymondville. The bank was the one place where there was no privation, and their tree had all the glitter and dazzle that children could contemplate. No homemade decorations here. Everything was shiny and glowing. Special trips were made just to see the tree at the bank, and children stood rooted and wide-eyed by the spectacle. And then there were always pictures, some looking for all the world like the one at the bank---but very few had them at home. When the Baptist Church made it’s announcement about having Santa in their Christmas program, the effect among the children around town was electric! The great man was coming! And who knew what wonders would come to pass on this magic night. Home made flyers were sent out all over town and it was

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

discussed at the Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting session, and around supper tables. Everybody planned to attend; even the Church of Christ faithful planned to cross party lines and come. Some of the older youngsters were quiet and thoughtful. Even after they were old enough to figure it out, they would have still liked to have believed. With the revelation of the myth of Santa Claus, something wonderful and irreplaceable was gone---and it could never be brought back. But at their first meeting, the Baptist ladies of San Perlita knew they had a problem. The church didn’t have any more money than anyone else, and a red velvet suit was out of the question. After several emergency meetings and numerous whispered conversations, they came up with an idea. Instead of red velvet, they would use red flannel. The ladies were pretty pleased with themselves, and enlisted the school janitor to play the part of Santa; he being fat and eager for a little glory. It was decided that they would use raw cotton; combed and shaped into eyebrows and beard for Santa, and a pair of cutoff cowboy boots---dyed deep shiny black---for his boots. There were impromptu get-togethers and whispered consultations as Santa’s outfit slowly took shape behind closed doors. On Christmas Eve night the church was packed. A large salt cedar tree had been carefully trimmed and shaped into a nice tree. The men of the congregation had spent a lot of time trimming it, and it really was outstanding. Many of the ornaments were home made, but some folks had a few glittery ones in their attic, which they were more than glad to donate. The locals in town were the first to arrive, with the families in the countryside coming in a little later. The pews were filled and even a few old hermits who hadn’t been to church in years, were there. Folding chairs had to be brought in. The program progressed with the Christmas tree feature. A few folks had a gift under the tree, but tittering and squealing among the children made up for the lack. After a long sermon, everyone waited. All eyes were on that back door behind the pulpit. It was time for Santa to make an entrance.

In the small back room, Santa was told to get dressed; after which he presented himself to the waiting ladies. It was then that they faced their first hurdle. It seems their “Santa” was not fat---he just had a beer belly. But it was too late now. Excitement fairly crackled in the air as he waited while the ladies pasted on his white cotton beard and eyebrows. Then another problem arose. He was bald as an egg. He had

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

always worn a bedraggled old cap when he worked, and nobody had thought to look under the cap. But their problem seemed solved when someone came up with a stocking cap with a white ball on the tip. He was admonished repeatedly to achieve a merry look; with a twinkle in his eyes, and pay special attention to the children. Finally, he was ready. Nerves were frazzled and hands were trembling, but it was time. Every eye in the church was fixed on that door. The janitor stood poised, trying hard to get a merry twinkle in his eye, before bursting out with a Ho! Ho! Ho! into the spotlight. He tried; he really did. But instead of a twinkling merry look, he had taken on a look of fierceness. His eyes seemed to blaze, under the heavy cotton eyebrows, and the red flannel clung to his skinny legs; topped by a big belly. The church froze. A tremor of icy paralyzing shock hung over the entire congregation for several long seconds. The janitor took this to be a signal of encouragement; gave another fierce Ho! Ho! Ho! and headed for the nearest child. The church erupted. Children screamed; some burrowed under their mothers arms, some went under the seats, and some went out the back door. But the building was empting fast. There was scrambling and pandemonium at the door as everyone tried to get out. There were murmured apologies and soothing caresses as mothers held their children close and tried to calm and console them. The janitor slunk back into the back room in humiliation, but it was doubtful if the kids ever trusted Santa Claus again.

Christmas day dawned still and peaceful. Some of the shock of the night before had been erased by the thrill of what they found in their stockings. The awakening in the cold light of morning---and daylight---and a familiar Christmas that was good and time honored, was reassuring. Their parents had spent considerable time explaining to them what had happened, but some still slept with their parents on that traumatizing night. I was one of the older children during those years, but sometimes events have far reaching consequences. Everyone was stirred and disturbed, and it took some time to calm frazzled nerves. I shared a bed with sister June, and hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been all that traumatized. But I still looked forward to receiving the goodies from a stocking hung up on a wall. It was hard to go to sleep on this night, and, even when we did

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

drift off unconsciously, we were awake again long before daylight. Mama had washed a load of white clothes the day before Christmas Eve, and, with the many details attendant to the holiday, she hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t gotten around to putting them away. They were bundled in the rocking chair to be attended to in the morning. Clothes put through the scrubbing, boiling-in-lye-soap brigade are about as white as there is. But on Christmas Eve night, a youngster forgets about laundry, and when I woke around four or five in the morning, I strained to see through the gloom and check the status of the stockings hung on the wall. Sure enough, as my eyes adjusted, I could make out bulging outlines. I was ready to lunge out of bed, when something chilling caught my eye. I felt a sliver of fear slide up my spine---something like the children had felt earlier at the church. There was something white sitting in the rocking chair, between me and my stocking. The shocks were coming fast and heavy this Christmas. I had heard my share of ghost stories. What child hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t? But there is a difference in hearing and seeing. I lay back down and waited a few minutes before looking again. It was still there. I eased back down again, still feeling the icy clutches of something unknown. I tried to move softly in order not to disturb---or arouse the attention---of that thing sitting in the rocking chair---and prepared to wait for daylight. Surely it would leave in the hard, cold light of day. But it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t long before others stirred, and someone lit a lamp. I felt foolish as I scrambled out of bed. I knew I would be teased if anyone knew of my fear of what was sitting in the rocking chair, so I simply kept my mouth shut. Christmas dinner was always a festive affair. Sacrifices in the food budget had been set aside for this day. This meal. And Mama knew how to take advantage of each little perk. Our main dish was usually a plump hen with corn bread dressing. Mama had a yard full of hens, and this one had been prepared for the oven in advance, and a bowl of corn bread dressing was ready to fill the cavity and place all around. All morning we smelled chicken and dressing and mince pie coming from the kitchen while we enjoyed the bounty from our stocking. Simple ways are always the best.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

To prepare corn bread dressing, first make a large pan of cornbread. CORN BREAD Two cups yellow corn meal Two and a half level tablespoons baking powder. One tablespoon sugar (optional) Add one level teaspoon salt and mix well Blend in one and a half cups milk. Stir. In separate bowl, beat two eggs. Add to cornmeal mix and beat. Bake at 350 degrees---until golden brown.

CORN BREAD DRESSING Empty the above pan of corn bread into mixing bowl and crumble---well Boil three or four eggs---hard. Set aside Wash and chop three or four stalks of celery into very small pieces. One large onion---cubed into small pieces. One large tablespoon Poultry Seasoning. Salt and pepper Anything else that seems relevant or conducive to the corn bread flavor is acceptable. From this point on, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your baby. Slice eggs into cornbread crumble. Mix well. Combine celery onion and Poultry Seasoning and mix well into crumble. Salt and pepper to taste. Crumble together very well again. Make sure mixture is thorough. Add tiny bit of water until mixture holds together (Not too much. Test as you go) Scoop mixture into cavity of bird. Press in firmly. Spread the remaining mixture all around the chicken and bake. As it bakes, the juices of the chicken well seep into the dressing, giving it a moist and distinctive flavor when done. There were always kinfolks at the Christmas table. Every family brought a dish. The table was

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

always full and everyone chattered happily. Families always came together on Christmas, and took turns hosting the event. It seemed that children were everywhere, and a special small (usually a card table) was set for the smaller ones. Mamas were always near to serve them and clean their mouths, but they got their fill. Next year it would be Aunt Marieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s turn to host Christmas dinner.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER FOUR In the Valley we had a lot of wind but nothing like the Midwest. We had days when the weather was calm. Mama watched for these days. She seemed to be at one with the changing seasons. She noticed when new buds began to appear on thorny wild shrubs, and loved the new fresh scent of Purple Sage after a rain. She even managed to find beauty in the new leaves of the dangerous “Cat Claw” thorn bushes. She would stop to absorb the sounds and smells. The musky odor of feed shocks in the fall, and the faint tinkle of a cowbell in someone’s pasture. When the air was cool and pristine, Mama seemed to drink in the healing brightness with a reverence she felt in the still air. “Listen!” She would say, and all would fall silent. Children called to each other from some far-away place, and dogs barked, cows bawled, and sometimes the crow of a rooster could be heard from someone‘s farmyard. Sounds that carried far on the still clear air. Themes of life; imprinted in the atmosphere. Mama tasted and savored these sounds and sensations, for tomorrow the wind would probably start to blow again.

And Mama believed in the basic things. She always noted when there was a ring around the moon, we were going to have bad weather. A sun dog in the evening sky meant rain, and an early norther meant a bad winter. Perhaps being part Indian had something to do with this, as it just seemed to be a part of her nature. Most of the time during those years, nobody had two nickels to rub together, but Mama persevered somehow.

And there were amusing incidents that had their roots in the desperation of the times. One farmer suspected that someone was stealing his vegetables at night, but he could never catch anyone nor could he find any strange tracks in his field. As far as he was concerned, everyone was suspect. He had a way of looking suspiciously at everyone over the rim of his glasses; his small beady eyes alert for any sign of guilt.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

It was almost to the point where most folks crossed the street when they saw him coming. “My God! You’d think someone was stealing gold instead of a few vegetables,” a prune-faced woman in a sunbonnet snorted. But this particular farmer was a blood hound. Nobody stole vegetables out of his field. He would share with no one. He practically put his nose to the ground looking for strange tracks, but all he found were his own. It took him a long time to catch on to the fact that someone was borrowing his work shoes, that he left outside the door each evening, and raiding his vegetable patch in his own shoes. Now he knew how, but he never found out who. But this farmer was in the minority. Most were like the ones who donated vegetables to the school lunch program.

Then there were the young and adventurous boys who made a game out of stealing watermelons. They outran and outsmarted just about every attempt to stop them. Everyone suspected they were students at San Perlita High, but there was no way to pin down a name---or proof of any kind. It became a battle of the wits, and sprinting ability, between farmers and teen boys. One farmer decided to lay in wait for the thieves in his watermelon patch. He loaded his shotgun with rock salt and carefully staked out a place from which to watch. It was going to be a tedious job since nobody knew exactly which nights---and which field---the thieves would strike. The farmer sat watching every night and nothing happened. Then, when he was about ready to give up, he heard an old car pull into his field, and could see human outlines in the darkness as they went about looking for the best melons. The farmer shot a load of rock salt toward the car. He could hear the grainy salt splatter on the car. And the thieves shot back. There might have been a shoot-out in the watermelon patch that rivaled that at the O.K. Corral if the thieves hadn’t hastily left, taking several prize watermelons with them. The incident was never mentioned in town, nor did anyone know anything about it---outside the watermelon patch. Stealing watermelons was a hit and run business----as much game as gain. Not enough melons was ever taken to break anybody, but it was the frustration of the situation. Someone was getting a laugh

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

out of it too, but who?

However, folks found out during those lean times that they could do a lot of things for themselves. Little girls made rag dolls and little boys made sling shots out of strips of old inner-tubes. Small cast-off pieces of calf rope made a jump rope for the girls, and an old tire made a swing. Sometimes Mama felt like she had road block. It seemed she just couldn’t imagine anything else on her very limited budget. Sometimes she felt as if there were no budget at all---she was just plain tired. But her family had to eat and she couldn’t afford to slow down either. So she welcomed Suzie Reed, one Saturday, bearing a gift. A rhubarb pie. This was something Mama hadn’t thought of. She had rhubarb in her garden. She couldn’t wait to serve Susie’s pie for supper, She served it as a dessert, and waited quietly as she studied the faces of her family as they tried it. Nobody said anything, but she noticed with disappointment that the rhubarb pie was pushed aside. She knew by now that persuasion didn’t work. If her family didn’t like rhubarb pie, they didn’t like it. After several variations, she gave up on rhubarb pie, but thanked Susie for her thoughtfulness, just the same. Susie smiled a “you’re welcome,” with a look of understanding, and Mama suspected that she had been through the same scenario at her own supper table. There are some things that just take some getting used to. Sometimes when we think we’ve reached our limit, we have an illumination of sorts….suddenly there’s a light. It’s been called an epiphany. Mama took stock of what she had. She had tomatoes, watermelons and the usual garden fare. She looked at a slice of watermelon for a long moment before deciding that it held possibilities. Not the red meat, but the rind. And she decided to try for watermelon rind preserves. As one can imagine, this didn’t sound exactly palatable at first mention, and she kept the idea to herself until she had actually tried it. She was at wit’s end to come up with something unique and different, and she was not afraid to leap.

WATERMELON RIND PRESERVES

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Scrape all red meat out of rind. Then peel off all green coating. Only the thin layer of white between the green and the red will be left. Sometimes it will be tinted pink. The layer of white rind is thin, so preserve carefully. Cut into squares (depending on how much you wish to make.) Immerse small squares in ice water and let them set for about an hour---adding ice at intervals---or until pieces are crisp. In separate pan put six and a half cups of sugar Three cups orange juice One fourth cup fresh lemon juice One half teaspoon butter Two small pieces of ginger root. Bring sugar and water to a boil on 450 degrees heat. Turn heat d0wn to 350 and boil for five minutes. Add rind, lemon juice, butter and shredded ginger root to the syrup. Reduce heat and simmer for one hour on very low heat---stirring at intervals to prevent sticking. It should be done now, but, if not, simmer a little more---until syrup is thickened and rind is clear. As unlikely as it seemed, this was quite tasty. It went great with plain breakfast biscuits, and made itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s debut in the San Perlita lunch room. Nowadays it is found at grocery stores and on dinner tables. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s that good. It beat the heck out of rhubarb pie. We had hardly adjusted to Watermelon Rind Preserves, when Mama sprung another one on us. Tomato Preserves. This one was almost too much to think about, but we knew she was going to make it for us anyway, so we simply adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Tomatoes are probably one of the most unlikely ingredients around when making preserves. But we were pleasantly surprised at the outcome. TOMATO PRESERVES One dozen average-sized, red ripe tomatoes One pint tomato juice---set aside. One fourth cup lemon juice Six cups sugar Slices of lemon rind---according to taste

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Small amount of Ginger Root Mama dropped her tomatoes into boiling water, then transferred them to cold water. This allowed the skin to slide off. She, then, reamed out the core, which she threw away. Chop tomatoes into small pieces. Boil sugar and tomato juice, together with lemon rind, to make a syrup. Add lemon juice and stir. Add tomatoes, ginger root and simmer on low heat (with lid on) until the tomatoes are mellow and the syrup is somewhat thick. Actually, lemon rind is optional, but Mama always added it to her preserves. This gives it a more unique flavor, and gives the kids something to fish for in the bottom of the jar.

Mama always had chickens. The eggs were a necessity and she could set a hen and delight in a dozen or more new chicks. During an especially sparse season, a neighbor gave Mama half a dozen fresh guinea eggs. As badly as we needed the eggs for the table, Mama always had feelers out for ways to make it stretch. She decided to put the eggs under a young leghorn hen; setting on a nest in a berry thicket. If the eggs were fertile, they would hatch. If not, we had lost our eggs. But Mama was of a gambling nature, and took a chance. And it was a good bet. Within a hatching term, we had six little guinea chicks. Anyone who knows about guineas, however, knows how wild they are. Broods of guineas actually live wild in foreign jungles. They roost high and are loud. Other animals learn to listen for the alarm of the guineas to know when predators are about. They are very excitable and clack for hours when they sound an alarm. But Mama decided to make pets of them in order to deter this wild nature. She reasoned that if they were raised with a close proximity to humans and came to know that it was a human hand that fed them, they would be like chickens. Wrong! As they grew older, they kept their distance. Mama put food out and the chickens ate, but the guineas waited until all sign of human life had disappeared into the house before coming to feed. And they were watchers. They stayed together and it was impossible to sneak up on one of them. Sometimes they left

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

and would be gone several days. Nobody ever knew where they went, but Mama was well aware of the fact that if someone saw them, they would be shot and brought home to put in the pot. Lots of pots were empty and a plump guinea would be a windfall. But she suspected that they went foraging into King Ranch territory. The ranch fence wasn’t far from our house, and it would be ideal for a herd of wild guineas. But they always came home to lay their eggs and Mama was beginning to reap the fruits of having raised them. When they were home, true to their nature, they roosted high in a mesquite tree in the back yard. No amount of coaxing, or attempt to herd them, could get them into a chicken house. That was a trap for the lowly chicken. If we closed in on them and gave them no way out except into the coop, they simply rose and glided onto a high limb. In the morning, they would greet us from the yard---talking and pecking in a neighborly manner, while waiting for us to distance ourselves from the feeding ground. But they were always on the alert. If a strange animal or something new came into the yard, they would make a ruckus that could raise the dead. Getting a new rooster, or even a new plow blade, caused all kinds of excitement. The guineas would stand at a distance and clack for hours. When they finally did tire and meander away---and came back later and found the intruder still there---all hell would break loose all over again. Sometimes it took almost a week or more for the guineas to accept something new. The guineas were a spunky lot. They never gave up on our two dogs---Tige and Pup. Pup was the oldest. He’d never had a name. When he had come to our house, years before---hungry and desperate---we had taken him in and always referred to him as “the pup.” The name stuck. Pup was now a slow, benevolent dog, old and full of days---and he simply ignored the guineas. But Tige was another matter. A young dog, fueled with vinegar and ready to take on the world; he didn’t take kindly to being usurped by a herd of wild fowls, who seemed determined to either do away with him or drive him out. Sometimes the fight got to the point where Mama feared for her guinea’s safety and intervened, banishing Tige to the porch. But she needn’t have worried. The guineas didn’t appreciate her help anyway. They got their licks in and flew to a high branch. Guineas don’t actually fly the way birds do. They glide. After take-off, they sail in the air for long distances; catching the air currents beneath their wings, like eagles or condors do.

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They’re not ashamed to run, if the odds are against them, and have eyes like a far-sighted hawk, for predators on the ground.

As the Depression deepened, strangers would come to the door and ask for a hand-out. Mama always did what she could, but it wasn’t much. The look of despair on the faces of the people at the door was heartbreaking. Sometimes a biscuit or a potato helped. Mama usually had these. In a catastrophe, neighbors and friends usually stick together. Humans tend to herd. They form a chain of defense and hold the line, giving a helping hand wherever they can. Old animosities and prejudices are set aside and we are all simply survivors.

In San Perlita, the nearest thing we had to a newspaper was Dora Moore at the grocery store and Post Office. Somehow, Dora always knew what was going on around the country. She was also up on local news. She knew who was expecting, whose kids were failing in school, who had had a fight and who was suspected of cheating on his wife. It was Dora who first broke the news when the Baptist preacher abandoned his wife and ran off with one of his parishioners. (This was horrifying news--- and dull, drab San Perlita fairly crackled with the titillating details.) After it became public, a number of Baptist women were sure they had seen the tell- tale signs of it coming. The preacher had been just too attentive to certain young members of his congregation, and had finally settled on the woman of his choice. The Baptist church tried to put forth a dignified facade, as they held their heads high and stood prepared to defend their church. But the preacher had left his bona fide wife in San Perlita to fend for herself, and they felt obligated to take her under their wing. Privately, they voiced their indignation and small groups whispered about all those fire and brimstone sermons, with more than a little fire in their own eyes. The members of the Church of Christ, across town, were sympathetic, but the Baptists were sure there was an undertow of self righteousness in their condolences. A hidden smirk of “I told you so.” But, as was usually the rule, the two churches came together and took the grass widow in, extending hospitality and sharing whatever they had. She stayed with several good church-going families in

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San Perlita and was the center of sympathetic Bible Study groups and Ladies Missionary meetings on the first week of the month. This later group had been known to work themselves up into an indignant anger, equivalent to a “tar and feathers,” party, on occasion. This scandal dominated the scene for a long time, and everyone helped the abandoned one all they could. Dora, herself, helped form a committee to try and find work for the lady, but the only thing available was washing and ironing clothes. And not much of that. She stayed with Dora for several weeks and cried a lot. Dora always sympathized. She was basically a good hearted person; just interested in everyone and their personal secrets. And during those evenings of empathy and tears, Dora found out all the personal details---and the humiliation and pain that the wife had endured. And they would mingle their tears; as Dora was a deeply sensitive person, and sincerely felt the pain of her friend. She just loved to talk about it--All over San Perlita The wife finally managed to join her family in Lubbock and the scandal faded into the background. But it was a long time before the Baptists lived that one down.

During those innocent days, most men smoked. In some perverse way of thinking, it was considered to be the mark of a real man. Most men rolled their own, and packs of ready-made cigarettes were scarce. Every man worth his salt had a sack of Bull Durham in his shirt pocket, with a round tag dangling out for everyone to see. Those who wanted to appear tough, talked with a cigarette clinging to his bottom lip; eyes squinted against the dribbling smoke, and an occasional salty phrase added for shock value. Some down-and-outers were reduced to smoking hemp---or marijuana. It wasn’t considered smart of sophisticated, nor was it illegal, then. It was just a low-classed smoke on the same par as smoking grapevine out behind the barn. It was bottom of the barrel. Some preferred their tobacco directly. Chewing tobacco was considered a real he-man thing and some could nail a cockroach to a tree with a well-aimed squirt. Wives and girlfriends didn’t think much of chewing tobacco as it looked so nasty---and one girl complained that: “It makes their mouth look like a chicken’s rear end during coke-berry season.”

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

But that didn’t stop the chewing tobacco devotees, and they continued to leave their mark on hard ground, sidewalks and fence posts. On the other hand, few women in San Perlita smoked. It was a combination of the old double standard and the influence of both the Baptists and the Church of Christ. Those who did, always felt a little ostracized and out of place in polite company, as disapproval would hang over the scene like a dark cloud. Dora didn’t mind tobacco in her establishment---as long as it was a man and wasn’t the liquid kind. She refused to let a jaw-full of chewing tobacco in her door. However, something about lighting up a cigarette relaxed the rough, sand-papered farmers, and they became more confidential toward their fellow man. On a chilly morning with several neighbors around and a faint cloud of bluish smoke over-all, men would open up and talk. Sometimes they would be so confident and expansive they they would touch on private matters, not known outside the home. Dora never entered into these conversations. She simply listened quietly to the rough banter, while her sharp nimble mind separated truth from brag, and fact from jealousy, without much trouble. She was always on the alert for a scrap of news that had a ring of truth to it---that someone would let slip---and would subtly zero in. Dora had a way of taking what she knew of this tid-bit, and with friendly prodding, dig out most of the story. She would usually come out armed with enough of the details to figure it out herself---and she was seldom wrong. Once she had the nucleus, she could usually round it out---adding a bit of spice where she saw fit---until she had a story to tell. It wasn’t that she was mean or ill-willed; it was just that there was no news in San Perlita and life could be dull and routine.

But when the depression was at it’s lowest, our family found themselves without money for vegetable seed for the garden. This was hitting where it hurt. It would be time to plant in the spring, and there wouldn’t be anything to plant, so Mama took the cull vegetables from the crop that had been brought in, and discarded, and spread them over a large piece of screen. The kind you put over windows in summer time. In the hot sun, these vegetables rotted and dripped through, leaving the rind and the seeds on the screen. This, too, was left to dry in the hot sun. Then Mama scrubbed the surface to break up the dry rind, scooping it up to discard, and leaving mostly seed behind. This would be the nucleus for her spring garden.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER SIX Some families were allowed to move into the old Santa Margarita school house---located half way to Raymondville---and what had once been classrooms, became apartments. There was a rest room at each end of the hallway---one for girls and one for boys---and there was always activity before---and inside--each. Especially early in the morning. The rest rooms had been designed to accompany any number of students at one time, but there was still that initial rush. Mothers urged entrance frantically as they held the hands of small children, standing with their legs crossed, and some of the younger set were adamant about being late for an appointment. In spite of the hub-ub, there were those that stood yawning and some standing quietly in line; just not quite awake yet. At few were naturally ornery and impatient with everyone around them, and these were generally ignored. I suppose time eventually takes care of everything---one way or another. Several old storefronts that had been boarded up in San Perlita, now had local occupants, but the one small street was always desolate and wind-swept. Having a few more residents didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to bring much life to the tiny town. The Depression was everywhere, but we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get much news. Few could afford the Valley Morning Star, so what news we got in our little world usually came from Dora Mooreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Grocery and Post Office.

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Somehow, Dora always seemed to know what was going on around the country. She was also up on the local news. She knew who was expecting, whose kids were failing in school, who had had a fight and who was suspected of cheating on his wife. Everyone tried to be discreet in their personal life, but sometimes the story just seemed to seep through the cracks. And sometimes a scrap of gossip landed in the Home Ec room and was nibbled around the edges before Dora got wind of it. However, since nothing ever left the Inner Sanctum of the Home Ec room, it was still news when Dora received it, and she got the glory of spreading it. The idea of their secrets staying in the room, seemed to be ingrained in the psyche of the Home Ec girls, and nothing got past those closed doors. On one notable occasion, the girls talked their teacher, Miss LeSuir, into allowing a little experiment. They had a half dozen bananas on hand, and they didn’t see why that wouldn’t make a nice dessert. In those tight days, nothing was ever wasted or thrown away. The Depression was still very visible and the bananas were special. But the girls had ideas that they would produce something special. Miss LeSuir finally agreed, but with a slight reluctance. She was on a budget and had to answer to every little extravagance. If the School Board knew---And maybe the Home Ec. Girls got carried away on occasion. They creamed their bananas and added a little beaten-egg-whites and vanilla. They tasted it---but something wasn’t right. They decided to add a package of lime Jello to give it a little tartness, and a little more body. By the time every one had tasted it, and made a small face, they knew they had a problem. There seemed to be green slime all over the room. Not to mention wasting half a dozen bananas. A quick glance told the girls that they had fifteen minutes before class was over. Without a word, they started cleaning; working steadily without pause. It wasn’t easy, as a string of green slime could stretch and seemed to seep away from the soapy sponge and reappear somewhere else. But the girls did it! And, like everything else behind closed Home Ec doors, nobody knew! And if there was a slight hole in the budget, or a question about the bananas and Jello, the girls knew nothing.

The mild weather in South Texas was not conducive to a Fall Season. Instead, we had a sort of

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Indian Summer. There was a slight haziness in the air, warm days and cooling nights, and the faint, underlying mourn of the Dove, seemingly just out of reach of auditory awareness. I had been back in school about a month when Daddy brought the Hynes family home. They had been dispossessed and had no place to go. Daddy hardly knew Bert Hynes and Mama knew it must have taken desperation from the bottom of despair for him to ask to stay with us. Still, times were drastic, and Mama’s budget was almost non-existent. But when she saw the sick child sitting on Mrs. Hynes’s lap, Mama brought out Grandma Reoh’s home made scrap quilts and put another leaf in the dining room table. The child was a little girl about my own age, and I watched as Mama prepared a bed for her alongside mine. Her name was Martha, and she was so frail and thin she seemed almost lifeless. She didn’t go to school---and on some level of childish reasoning---I understood that, but she wouldn’t eat and seemed to have no interest in anything. I watched as her parents, with Mama participating, tried to spoon feed her and entice her to take “just a bite” of food. But Martha would just spit it out. Nothing seemed to help. Mama’s best friend, Suzy Reed, came over and the three women hovered over Martha and tried everything they could think of to get her to swallow a bite of food. But to no avail. Finally, it became evident that if something wasn’t done, she wasn’t going to make it. So Daddy and Mr. Hynes went into Raymondville to see Doctor Conly. After a close consultation, Doctor Conly followed Daddy out to the house. He examined Martha---but had known since first glance---what the problem was. Severe malnutrition. After learning of the efforts of everyone to get a bite of food down her, the doctor locked his gaze with Daddy’s and gave him a list of nutritious, high calorie, high protein foods that was far in excess of our means. These foods were very palatable and might entice Martha to start eating. As he watched Doctor Conly close the door behind himself, Daddy wondered what we were going to do. However, Americans are merciful and quick to help. Somehow, we all came up with what Martha needed to live. One of the first items on the list was a chocolate drink called Ovaltine, that was mixed in a glass of milk. Dr. Conly suggested that they start with this one, as it was delicious and needed no chewing. I watched in wonder as they tried to get a sip of the chocolate drink down Martha. To be truthful, I was just

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a little envious and resentful. We didn’t get much chocolate on the farm in those days, and I wanted some so badly I could just taste it. Where Martha refused even a tiny swallow, I could have drank the whole glass. But it was eventually the Ovaltine that saved the day for Martha. Finally, she began to swallow a little of it, and from that slight beginning, began to take a bite or two of the highly nutritious foods. I was aware when Martha began to take an interest in those around her, and as one of her peers, she pin-pointed me. I knew when she began to get a little stronger and was beginning to be a little arrogant. We were the same age and read each other like a book. We never knew how she came to be in the dangerous state she had been in---whether from neglect or poverty---but everyone was thankful that she was beginning to recover. And now that Martha seemed to be improving, Mama saw to it that I got some of the Ovaltine. I was beginning to share in some of the bounty, but still a little hesitant in trying to make friends with Martha. I suspected that it wouldn’t have worked out. The Hynes family stayed with us until they could get on their feet, and it was a relief to get back into the old routine again. But the Ovaltine didn’t last. Mama and Daddy couldn’t afford it on a daily basis.

Mama loved nature and had respect for every living creature, even the loathsome ones that crawl under our feet or hide in dark crevasses. This isn’t to say she LIKED them. Just that she respected their right to live. She was an observant person, and recognized the call of most of the wild birds of the Valley. It gave her a sense of peace, as she went about her chores, to hear the sounds of nature---the click of the Katydids under the grass or the far-off wail of the coyote; whose mournful message carried on the still evening air. She always found the tiny blossoms that go unnoticed around fence posts or crumbling walls, and seemed to sniff the coming cool season like a wild deer. Mama made Cherokee Corn Pudding for cool evenings. Days were becoming shorter and the

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

harvests were in. Hay had been stored and stacked, and she was doing a lot of canning. However, the cooler weather was such a relief, we would sometimes have our corn pudding on the back porch.

CHEROKEE CORN PUDDING One egg One fourth cup sugar One fourth cup of light cream One tablespoon of butter One fourth teaspoon baking powder One fourth teaspoon of salt. Dash of Cream of Tartar Two cups fresh, whole kernel corn. Beat egg and sugar slightly in a large bowl. Set aside. Heat milk, cream and butter in a small sauce pan over low hjeat, just until butter is melted. Cool slightly. Pour milk mixture slowly over egg, beating constantly. Add baking powder, salt, sugar, Cream of Tarter and corn. Keep beating. Divide mixture evenly among four well-buttered custard cups. In a deep baking pan, pour boiling water to a one inch depth. Set custard cups in the water and let bake on medium heatr. Bake for thirty minutes, or until a knife inserted in corn cup comes out clean. This is a good dessert, or side dish, for a venison roast, and looks good with a bouquet of wild flowers in the center of the table. So many little things can brighten life a little.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER FIVE Then there was the day Mama met Blackie. She was gathering eggs in the barn when she saw a movement from the corner of her eye and turned to look into the unblinking, jet-black eyes of a half grown black snake. For a long moment, the two were still---testing the atmosphere. Mama was the first to move. She simply turned and left the barn. At the supper table she explained about the snake. “He catches mice and the barn is full of them,” she explained as she ladled a rice dish into a large bowl. A black snake is not poisonous and is not a threat to anyone. He can stay as long as he behaves himself.” And that settled it. Blackie took up residence in the barn. He stayed out of Mama’s way, for the most part. She hardly saw him. She always kept a large aluminum bowl of water outside near the pump, for animals that might need it, and, sometimes, late at night, she would look out her bedroom window and see Blackie slither up and drink. A snake laps water like a dog or a cat. Mama was always careful not to make a

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sudden move and scare him. She seemed to understand him, and we kids would just as soon never see him at all, so he was left alone.

Blackie was thriving in the barn. Pickings were good and he was growing into a good-sized snake. He was also becoming a bit arrogant. He must have been feeling pretty cocky the day he struck at Mama. He didn’t make contact and she was not touched, but it was a threat and she snatched up an old frazzled broom standing in a corner, and flogged the daylights out of him. Blackie tried frantically to get away, his long body darting desperately toward every possible avenue of escape, but she had him trapped in a corner, and he had to take it. Finally, with a wild dart, he got past her and disappeared through a hole in the floor. This hole in the floor, along one wall, was Blackie’s escape hatch and he used it frequently. Mama was angry but she still allowed him to stay. He kept the mouse population at bay and asked no quarter from anyone. Live and let live. Blackie lived in the barn for several years. Mama saw him occasionally, after their run-in, but he showed no inclination to come out in the open. Sometimes she would see him watching her quietly from the rafters, or the tip of his tail disappearing through his special hole in the floor, but he was extremely reluctant to show himself. It was sort of a truce, in one sense of the word. But after a peaceful co-existence over quite a few years, Blackie made a fatal mistake. He robbed a hen’s nest. Mama came upon him with an egg half down. He was caught with the evidence and there was no way it could be a mistake. And, for Mama, there was no way she could tolerate egg sucking---in any way or form. The depression was still sitting on every aspect of the country and she needed the eggs. “Do you know how many eggs that big old snake can eat?” she demanded indignantly at the supper table. No one did, so Mama continued without interruption. “All my hens can lay, that’s how many. And now that he’s had a taste of egg, he won’t ever stop.” Blackie had to go.

It wasn’t easy to catch him and several futile attempts were made before Mama decided to use his forbidden loot as bait. She baited a box trap with an egg and, sure enough, Blackie was in the trap the next

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

morning. We took Blackie almost to Red Fish Bay. The whole family went along and got out, when Daddy stopped at the King Ranch fence. Mama carried the box from the car to the fence; lifted the latch of the trap and Blackie slithered out. He seemed confused at first, his long neck darting in several directions. With a long stick, Mama prodded him toward the interior of the ranch and we all stepped aside as he slithered under the fence and into a clump of prickly pear. Then, getting his bearings, he pointed his nose toward the interior of the vast wilderness. It was a poignant parting, as Blackie seemed to know what was happening. Finally, as he slithered into the underbrush, he paused and curled himself into a nest. With his long neck stretched back toward the family, he stared with black, shiny, unblinking eyes for a few seconds before lining out into the wilderness of the ranch. Maybe he told us goodbye. We never saw Blackie again.

Mama was always alert for something that would work, but occasionally her ingenuiy backfired . . One morning a helpful neighbor introduced her to mushrooms. The kind that spring up right after a rain. She explained to Mama that it had been a staple food of the Indians in the past. They were plentiful and this helpful neighbor knews just how to prepare them. When these “mushrooms” were put on the table that evening, the family was a little leery of the strange dish. They really didn’t look very good. The only enthusiastic diner at the table was Mama. She ate a lot. It was about midnight when she woke Daddy to tell him she was in great pain. Their first impulse was to call the helpful neighbor, since she lived the closest. Obligingly, she came over, but when Mama didn’t get any better, this helpful neighbor began to take on a fearful look and told Daddy he would have to go get Doctor Conly, on his ranch outside of Raymondville. And hurry! It was twelve miles to Raymondville, and then another five miles out to Doctor Conly’s ranch. Daddy knew, as he cranked the Model T Ford into life, that the doctor wasn’t going to take kindly to being hauled out of bed in the middle of the night and hurried out into the country. Doctor Conly was a crusty, nononsense man with plenty of common sense to go with his medical expertise, and Daddy’s job was not an inviable one.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

When Doctor Conly was finally roused, and came to the door, he invited Daddy in. But he didn’t show much interest in someone’s stomach ache. He seemed visibly irritated; as Daddy knew he would be, until Daddy mentioned that she had eaten a fair amount of mushrooms for supper. With that, he came awake and followed Daddy out to the house. Doctor Conly worked the rest of the night to save Mama. Daddy stood over the bed, we kids watched wide-eyed from our beds and the helpful neighbor sat in a cane-bottomed chair and cried. When morning came and Mama seemed to be getting better, we all heard from Doctor Conly. “Toad stools! Anyone living in the Southwest ought to know better than to eat toad stools! They look like mushrooms, but they’re not. They’re poisonous.” Much of his wrath was directed at the helpful neighbor, who sat quietly sobbing. She thought she had caused her friend’s death. After it was established that Mama would be alright, she could calm down a little, but nobody talked back to Doctor Conly. He was right and everyone knew it. Especially the helpful neighbor. Mushrooms and toadstools look just alike. It is so easy to confuse the two. There are ways to prepare mushrooms and they are delicious---but one has to know what one is doing---and especially to know the difference. Mama and Daddy decided that the best way was just to forget mushrooms altogether. Mama wasn’t sure that she could ever be persuaded to try cooking them again anyway, even if she knew for sure what they were. Doctor Conly was our doctor for a good many years---until his retirement, and, even then, when a sickness persisted, Daddy would go out to his ranch and seek him out. Sometimes there was an argument. Doctor Conly was retired and didn’t even have an office anymore. Furthermore, he did not hesitate to stand his ground, and refused to be pressed back into service. There were other doctors in Raymondville, and they could tend a patient as well as he. But, as far as Daddy was concerned, there wasn’t. Doctor Conly saved Mama’s life, and a lifelong suspicion of mushrooms was established. In fact, written in stone.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

One spring in 1933, Mama and Daddy had a nice onion crop, and the market was good. “We should get at least five dollars a sack,” they grinned at each other. And it did look good. The onions were clipped and sacked and left to be picked up by the truck the next morning---to be taken to the train station and be shipped to market. Mama and Daddy were in a good mood that night. But sometime during the night Mama roused to hear thunder in the distance. She got up and looked worriedly out the window. Sure enough, there were lightening flashes low on the horizon. With a big lump in her throat, she woke Daddy, and, together, they lit a kerosene lamp and sat watching the weather. As the storm moved in closer, Mama shed a few tears. This was a gesture of defeat for her. She was always the strong one---the optimistic one. But now, as the lightening flashed and a cloudburst hammered down, she cried. It rained all night. The next morning, six inches of water stood in the yard, and the onion field looked like an ocean. The truck couldn’t even get out of the driveway. The driver waded over to lean on the fender; his eyes sorrowfully looking out over the disaster. “Truck was all gassed up and ready to go,” he said under his breath. Suddenly he seemed weary and brushed his hand over his forehead. The onion crop rotted in the field. Mama tried to rise above the disappointment and disillusionment. She never talked about it and carried herself with a stoic demeaner. Stiff-upper-lip and all that sort of thing. But when she was alone, she allowed herself to cry. “Why?” She cried out to the empty house. “Why now? Why this particular night?” A few more hours and the truck would have gathered the sacks of onion. Why? Why? Why? But the empty house had no answer, and there was nothing left to do except pick herself up and look ahead. There would undoubtedly be other disappointments in the years ahead, but she doubted if any of them would be as traumatic as this one.

It was 1934 when San Perlita was honored by the visit of W. Lee (Pappy) O’Daniel and his “Light Crust Doughboys. Pappy O’Daniel, himself, was destined to go on to bigger things. He later became Governor of Texas. But, during those sparse years, he was just a flamboyant beginner. With his homespun logo and “Please Pass the Biscuits Pappy” theme, he reached out to the grass-roots struggling families.

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The kind that can be counted on to vote. Dora Moore had charge of the festivities, and bustled around getting everything in readiness. There was no charge and everyone was welcome. It was to take place on a Friday night, and by six o’clock folks began to gather. Farmers in khakis and housewives in print dresses. Everyone was in a good mood and a cheer went up from the youngsters as the O’Daniel caravan pulled into view. Several impressive convertibles were the first to arrive and were immediately surrounded by youthful admirers. Out stepped colorful cowboys in flashy clothes, right out of their fondest dreams. The Pappy O’Daniel crew set themselves up in a glassed-in mobile display unit on the street of San Perlita. Everyone for miles around was there. We hadn’t had that much excitement in a long time. The crew was dressed in western clothes with “Buck Jones” hats and shiny guitars and other musical instruments. To kids who didn’t even have a radio at home, these things were magic in themselves. There was “Pappy O’Daniel“, who made a fine speech, and a pretty girl---who made biscuits. Right on stage for everyone to see. The biscuits were passed out among the spectators, and they were light and fluffy. Some of the women in the audience asked for---and received---the recipe. The harried housewife of the depression, could use all the help she could get, and Pappy himself always managed to blend in the subliminal message that Bewley Mills, Lightcrust Flour got the credit for the light tasty biscuits. In soft smooth tones the wives were assured that any other brand of flour would never get the same results. To make good biscuits, one had to use Bewley Mills Lightcrust flour. PAPPY O’DANIEL BISCUITS TWO CUPS SIFTED---Bewley Mills Lightcrust Flour Three teaspoons baking powder One half teaspoon of salt One half teaspoon of baking soda Five tablespoons melted shortening Two thirds cup milk (buttermilk will also do.) Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Mix flour, baking powder, salt and soda. Cut the shortening into the flour mixture until coarse crumbs form. Add milk, tossing with a fork until dough forms. Turn dough out on lightly floured surface. Gather into a disk. Knead lightly a few times until smooth. Pat the dough into a

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

treer fourths inch thick unit and cut with biscuit cutter. Bake.

The Pappy O’Daniel crew put on quite a show that night. And the biscuits were all eaten. After the baking paraphernalia had been put away, there was singing. A tall, good-looking man in colorful western clothes, introduced himself as “Colonel Wheat” and began to strum his guitar. Others accompanied him and it was the most beautiful music we had ever heard. Of course we didn’t get to hear much music in those days. A few families had a radio (run on batteries) but most did not. I was nine years old at that time, and, when “Colonel Wheat” sang, I thought he was the prettiest man I had ever seen. To me, he ranked right up there with the star-spangled cowboys of the silver screen. I suppose “Colonel Wheat” looked out over the crowd of homespun folks and saw quite a number of adoring juvenile faces. He was the star of the show. The small interlude in our drab lives was something we would remember. After the O’Daniel crew had left, folks lingered and visited. W. Lee O’Daniel, himself, would soon become a household name, but, for now, he would test his mettle in small towns in Texas---like San Perlita. Folks talked about the O’Daniel show for awhile around supper tables, and little boys rode stick horses and pretended to be cowboys. It had been a nice diversion, but more pressing things would soon take precedence. Maybe I should have told Mama that night that I thought her biscuits were much better than the O’Daniel biscuits---without the added attraction of Bewley Mills Lightcrust Flour---but other things crowded it out of my mind. Mama knew a few other quick breads that came in handy that the O’Daniel crew probably never heard of. She could cook a pan of short bread on top of the stove that was delicious , and substitute wild cranberries for apples in a pot of dumplings that tasted fine. But, in all fairness, the O’Daniel show was worth it.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER SIX

In September our cousins went back to town and school started. The low-hanging sun seemed to hang in a slight bluish haze and Indian Summer whispered of brisk cold days to come. The school bus kicked up a cloud of dust as it made it’s appointed rounds, and the last of the cotton stalks were being plowed under. Heat from the tractor engines in the fields, seemed to swim around in the fading heat waves and football was being organized on the playing field of San Perlita high school.. There was no electricity on most farms during that period, so the family made sure the old wood stove was supplied with power, and it was up to us kids to see that wood and chips were brought in at night. The “chips” were pieces of dead bark that fell from the gnarly old mesquite trees, and caught a blaze easily. From these, a fire was built in the stove. This wood cook stove was sometimes the only heat in the house, but it was sufficient. Most farm houses weren’t all that large then. But when a blue norther hit, and the cold crackling interval between leaving a warm bed and warming a cold house, brought a lot of shivering and fanning the fledgling blaze in the stove, we were ravenously hungry. Mama usually made some kind of stove-top Johnny Cake to go with our breakfast eggs, with fresh churned butter and a spoonful of Watermelon Rind Preserves. It was usually sufficient.

TEXAS JOHNNY CAKE Two cups white cornmeal Two thirds teaspoon of salt Two tablespoons sugar Two cups boiling water One half cup milk

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Mix meal, salt and sugar. Add boiling water, then slowly blend in milk. Beat well. Drop by spoonfuls on greased hot griddle. Spread out sides. Cover with generous amount of butter. Served with hot chocolate and steaming coffee, this would carry us until noon.

Mama always saved seeds for planting something new in her garden, and one year, someone gave her a handful of okra seeds. Mama planted them, but was unprepared for the result. Of all the vegetables in the garden, it seemed that okra flourished more abundantly. The darn stuff would come up, even when it wasn’t planted---maybe a stray seed or a strong wind that brought one in. Almost like weeds. To me, okra ranked right up there with boiled turnips. Mama found a lot of ways to serve okra, but, unless special cooked, it tends to be slimy. Mama fried it, and the sliminess was gone, but we could only eat so much fried okra. She tried every other way she could think of, to reduce sliminess. Okra is very nutritious and Mama needed al the help she could get, but, no matter how hungry we might be, she could never coax us to eat okra. The slimy stuff practically slid down our throats all by itself. Then she decided to bake it in her cornbread. She chopped it into small pieces; boiled it as usual and folded it into her cornbread batter. She told us it was winter squash. There was no sliminess and we ate it with gusto. Chicken gravy is delicious over okra cornbread, as the okra bakes right into the bread. I was grown before I knew what a dastardly deed had been perpetrated upon us.

We had all kinds of animals on the farm, each different in it’s own way. And we had a few geese, that had grown up from colored Easter chicks, and, of course, there were always the mavericks, who were determined to be independent. Some were named and we knew all the little likes and dislikes---and dispositions---of the different species. A few were rather derogatory; such as “Shameless,” the old hen who never seemed to have any feathers on her rear end, and “Romeo,” the wild goose who came in from---somewhere---and tried to court one of our ducks. It might have been amusing, except for the fact that the old rascal ran off all the other fowls and tried to give all the feed to this female duck. (and she was inclined to accept it.) Where our duck went, Romeo went. The lovesick goose wasn’t very good at running, but made up for it by stretching his

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

long neck ahead of the others and cutting them off. Daddy was about ready to do battle with this old goose, when it suddenly gave up it’s pursuit and disappeared. Maybe a pretty female goose appeared on the scene. We never knew. Then there was “Ol’ Boss,” a big bully of a rooster. Ol’ Boss caused all kinds of problems. He was a big maverick rooster---the largest and most aggressive in the yard. (the only one with brass enough to challenge Romeo.) He was a fine specimen of a bird, whose raucous voice was the first heard in the morning and the last at night---plus intervals all night long. Ol’ Boss “whupped up” on the other roosters, dominated the hens, and was fast becoming a threat to everything in the yard. A rooster has spurs, and they know how to use them. A quick jab by a belligerent old bully and a serious wound could ensue. It finally came to the point where Pete had to fight this old rooster in order to get to the school bus in the morning. Pete was only six, and Mama knew she had to do something. Ol’ Boss thought he was invincible---and he almost was. “You ornery ol’ bully!” she yelled at him as she threw a stick of firewood in his direction. “I’ll get rid of you, if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

But the chunk of firewood missed it’s mark and only a few feathers floated in the wake of the rooster’s retreat toward the open sugar cane field. Mama stood in anger and frustration as she heard him crowing in triumph from the rows of new sugar cane. She didn’t want to get rid of him, if she could help it. He was good root stock. So, after extensive reasoning, she decided to use his macho pride as the solution of her problem. She knew enough about human nature to know that this was a powerful thing among men, and Mama didn’t see that much difference in macho men and macho roosters. She used blueing in her laundry and always had a bottle in the kitchen. She took some old red crepe paper that she had stored away in an obscure box in the attic, and with this, she brewed a purple dye. She was apprehensive about catching the rooster though---there was still those spurs. She solved that problem by catching him when he was asleep on the roost. It wasn’t easy. He seemed to sleep with one eye open, and would simply inch out of reach. Finally, with Daddy’s help, she hemmed him in and got him. He put up quite a fight, and Mama would swear he was humiliated. For the

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

first time in his life, he was under the control of someone else. And when they gave him his colored bath, he was downright indignant. He’d never had a bath in his life and considered it an insult. Mama rubbed the dye in his top feathers, and even under his wings. He got a good dose of color. He squawked to the top of his lungs, and Mama could see the other chickens in the chicken house, getting concerned. Finally, it was over and she could see the questions in Ol’ Boss’s attitude. He was completely baffled when he was put back on the roost. I suppose being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and given a bath in an old dishpan would give one something to wonder about. However, the bath “took.” The next morning when the big bully sallied forth, he was a dull grayish purple, with a few spots of yellow that had refused to absorb the dye. He was a sight to behold, and it caused quite a commotion in the yard. To the simple fowls in the yard, he was a new rooster. An ugly one. A strutting, Johnny-come-lately, who thought he owned the yard. Before noon every rooster on the place had “whupped” the big bully and the guineas were still clacking and raising all kinds of ruckus. He was a more subdued rooster, but still bewildered. He couldn’t understand what had happened. One day he was king of the hill and the next he was run out of the yard in humiliation. But he never knew how close he came to being the main ingredient in a pot of chicken and dumplings.

San Perlita was not what one would call a pretty town. There were back roads beyond the school yard that were lined with weeds, high grass and date palms---and a few citrus orchards that could be seen from Dora’s Grocery Store and Post Office. Orange blossoms bloomed in the fall and citrus fruit was at it’s peak around Christmas time, and, during those cool months the pleasant aroma of orange blossoms seemed to pervade the whole vicinity. It gave the quiet little town an air of timelessness and nostalgia.

.The date palms grew wild---sometimes in the ditch of a vacant lot or along the road. Nobody cared who collected dates and the school kids had access to them. The dates were not the large sugary ones,

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

like those produced over in the Middle East. They were smaller, but still tasty and sweet. This was a treat during the Depression, and some of the boys could skin up a date palm to the clusters of dates without getting stabbed by the spiny spears that folded out from around the trunk. The whole cluster would then be separated from the tree and dropped to waiting classmates on the ground. The citrus orchards were something else again. They were all located within walking distance of the high school and were the prime target of some of the largest and most daring boys. These boys were only a younger version of the watermelon thieves---and maybe a few of the same ones. In November and December, the oranges were at their peak---large and sweet. Each year it would become a battle between the high school boys and the orchard owners, and most of the time the high school boys won. Mr. Russell Cherry was High School Principal during several of those years, and he had his hands full. All the complaints landed on his desk. The punishment for stealing oranges was suspension from school, but there was the chore of actually proving who stole oranges and who didn’t. And, to make the situation even more sticky; not a child in school---grade school or high---didn’t love oranges and would help the culprits who stole the fruit---for an orange or two. Even Miss LeShuer’s Home-Ec girls were not averse to an orange or two. Not a day seemed to pass during those winter months, that several boys were ordered to report to Russell Cherry. And actually, all he could do was question them. But the boys were up to it. They could lie with a straight face and never blink. To them, it wasn’t actually a lie. It was a challenge and a gamble---and they loved it. But Principal Russell Cherry had backbone. He stood up to the boys and even threatened them with a paddle. This caused a ripple of sniggers. But they respected Mr. Cherry and felt no animosity toward him. They knew he wasn’t going to try to paddle half grown boys. And so the stalemate continued. Stealing oranges was something that simply never went away, even after one generation of brash young boys graduated and passed on into their lives, and another took their place. As long as there were boys and orange orchards, there would be stealing. It was the challenge of the thing. And there were homes scattered among the date palms and citrus orchards of San Perlita. The school teachers all lived near, and there was a large house and grounds for the Principal. The main highway in front of the school circled around a small bulb-shaped park, that stood prettily adorned with

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

bougainvillea, hibiscus and pomegranates. The grade school hunted Easter eggs in the park each year, and children picked the pomegranates by the time they got marble-sized. But the small park didn’t last long. By the time traffic reached it, they would have up a good speed. They would then have to slow down to twenty miles an hour to circle around it, in order to proceed on up into San Perlita. Soon it became so easy to just keeping going straight through the park, and there were two ruts through it’s center. The little park fell into disarray and was soon taken over by weeds and wild grass. Soon after this happened, it was taken out and the highway was uninterrupted. Beauty makes way for progress. Some of the affluent from larger towns found San Perlita a perfect place to get away from the world, and several large homes sprang up. But when the novelty wore off, the owners of these homes found they had no resale value, they would stay empty and unkempt for years. San Perlita never grew, but there was a slow, homespun atmosphere about it that seemed to touch deep. Each year a new generation emerged from the high school with fresh faces and ambitious dreams. At school reunions they returned with wistful eyes and a softer, more realistic outlook; as they embraced old classmates and prowled quietly, almost reverently, through the halls of their old school. Nostalgic memories stirred in the dusty little street of San Perlita and tiny dust devils swirled along the edges and whispered of the passing years.

Mama was cautious in her evaluation of the little town. It was one of those places where everybody knew your name---and everything else about you. It was said that there were no secrets in San Perlita, only a revolving door.. Mama tried to keep her distance. She could see the tops of the palm trees of San Perlita from her front porch---like an oasis in acres of plowed ground, but she didn’t go there much. She was a private person and had no intention of giving the little town any grist for their gossip mill. She hated gossip. But, at that time of depression, what else was there. Well there were still recipes that were passed around. Some of the ladies whose parents had immigrated from other countries, contributed long-held family standbys, and gave an otherwise drab meal an exotic air. However---every once in awhile---a recipe came up that caused the ladies to recoil

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

and back off. One lady whose parents had immigrated from Poland, contributed “Blood Pudding.” The town heard and reacted. They were quietly shocked. Miss LeSuier gave her outraged opinion to her class, and Mama’s friend, Susie Reed, made a special visit to tell Mama about it. Mama’s reaction was predictable. “NOT IN MY KITCHEN!” And this was delivered with mouth pursed into a small slit, and eyes on fire. But, as if to overcome the shock of Blood Pudding, a lady of French descent, contributed an unusual and spicy dish with the tempting name of Le Cuisene. I think the name, translated into English, would be more-or-less mundane, but the dish is good, and having a French name gives it an exotic flair. I know from experience that it is delicious and nutritious, and can be frozen for later use. It’s also good to give the kids to snack on. They can wrap it in a paper towel and take it to the playground.

LE CUISENE Four cups flour One egg One cube of yeast One cup milk (scalded) Two tablespoons butter One teaspoon salt One pound ground lean beef Three tablespoons lemon juice One medium onion (shopped into small pieces) Salt and pepper to taste Mix dry ingredients. In another bowl, mix egg, milk and butter/ Add slowly to dry mix and stir. Continue mixing until mixture will fall away from sides of bowl. Mixture will be stiff. Form into one ball and set on floured board for thirty minutes. Knead. Form another ball and let stand for another thirty minutes. Knead vigorously again. Form into small balls. Should be about ten. Baste these balls with butter and set aside.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

In a frying pan, brown ground beef. Cook well and drain. Add onion, salt and pepper and stir well. Add lemon juice. Mix well. Go back to dough balls, which would have risen. Roll each one out into a long---very thin strip. Put meat preparation in each strip and fold over. Result will be long fingers of roll, with spicy meat center. Bake. These meat-centered fingers are ideal for an afternoon snack, with tea or coffee, and a treat for the kids. Double recipes can be prepared, and an extra pan frozen for later.

CHAPTER SEVEN The French have a flair for cooking and a reputation for bold and uninhibited tastes. Their recipes are rich and colorful, and hold an appeal for almost everyone. From Louisiana---land of the French

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Acadians---came Hobo Stew. Hobo Stew can mean anything, but, in this case, it was the livelihood of men down on their luck. Men camped under bridges with no where to go. They made Hobo Stew out of whatever was available. Crayfish tails are the main ingredients in Hobo Stew, since they were most easily come by. (I can just hear someone in the back of the room asking, “What’s a crayfish?”) Well---poor folks called them craw-dads. They are a poor relation of the lobster. A sort of miniature little brother, but they live in fresh water, instead of the ocean. The tails are small, but quite tasty, but the claws are too small to bother with. Crayfish are caught in the bayous and rivers in Southern Louisiana and they rate right up there with popcorn shrimp and catfish. Catching crayfish---or craw-dads---is not a challenge. They’re too dumb to run and too small to put up a fight. Early Louisiana settlers had to compete with the alligators for the tasty little critter, and, later, small boys camped out on creek banks and boiled crawdad-tails in coffee cans. Ingredients to go with the crawdad tails all depended on what one could find---or catch. What one man couldn’t scrape up, maybe someone else could---or knew of a good substitute. Sometimes it was a matter of not getting caught in someone’s tomato or potato field, as the whether there would be anything for the pot that night. Craw-dad tails can be used in all sorts of soups and gumbos. They fill in when there isn’t anything else to thicken the pot. The meat has a seafood taste and they readily absorb the flavor of any seasonings or spices available.

HOBO STEW Two cups crawdad tails---or however amount on hand. One cup chopped onion One half diced Jalapeno pepper. (Optional) Two cups water Four medium tomatoes---peeled and crushed One and a half teaspoon salt. Dash of ground black pepper

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Two cups okra---sliced Two cups hot cooked rice---and anything likely that could be added to the pot. In large pot combine all ingredients except rice. Dissolve two tablespoons flour with small amount of water. Mix well. Add flour mixture to stew mixture and stir thoroughly. Cook over medium-low heat until mix has slightly thickened, stirring constantly. This usually takes ten or fifteen minutes. Simmer on low heat---stirring often---for another ten minutes. Add rice. Ladle into bowls---or whatever---and serve. This dish can be surprisingly tasty, and sometimes it filled a need in desperate men.

Along this same vein was Son-of-a-gun Stew. It, too, was born in desperation.

But the craw-dads and shrimp had cousins in the warm bays of South Texas. The people of San Perlita was well aware of the pristine beaches of Red Fish Bay. Families could camp there anywhere they liked. It was wide open. There was only one drawback. There were no trees, and the hot summer sun could blister the top layer of skin on kids and bathers. We had friends we used to go camping with. To spend the night at Redfish Bay was a treat and tarpaulins had to be brought, to spread between two cars, and make a shade. Parents could sit in the shade and watch the children swim in the shallow bay. Our friends had ten kids and---along with our five--- all enjoyed an open invitation to clean sand and clear ocean. The word â&#x20AC;&#x153;freedomâ&#x20AC;? had special meaning at Red Fish Bay. But when we had an especially hard rain, there was a low spot in the road to Redfish Bay, where the spindly Model T and Tin Lizzie would always get stuck. Not many had heavier cars, and sometimes, when the low place became a mud hole, the road looked like a successful strip of flypaper. Stuck cars were all over. Of course, in this case scenario, there were always the enterprising farm boys, who brought mules to pull the cars out---for a fee. Between churned mud, stuck cars and braying mules, it almost became a community affair. Sometimes old friends met in the mud hole, and calling back and forth overrode everything else. Daddy just swore they came deliberately for a little diversion in their drab lives.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

But roads do dry---especially in the hot Texas sun, and campfires would twinkle in the night on the white sands of Red Fish Bay. Kids were everywhere, and these “cousins” of small shrimp and crawdads made their presence known. Big blue crabs were plentiful in the warm bays, and sometimes grew quite large. They lived on the sandy bottoms of shallow water---where the kids swam---and waited (the kids were sure) with lethal pincers, for little bare feet that invaded their domain. There was something about knowing they were hidden---and waiting---under the water, that sent cold chills up their spine. I don’t think anyone ever suffered a pinch hard enough to draw blood, but the effect was the same as if they had been stabbed. They would feel a crab moving around their feet, and come out---as fast as one CAN come out---in water. Sometimes it seemed to the kids like they were moving in slow motion. But those big blue crabs were a delicacy. Fishermen caught them and housewives made salads and gumbos out of them. In the evening, fishermen---including Daddy--- with nets, seines and lanterns, sifted the shallow bay waters and brought in buckets of shrimp, blue crab---and an occasional flounder. Trout and redfish live in there too, and there was usually enough of a catch to ensure fried fish, blue crab salad and pork-and-beans for supper. In the late evening, after supper, everything cooled down, activity ceased, and a deep satisfying euphoria seemed to settle over everything. Sea birds stood drowsily in the edge of the water; one foot tucked up under their feathers, listening to the rise and fall of the evening tides, and sand seemed to be in everything. But that’s just one of the perks of camping on the beach. Later, as darkness bore down, make-shift pallets were put down for the children to sleep on. Some slept in the seats of the cars, and some simply rolled up in a blanket on the sand, but all settled into quiet peacefulness. The sharp bark of coyotes could be heard somewhere in the star-lit night, and furtive rustlings around the camp told of little varmints hoping for a scrap of food discarded, or a pan of beans left unguarded. An early dawning brought a hushed cool freshness that seemed to lay over everything. A quiet beginning of a new day was announcing it‘s imminent arrival, and Salt Morning Glories lay criss-crossed on the sand; their glorious blossoms---that would last only an hour or two---in prominent display. Only during this brief hushed interval between night and day, did the sand became glorified with it’s blossoms---

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

and the whole world became still---and almost sacred. By sun-up the camp was rousing drowsily. The next day brought an abrasive tiredness and everyone had a touch of irritability. More blue crab was good, but most of us were becoming miserable, as the sun rose and beat down on the tarpaulin shade---and us. Even the ocean breezes that flapped the tarpaulin occasionally were loaded with salt and sun. Time to go home---memories are made of this. It would usually take three or four days to get all the salt off and suffer through sunburn--sometimes severe enough to cause blisters. The fish brought home---fresh from an ice bucket---must be cooked right off. Mama knew all the ways, but the comanchero style was our favorite.

FRIED TROUT COMANCHERO STYLE Six or more trout fillets Six eggs .One cup fresh lemon juice One cup milk One cup cornmeal One cup flour Two cups---or more---cooking oil Salt and pepper Mix cornmeal and flour. Stir well. In another bowl, mix eggs and milk. Lay fillets in a row on cookie sheet. Salt and pepper both sides, according to taste. In still another bowl, pour lemon juice. Set aside. Heat oil on high until almost boiling. Dip each fillet in lemon juice, then in milk and egg mixture. Roll each one in corn meal and flour mixture. Drop them into the hot oil. Cook to a golden brown and eat while still hot. Some of the dishes made from a week end at the beach were quite unique. Shrimp could be boiled and dipped---or fried. Catsup and horse-radish make a great dip. Fish were fried, baked or made into a stew, and those controversial blue crabs were made into salads.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

BLUE CRAB SALAD One cup crab meat---mostly from the claws of blue crab One half head of lettuce Two medium tomatoes Toss together and add vinegar or salad dressing. This is simple to make and doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take much explanation. All our bounty from Red Fish Bay was cooked as soon as possible, and we ate well---then we ate cold. Cold fish is also good, and the crust from the cornmeal coating holds the flavor in.

CHAPTER EIGHT But Red Fish Bay was more than a family outing. There were clambakes and Sunday School picnics on the fourth of July, and families gathered together for communal fish frys, given by the Chamber of Commerce. There were also moonlight wiener roast parties for young adults. At these parties wieners and buns were brought out; plus several relishes, bowls of home made potato salad and potato chips. A fire was built and buckets of iced soft drinks were set out for everyone to help himself. (Sometimes there was a little more than soft drinks for the more daring, and sometimes things got out of hand. But, in those days, parents were not afraid to deal with it.) During these parties, young adults would have liked to have swam in the star-lit water, but modesty forbade it. Mixed bathing was not allowed.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

The young people remembered going swimming when they were children, but they had had to use old clothes as swim suits. An old pair of pants, cut off at the knees, and old worn dresses, were standard fare. Young people were aware of swim suits, and remembered pictures of more progressive mothers in a skirted suit that came almost to her knees, and fathers with knit suits that sagged when wet, and looked startlingly like a pair of drawers. Neither was very flattering, but it was daring. The new swim suits were shocking to most conservative parents. There were pictures in the Sears Roebuck catalog and an occasional sighting could be spotted; worn experimentally, but it didn’t catch on. Some of the more prudish ladies would be embarrassed. It wasn’t that San Perlita was backward, it was just that they were slow in catching on to the coming liberal flow of the twentieth century. But there’s always one who wades in where angels fear to tread. This girl in particular, had managed to save enough to afford what no one else had. A---gasp!---two piece bathing suit! With a bare mid-riff! She had already caused a mild panic at Red Fish Bay when she came back through San Perlita and decided to run into Dora’s Grocery Store and Post Office for a moment to check her mail. In her bathing suit. This was a shock to Baptist and Church of Christ orientated San Perlita. Several men standing in front of Dora’s, gaped openly and looked in horror toward the Sheriff, who just happened to be on the street that day. The Sheriff acted quickly. Always on the alert for law-breakers and brazen hussies, he quickly shucked his jacket and rushed to throw it over the girl, and escort her back to her car, with the admonition never to reveal herself like that in public again. The girl drove off in humiliation.

Man is a complex animal. While some humans are capable of despicable deeds, there is still a core of compassion in all of us. Call it conscience, or spirit, or just plain old decency, it’s there for most of us, and neighbors will reach out to neighbors when the going gets rough. Sometimes no words are needed and sometimes everything is tinted with a glint of humor. Dora Moore had the unique ability of seeing each situation in it’s own peculiar perspective. She understood the point of view of others, and could empathize, while she analyzed the situation and drew her

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

own conclusions. And it was usually Dora’s conclusions that made the rounds in San Perlita. Dora would have made a great psychiatrist. So it was with the girl in the new bathing suit. Dora watched the whole scenario from her store window, and chuckled a little when the girl drove off. In her own peculiar way, she understood the plight of the girl---she remembered situations from her own youth, that she had wished she had had the courage to follow up on, and deep down she understood the girl’s frustration. There were latent currents in Dora’s personality that would have shocked the established world to it’s foundation, but, at this stage in the game, she had made her stand in life. And if there were any regrets, she had long since buried them. It took guts to defy the well-dug-in establishment. But---from the other side of the firing line---she could still enjoy it when others did. And San Perlita would talk about this for months. Dora was a “maiden lady.” Some people called her an old maid. Not to her face, of course. She had a sense of humor and everyone seemed to like her, but there were some sensitive issues that were carefully avoided, even in open discussions, and this was one. Liberal progress had not yet taken root in San Perlita, and the little town was still a little selective in some evaluations.

Still---sun dappled San Perlita was stunned one morning, when it came to light that two hunters. The Blantons---father and son---had gone duck hunting in the King Ranch the day before, and never returned. Their families were frantic, and everyone suspected foul play. The Blantons were neighbors of ours, and we speculated around the supper table about their possible whereabouts. Daddy had his own opinion. It was known in some of the tighter circles that the hunting privileges of the Ranch had been abused. Some hunters had began bringing beef out of the ranch, but recently they had gone a step further. They had began posting the heads of their stolen beef on posts near the ranch house, so they would be sure to be seen. This was an open insult. Not much was known about the situation, as Dora had apparently not gotten wind of it yet. But Daddy always had his ear to the ground, and was concerned over the situation. The King Ranch was powerful, and didn’t take kindly to insults. In Daddy’s estimation, the most sinister thing about the disappearance, was the silence on the part of the King Ranch. Nobody was talking about it. Even George Durham, the foreman of that particular

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branch of the Ranch, was silent and had nothing to tell reporters and curious citizens. He readily answered any questions from the law officers and was a visitor in the Sheriff’s Office many times, but he had nothing to say. He knew nothing. This was not the prank of confrontations in the watermelon patch, or a few stolen oranges. This was not just exuberant boys---but something far deeper--- and every one felt the ominous vibes from it. The Sheriff’s Office in Raymondville had been alerted immediately---and everyone waited; hoping the men would turn up with a plausible excuse for their absence. But everyone wore a stark apprehensive look, and, for once, even Dora Moore had no opinion. The days passed and still no sign of the Blantons. By now, it was presumed that something had happened to them, and everyone had their opinion. Every morning, Dora’s establishment was full of farmers, sounding off, with blue cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Dora, herself, listened, as was her habit. She let the men talk, but turned each opinion over in her mind, and either reserved it---or rejected it. Rumors flew and all kinds of stories drifted out of Raymondville. Some told of the mysterious woman in black who called the Sheriff’s office in the dead of night and offered to lead him to the Blanton graves. In return she asked for a specified amount of money and safe passage back to Mexico. Everybody seemed to have heard of a different version of the amount of money she asked, and it was romanticized, embroidered and vocalized all over the Valley. Local folks buzzed over this one for days--- and slit-eyed speculators gave their “expert“ opinion to anyone who would listen---especially since the bottom line was that the woman disappeared and was never heard from again. Shocked eyes opened wide, and reasoning facilities clicked into high gear. Most locals in San Perlita couldn’t afford a newspaper, so they came to the Grocery and Post Office each morning to see what Dora knew. And Dora always had an opinion. But the hunters had stopped going into the ranch. Not that they were afraid, mind you. It was just that, in view of what had happened to one of their own, it might be best to pull back for awhile. Nothing this important or mysterious had happened in the Valley for a long time, and small knots of men would gather on the street to discuss it. And there was always some non-descript little man who “let it slip” that he knew something big. He knew the Sheriff would sure like to know about it, but he thought it

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best to keep quiet. For a brief moment, he was important, and every one nodded sagely in agreement. It was his moment of glory. Probably the only one he would ever have. And, of course, it was Dora at the Grocery Store and Post Office who broke the news that the Texas Rangers had been called in. After all, it had been several weeks now, and not a trace of the hunters had been found. The Rangers organized a search of the Ranch, and declared that “They would go through every inch with a fine-toothed-comb, until they found some trace---or at least a clue.” And search they did. They went through primitive parts of the King Ranch that seemed as if it had never known the presence of man. And, in one particular spot, they found the remains of an ancient battleground. Nothing had been reclaimed. Old muskets and dried bones were everywhere. There was no trace of this in historical records nor archives. Nobody knew when, who or how. The public never found out much more about it, but hoped that the relics had been removed to a public place for study. As time went on, nothing ever turned up. The Blantons seemed to have just evaporated. There was nothing---the very silence seemed to mock the searchers, and the King Ranch kept it’s secrets. And, after awhile, it began to fade. Folks still mentioned it occasionally, and, at one point, a vigilante of “armed citizens,“ consisting of seven or eight men, got into an old Model A and---bristling with guns and clubs--headed for the King Ranch. Their mission was to hang George Durham to the nearest mesquite tree. But, of course, the King Ranch had been alerted as to their coming, and met them at the gate. The gate was locked, and armed riders sat on horses all around---silent and grim-faced. Once again, the King Ranch had nothing to say. But the threat was plain. And---finally---after a confused babble and a few fist shakings, the Model A, with it’s righteous men of vengeance, turned around and went back to town. As with a lot of cases, the furor finally began to die down. The Rangers left, and folks went back to their every day life. (I’d like to add a little foot note here.) Thirtty years later, and we were grown, Pete got a job as Deputy on the King Ranch. He was around the workers a lot, and eventually made good friends. It was at this point that an older man, with the look of life’s battles and burdens written on his wise old face, led Pete out to a grassy outlay of cleared space, and showed him where the Blantons were buried. The Texas Rangers had searched all over the grounds, all those years before, but the graves had been carefully

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camouflaged. Most of the ranch hands knew. But the King Ranch had been good to them. And they were loyal.

One still hot summer the kids at our house found a baby Mocking Bird that had apparently fallen from it’s nest and been abandoned by it’s mother. Or maybe it’s mother had died, as there had been insecticides in the fields to help eradicate the boll worm. We never knew, but we adopted the baby mocker. What we didn’t realize is that a mother bird spends most of her time looking for food for her offspring. A baby bird eats almost constantly. And there was another problem. It was still young and naked, and we had no idea what a baby bird could and could not eat. We dared not feed it table scraps. We spent a lot of time catching insects and braving the thorns of berry bushes to get berries for the baby. Everybody had to hunt bird food, and we learned to outsmart a grasshopper and dig in damp places for worms. Then came a big problem. The bird was old enough now to roost---and where was he going to roost? There were barn owls, and snakes, in the barn. It wasn’t safe for him. All eyes turned to Mama. But Mama was adamant. No fowl was going to roost in her house. There was crying and carrying-on among the kids. Where could our baby bird sleep and be safe? The problem was aired for several days, with tears and incriminations, until Mama looked at the helpless little one, and caved. The young mocker was allowed to roost on top of a portable closet on an old clothes rack with a newspaper spread below. But a bird is born to fly and it didn’t stay long on the old clothes rack. It wasn’t safe for him outside in the big world, so he had access to the whole house. This led to enormous discord in the family. Everyone had to be on guard for an unexpected discharge from above, and someone was always cleaning up the floor. To top it off, each time Mama passed from the living room into the kitchen, the bird fluttered, opened it’s mouth like a yawning pit, and squawked for something to be put in. Catching insects and picking berries soon got old, and we found other interests. Mama had to insist on our cooperation to keep the bird going. There would be bawling and door slamming before someone left the house and waded out in the grass to catch insects. It was turning into tedious job, and the

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bird wasn’t yet half grown. And the time came, as we knew it would, when the young mocker demanded freedom. He flew to a tree limb in the yard. Then another problem arose. How were going to teach him about predators and keep him out of harm’s way. The situation went on like this for awhile. Where we went, the mocker went. It would light anywhere convenient; flutter and open that yawning mouth to be fed. We thought he was old enough now to feed himself, but apparently not. Then disaster struck. A neighbor’s old tom cat came visiting, and the bird lit and opened it’s mouth to be fed. We moved fast to protect him, but the tom cat was faster. We were devastated. The old cat was banished down the dirt road with a broom, and threatened with mayhem if he ever came back. But the damage was done. It was over. Almost---almost---we had raised a mocker. Sadness reigned, and during those first days of raw grief, Mama sympathized and consoled; she valued life and a chance for every living thing. But, she had to admit, the baby mocker had sure been a thorn in her side.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER ELEVEN And it was no big deal for one person to help another. It was a little late for barn-raisings, but neighbors did help when someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cotton crop still hung in the fields, and a rain-storm had been predicted. It would be the last picking of the season, but the last was usually the best one. Then, stalks had to be plowed under before September, to help with the eradication of the boll worm. Insecticides were beginning to be used and they worked better underground. During this time of change, from picking summer cotton to starting the school year, other crops were brought it. Hay for the winter had to be cut and stored. Everyone dreaded this job. The weather could still get hot and the humidity thick. Sticky chaff found itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s way down shirt collars and clung to sweaty backs and necks; making life miserable for the gatherers. The combine rolled slowly down the rows, cutting

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stalks to be bundled; and men with red miserable faces and a short temper fuse, would glance up toward the sun. mop their brow, and wonder how much longer until they could go home and take a bath. Each night after his bath, Mama would sprinkle soothing corn-starch on Daddy’s back and neck, and---sleeping in a window with a slight breeze blowing in, he could rest. And while the men were in the fields, Mama had to come up with hot, nourishing meals. The men who helped bring in the hay crop expected to have the noon meal at our house, so the meal had to be sufficient. After a big working man’s meal, the women would wash pots and pans in a hot kitchen. And there were so darned many of them. No Teflon to keep them from sticking. Dried food had to be scrubbed out. Sometimes an imaginative young miss, in a long apron, would decide to let some of the most difficult pots “soak” until night, to loosen the dried food. They would then be set aside full of water, until the next dishwashing session. No store bought soap either. There was always a bar of lye soap lying in a dish in back of the dishpan. The idea of a man washing dishes was ludicrous. It just wasn’t done. There was “women’s work” and “men’s work,“ and nobody stepped over the line. So dishwater hands were distinctly a woman’s problem. Those that could afford them, used rubber gloves to wash dishes. Soft, white skin was cultivated any way they could. Dishwashing wasn’t the most sought-after job on the farm; ranking right up there with ironing khaki work clothes. It seemed never-ending. The woman would hardly get the noon meal squared away, when it was time to start thinking about supper.

SPANISH MEAT LOAF One pound ground beef Two eggs---slightly beaten One half cup of tomato sauce One fourth cup of condensed milk One fourth cup of cracker meal Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Salt and pepper to taste. Mix and mix and mix. Knead and mix---until everthing is well blendcd. Arrange in greased bake pan with room left on both sides for the

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sauce.

SAUCE One cup tomato juice One half cup of miled onion---sliced One half green pepper---chunked Three or four medium carrots. Two medium potatoes---peeled, washed and chunked Boil potatoes and carrots until soft, but still firm. In medium bowl, combine potatoes and carrots and tomato sauce. Stir gently. Pour mixture around meat loaf. There will be about an inch of sauce all around.the meat loaf. Gently prod the vegetables into the tomato sauce until all are covered. Place in oven and bake. Meat juices will blend with tomato juice and vegetables during baking and make a zesty sauce. You have meat and vegetables all baked into one. Of course, the recipe will have to be doubled---yea, even tripled---for the crew following the combine.

Another concern for ladies was their hair. It never occurred to the women of the Depression era days that straight hair could be beautiful. They only saw beauty in curls---lots of curls. They tried to have a permanent put in their hair whenever possible, but that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t easy. The standard beauty parlor had electric cords that descended from the ceiling with a curling fixture at the end of each. The lucky woman getting the permanent was attached to these fixtures for over an hour, while the sizzling heat burned curls into her hair. If there was a hot spot on her head during this proceedure, she called the beautician, who brought a fan over and blew cool air on the spot. I suppose every woman had her own private nightmare while attached to the ceiling---such as the fixtures catching fire, or the building burning down. But when she emerged from the torture chamber, she had a cap of tight ringlets all over her

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head, and the beautician beamed as she held a mirror in front and back for inspection. And for little girls, Shirley Temple was the supreme model. The public just couldn’t get enough of her. And she really was adorable, with her flashing dimples and head full of curls that bounced when she walked. Doting mothers would do anything to have their little girls look like Shirley Temple. And to have these---supposedly---Shirley Temple curls, these little ones went through the same torture as their mothers. A proud little girl would appear in school the next day with a head-full of tight corkscrew curls and would be immediately surrounded by awe-struck classmates. For those who couldn’t afford---or were not willing to go under the heat of a permanent---there were “rag curls.” Their hair was rolled around strips of cloth and tied, and the next morning the little girl had curls. Something about the hair conforms to the shape into which it is pressed, and, if left long enough in a “curl” position, it will stay that way. But these rag curls were not permanent. Usually they would straighten out before the day was over. Face powder was the loose, dry kind and every woman had a box of powder, even if she had to squeeze it out of the food allowance. And lipstick, used sparingly, was a “must.” With the exception of a little talcum powder to puff on neck and underarms, that was about it, as far as cosmetics went. But girls had to take precautions against the hot sun. Grandma Reoh gently imbedded it into our subconscious (by repetition) that really pretty girls had soft white skin. Otherwise she would never catch a husband. Grandma made sun bonnets and thin jackets---to protect the arms---for her girls. We older girls hated this paraphernalia and took it off every chance we got. But there was Grandma’s quietly authoritative voice in our heads. “Soft white skin makes for beauty.”

One thing I remember about Mama was, she was not afraid to step up to a challenge. When eye shadow was first introduced, Mama was curious. The model in the catalog did look beautiful with big, soulful eyes. “Artfully applied“ the catalog said, “it would make her eyes look larger and softer.” So---cautiously---Mama ordered a small sample. She would wait until everyone had gone from the house, before she tried it. Nobody knew about it except her older daughters and a very few friends. She tried to play it down, but, with an average-sized family in a very small house, it’s hard to keep secrets.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

However, the girls were waiting and---watching---for Mama to come out one morning with “dark, soulful eyes.” But it didn‘t happen, and, as time went on, we just assumed she had forgotten about it. When, in reality, she hadn’t forgotten about it at all. She confided to her friend Suzie that she had tried it. We have to assume that Mama used the eye shadow liberally and cut a wide swath. She had been horrified as she held up the mirrow and looked back at herself out of dark hollow holes for eyes. She looked like she had been dead a week! We never saw---nor heard---about the eye shadow again. Some things are better never mentioned. Girls do wonderful things with eye shadow today, but you gotta know how---and how much. For men, a bath and tri-weekly shave was about the extent of it. They had the old razor strop and the “cup and brush.” and there was the barber shop. Men looked forward to a visit to Barnette’s Barber shop in Raymondville, every two or three weeks. It was understood that the Barber Shop was a man’s world, and few women ever entered---or wanted to. A rougher type of gossip floated around and men would grin knowingly under hats or a growth of whiskers. It was a masculine version of Dora Moore’s Grocery Store and Post Office, and---whether it was true or not, the men still wanted to talk about it. The old bath-in-the-wash-tub was no joke on the farm either. Kids had to be bathed at night. They went barefoot during long summer days and would usually have a crust of dirt (not dust, but DIRT,) on the soles of their feet. The old wash-tub would be hauled into the kitchen right after supper and each kid had a bath. Sometimes the younger ones would be tired after a busy day, and cry to go to sleep. Sometimes there would be several kids bawling at the same time, but it didn’t matter. He got his bath and his feet scrubbed before he as allowed to crawl between the sheets.

The citizens of Mexico, who came over during harvest, invariably lived in compounds. They already had dwelling places, back in their homeland, and were only going to be here temporarily. But all work and no play---and all that sort of thing---left them looking for entertainment. So, on some Saturday nights there were occasional dances in these compounds. Everyone whooped it up and let off pent-up pressure and could sleep late the next day. Mama and Daddy would hear all about it later. It seemed that someone always arrived before

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breakfast was over and our family got a few chuckles over some of “last night’s antics.” But, during those years of prohibition, any liquor consumed had to be gotten from a “boot-legger.” Since this was illegal, those who did it were considered dashing and dangerous---and girls giggled and whispered that they were wild and hell-bent. That made them all the more attractive to these girls and there would usually be a fist fight before the dance was over. Sometimes everyone got into it.. One morning, one of the Mexican workers came over and had coffee with Daddy at breakfast. There had been a “rip-snortin‘-shin-dig” the night before and Daddy could tell his guest still had a hangover. It had been an impromptu sort of thing, held in a swept-out place in the brush. The hard ground made a pretty good dance floor. There had been drinking and singing. Some of the men had brought guitars over from their homeland, and their music was good. It had rthym and was catchy to dance to. And they danced. There was laughing and swirling and someone threw their hat in the middle of the dance floor and began the Mexican Hat Dance. And some got mean. One never knew what was in the liquor they were drinking, nor what effect it would have. It’s a wonder more people weren’t poisoned during prohibition. When there is a party, people are going to drink, and if it can’t be bought legally, they’ll take what they can get. Mama and Daddy already knew something of the dance the night before. They had been asleep when they heard a mob of angry men howling around the house. Daddy could tell they were drunk, but had no idea what it was all about. However, he knew enough about drunkenness to know not to interfere. It was bootleg, and maybe it made them a little crazy. These same men would be good men when sober, but right now they were out for blood. Daddy’s early morning visitor wasn’t sure how it all started, but one of the men must have made a pass at another’s girlfriend---or wife. Anyway, the situation turned deadly. Several mean drunks staggered around, making threats and the guilty culprit knew he had better make tracks. He tried to leave the scene quietly, but the drunken ones saw him and gave chase. It must have been like a fox being chased by a herd of hounds as the baying and bugling could be heard above the merry-making. As those on the dance floor saw what was happening, the situation suddenly became sober and serious to them. But it was already out

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of control. Anger flashed, wicked-looking knives suddenly appeared and the chase was on. The desperate one started out with a good lead, but was not as fast as his pursuers. Finally, in a last-ditch sprint, he made it to the road and headed for our house. Mama and Daddy knew murder was in the air and sat huddled in their bed in fear, as the mob ran around and around their house, gobbling and threatening. Finally, they heard them retreating---and more subdued sounds of the mob as they headed back toward the compound. It was quite awhile before Mama and Daddy got back to sleep; not knowing if a murder had been committed in their yard or not. The rest of the night was quiet, and their breakfast visitor told them quietly, and with just a touch of awe. “Nobody has ever found the man they were chasing, Senor. He just seems to have disappeared into thin air. He ran into your yard and around the house ---and disappeared. Some of the men are wondering if you took him inside. “No,” Daddy said with an amused chuckle. I didn’t take him inside. I thought it best to stay out of it.”

“Then the earth swallowed him up,” the visitor said. “Oh, I don’t think the earth swallowed him up,” Daddy said. “He’s around somewhere. Have you checked the cane field? He could hide in there indefinitely.” “Yes, some of the men beat around in there and went down the rows---but found nothing.” “Well, I hope you didn’t beat around too much in my sugar cane,” Daddy’s voice had taken on a note of alarm. “Oh no! I’m sure they were careful.” the early-morning visitor realized how lame and unlikely this sounded and knew he was treading in quick sand. “No, they would not disturb the sugar cane,” the early-morning visitor smiled apologetically as he rose and backed toward the door. With hat in hand, he bowed once; still with the apologetic air, and bolted. But Daddy’s face wore a grave expression as he, too, found his old hat and headed for the cane patch to access any damage. It was almost noon when Mama heard a scraping noise under the floor of the house. Most early

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houses did not have cement foundations. Instead, they were set upon wooden foundations that left a space between each support. On the better-built ones, a four-by-four extended between them. Mama had never paid much attention to the foundation of the house, or just how it was laid out below the floor, but now she knew there was something under there. Something big. When Daddy came in from the field with a serious look on his face, Mama was looking a little alarmed, and the dogs were barking furiously at something underneath the house. The scraping noise was getting louder and the dogs bolder, when a bedraggled young Mexican man crawled from under the house and started brushing himself off. The “fox” of the night before. Mama scolded the dogs and they retreated, just as Daddy came upon the scene. Nobody spoke as the young man grinned self-consciously, dusted himself off, and darted out toward the road. He had hidden by climbing upon, and lying flat on, one of the four-by-fours, that stretched between the house supports. Still nobody said a word as Mama and Daddy looked at each other. The emergence of the fugitive answered a few questions and was proof that no murder had been committed. The incident was never mentioned again outside the house. Mama and Daddy never knew if the refugee went back to the migrant camp, after everyone had sobered up, or if he took a road back to Mexico. Among the Mexican citizens, he seemed to be forgotten.

Mama had made good friends with some of the Mexican Citizens, and they had exchanged recipes. “Some are spicy,” laughed a young Spanish girl, with a straw hat pushed back on her shoulders. “Maybe too spicy for you.” But she just didn’t know Mama’s tastes. Mama loved spicy foods. The more pepper, the better. She was even on greeting terms with the pretty little red pepper in the green leaf setting.

ARROZ ESPANA One pound ground beef One cup chopped onion One fourh cup chopped green pepper Two tablespoons margarine One can (16 oz.) Tomato Wedges

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One can (8 oz.) Tomato Sauce One cup water Three fourths cup uncooked rice One tablespoon chili powder One teaspoon salt One half teaspoon Worcestershire sauce Dash pepper---Mama liked a big dash

Cook onion and green pepper in margarine until tender. Brown the meat in separate frying pan, and add to onion and pepper mixture. Cover and simmer---about thirty minutes or until rice is tender. Serve. Most folks like it served with sour cream.

On some Saturday nights, even staid little San Perlita erupted and got a little unruly. Those unmentionable beer joints around the edge of town was a gathering place for the disgruntled and workweary with a combustible charge of energy and a short fuse. One overweight lady in particular, with orange hair and fire in her ice-green eyes, was a troublemaker---and present every Saturday night. The locals all called her Kitty, and you could count on some action when the cat blew in. One this particular Saturday night, Kitty was in fine fettle and looking for a little action. She had began drinking early and was pretty well iniebrated when a fight broke out on the dance floor. Then someone retaliated by throwing a chair---and the fight was on. San Perlita had a Sheriff, but he never seemed to be around when needed, and the place was pretty well taking care of itself, when a deputy and his side-kick arrived and waded in. Fists were working, caution was thrown to the wind and the two deputies were having a hard time. After several more minutes of wrecking the place, the Senior Deputy could see that it was Kitty who seemed to be the centerpiece of the fray, so they zeroed in to bring her under control. This Senior Deputy, who had so boldly grasped the reins, was a family member. One of our

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cousins, and it was this cousin who caught the cat. He was doing alright for a moment; having pinned her arms to her side, when he made the mistake of clamping his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. She was quick; he had to acknowledge that, and clamped down on his fingers with a strength that would put a vice grip wrench to shame. Cousin gave a hoarse yell, but the cat refused to relent. His partner came running to help, but the iron jaws held. No hint of relaxation. Cousin thought for sure she’d bitten his fingers off, as his partner tried with both hands to loosen her grip. By that time, the fight had stopped and everyone gathered around to watch the drama on the sidelines, A few had even began to place bets, when she turned loose. Cousin nursed his fingers---which seemed to be dead---as he was rushed to the Emergency Room. This cousin visited us later, with his hand bandaged. Over a family dinner table, he explained to us what had happened. Somehow, his explanation seemed to search---and find---Mama’s amused gaze, as he shook his head and exploded in frustration. Mrs Reoh, that woman had teeth like a crocodile!”

Nobody mentioned our cousin’s hand again, but he could see the glints of amusement in their eyes, while they remained discreetly silent. He was embarrassed and a little uneasy, but smug in his evaluation of the situation. At least the cat had gone to jail. What nobody pointed out, was the fact that jail was almost a second home to her. Mama cleared the table and put the left-overs under wrap to be served at the next meal. There wasn’t much she ever threw away. I suppose one could say, she recycled left-overs. Leftover creamed potatoes was recycled into potato pancakes, and leftover meat loaf was combined with macaroni, cheese and tomato sauce for a casserole.

POTATO PANCAKES One cup leftover mashed potatoes Two eggs One half cup milk One half cup flour

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Three tablespoons cooking oil Salt and pepper to taste Mix together and stir well. Stir some more. Almost beat the batter. Grease a medium skillet with cooking oil, and place over medium heat. Spoon batter into skillet in small round cakes and cook until light brown. Turn over and brown on other side. Potatao pancakes are good in a number of ways---with sour cream, tomato preserves or just plain butter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Baby sister, Rose, was born during a rain storm. And---as happens so many times---at night. It rained a lot during those years and most country roads were dirt. That meant mud. Sometimes cars would be stuck in the mud for hours. Extra power---sometimes animal and sometimes another car---would have to be employed. When Mama woke Daddy in the middle of the night and gave him the news, he had to walk to Grandma Reohâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house and bring her back to help. Grandma lived several miles from us, but in the wee hours of mud, it seemed endless. They came back wet and bedraggled and found the birth already a good ways along. They hovered over Mama for the rest of the night, and by nine oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock the next morning, another petite little girl was born.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

This one was a little doll, with dark eyes and hair. And, as she grew older, those dark eyes talked. A lot more eloquently than words. Rose was four years old when Mama took all her girls to a teen-aged relative’s birthday party in Raymondville. Mostly Mama wanted to take me, as I was a teen-ager also. June and Rose were really too young, but they participated anyway. June was always ahead of her years, and seemed to blend in confidently with teen-prattle, but Rose was only four. And parties then were far different than what we have today. This one had games like “Spin the Bottle” and “musical chairs,” and couples strolled around with locked arms. A lot of laughter and light banner---and squals of delight when she opened her presents. But Rose stole the show. Mama dressed her in a pleated skirt, that she had made herself, and a matching sweater. She wore baby-doll slippers with ankle socks that matched her sweater. Her dark, thick hair shone with a healthy luster and she had honed that skill of talking with her eyes to a perfection. She was adorable. She mingled with the party goers, and it seemed someone always had her on their lap. It was supposed to be a teen aged party, but Rose enjoyed it as much as anyone. She knew, at age four, how to turn a gathering into her own personal spotlight---without saying a word. And in a few years, this delicate balance of quiet charm and subtle flirtation, took her a long ways. All the way to Candidate for Miss Rio Grande Valley.

And it rained a lot during those years, but folks didn’t mind. It settled the dust. However, it also gave new meaning to “When it rains, it pours.” Between the dust and the rainy intervals, it almost seemed that a big dark cloud hovered over the land and rumbled at every endeaver to emerge into prosperity again. The Great Depression still had a death grip on us and we had only our wits to fight back with. And there’s nothing like a wet humid ground to bring out red ants and chiggers, but most aggravating of all was the mosquitoes. About all we had to protect ourselves was netting. Mama would arrange a mosquito-net tent over our beds at night, so we could get some rest. But, no matter how ingenious she was, there were always a few that out smarted her. The next morning a red blotch or two would bring out the antiseptic. Sometimes the mosquitoes outsmarted themselves. Mama would find a small bloody spot where one had feasted too much and had been squashed on the bed-sheet when his host rolled over.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

They say everything grows bigger in Texas, and I think that includes mosquitoes. They had to have been the meanest and most persistent ones on the planet. Big, hulking things that lit on an arm or neck and slid it’s sucking straw into the skin to feast. No matter how much slapping and fanning we did, we could never get them all. It was the livestock that suffered most. Their only defense was a swishing tail. But there is one thing that will keep mosquitoes at bay, and the farmers of the Valley took advantage of it. Wood Smoke. Each evening Daddy would build a wood fire in the pasture and gradually introduce green mesquite limbs into it. This took time and patience as green wood is extremely hard to catch and burn. When it finally does get going, it mostly smoulders and smokes---with not much flame at all. This is what Daddy wanted. The green fire was so slow it would usually last all night and the livestock could stand in this smoke for relief from mosquitoes. An influx of mosquitoes would usually last about three weeks---or if we were blessed with an early norther, it would be sooner.

For the most part, life seems to balance itself. “So many times when it’s a desperate situation,” a friend used to say, “someone comes.” And it seemed that emergencies arose according to handicaps. When Pete fell and hit his head on a sharp iron bedpost, there was a flat on the Model T and Daddy had the work truck in the field. Mama turned Pete over and saw what she thought was a hole in his forehead. She was not one to panic, but we could see hysteria welling up behind her eyes. She gathered Pete up in her arms and headed toward the dirt road out front that ran into San Perlita. Just the week before, a doctor, Doctor Harris, had opened his practice in San Perlita, and it had caused a mild glad sensation. Mama had Doctor Harris in mind as she started down the road. She shouted to me, as she passed, to take care of June and Rose. But it wasn’t necessary for her to head out down the road. So many times, “someone comes.” Maybe some special angel who places a person in the right place at the right moment, or maybe an appeal for help reaches the universal subconscious and sends a message to just the right person. Who can say? As Mama sped cross the yard, she saw our neighbor, Mr. Walker, leisurely rambling down the dirt road in a wagon and team of horses. It was a hot day and everything moved slowly, including the horses, who seemed to be able to amble along, half asleep.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Mama’s face was white as she sped across the yard, with blood covering Pete’s face. Mr. Walker gave one look and came alive. Without a word, he pulled the horses to a stop and leaped from the wagon to help her up. Still, without speaking, he cracked the whip over the horses’s heads, startling them out of their lethargic mood, and the wagon, with it’s occupants went flying down the road in a cloud of dust. As is usally the case, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Doctor Harris put several stitches in Pete’s forehead, applied an antiseptic, and bandaged it---and Mama brought him home. I was sitting on the porch with June and Rose and saw the wagon when it came into view. I knew everything was under control as the horses were back at their lethargic pace and the two neighbors were talking. But so many things had to be taken care of on the spot. During the summer months one of the kids always had a stubbed toe. The basic treatment was coal oil. Actually, it was kerosene, but Mama always called it Coal Oil. And it worked. There never was an infection from a sore toe at our house---in spite of the fact that it was exposed constantly to the elements, and a daily dose of the earth’s crust. Feet were always washed well each night, but sometimes Mama would have to soak a little foot in warm water, in order to clean it properly. Tough, leathery little feet could be scrubbed, but a sore toe was sensitive. After cleansing, said toe got a dose of coal oil. But some parents don’t seem to care much. Then, as now, there were those who ignored minor wounds and would let a toe go too long. One of my classmates in third grade kept showing me her sore toe---and it looked bad. One day she came to school all smiles. Her mother had washed her sore toe and there wasn’t any sore there at all. It had just been let go so long, with nature’s scab protecting the wound and dirt collecting each day, that it had built up into some kind of raised---something. Where the dirt and the “something” had been washed away, pink shiny new skin was evident. Mama would make a fresh poultice for fresh cuts and skin tears. She made hers with bread and warm sweet milk. She tied this mixture securely in a clean cloth and applied it to the wound overnight. It worked. Maybe it was psychological or maybe it was the magic of believing, but something happened, and it felt better. For burns, the informed citizenry of the Depression applied butter. How that one ever got traction is a mystery. Butter will just seal in the heat and make it worse. But, at our house, it was written in stone, until one day a Spanish friend from the compound told Mama about Aloe Vera. It seemed that everyone in

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Mexico knew about Aloe Vera. It would heal a wound in half the time and take the heat out of a burn. And it was native to the Southwest and would grow anywhere. The poorest of the peons, back in the mountain regions, had been using it for generations. And, when Mama burned her finger on the cook stove, this friend brought a leaf over for her to try. It didn’t look very impressive. Something like the leaves of the desert plant Spanish Dagger--without the dagger. Actually some might classify it in the cactus family, but with no thorns. But no directions came with using the plant, and the friend simply snipped off a chunk of leaf with scissors. The juice was thick and slimy, but she applied the slimy stuff indiscriminately over Mama’s burned hand. By nightfall, Mama hardly knew she had a burn. The pain was gone. Needless to say, Mama got an Aloe Vera plant. She had hers in a pot, as it seemed to grow very well inside the house, or out. It wasn’t very large; it’s leaves a variety of pale green and white stripes, and not very pretty, as pot plants go. But, to Mama, it was pure gold. For colds and influenza there was Vicks Vaporub and Bromo-Quinine. And for all those little noname ailments---from gout to gas pains---there was Castor Oil. Sometimes Castor Oil served as a cure-all when nobody knew what to do. And sometimes just a good cleaning-out was what WAS needed. We each have an amazing thing called the immune system. We’re not sure what it is as it cannot be put under a microscope and analyzed, but it works. Oh how kids hated Castor Oil. Actually, it has no taste---just a couple of teaspoons of nasty oil, usually mixed with orange juice to help get it down---and hopefully not have it come back up again---made us feel a little better. Sometimes it just HAD to be the Magic of Believing. However, there were some things that had already proven their worth. Vicks Vaporub was standard in most households. When a child woke up with a sore throat and trouble breathing in the middle of the night, Vicks was there. The steam from it could be inhaled to open up sinuses and clear congestion of the respiratory tract, and it could be rubbed on the chest and throat, and covered warmly at night for relief of colds and flu. And there was something soothing about being rubbed down with a coating of Vaporub, and doning a warm soft undershirt under their pajama top, and a sock pinned around the neck to keep the body

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

heat in, to insure a warm healing night’s sleep. The smell of Vicks Vaporub permeated the whole house, but we didn’t mind. It smelled like love and security. There were quite a few natural remedies that the depression-era folks had to fall back on. And so many times their worth was found by the trial and error method. Eucalyptus oil could be used if there was no Vaporub---and sometimes it did seem to work. But not like vaporub and a warm sock. What one knew was freely given to those in need. The helpful neighbor told Mama of cranberry juice for a urinary tract infection. Mama thought a long time before taking her advice again; still remembering the toad stools---but what did she have to lose? At least Cranberry juice was a nutritious beverage, and there was certainly no risk in trying it. A urinary track infection can be very painful, and after a night walking the floor, Mama doubled up on it, but it worked. That bit of advice from the helpful neighbor over-rode a multitude of reservations, and Mama was grateful. She decided that cranberry juice was a keeper, and she would share it when the opportunity arose. Depression-era wives also depended on Cod Liver Oil to a great degree. Babies were given small amounts of this wonder elixir almost from birth, and it was used as a supplement for growing adolescents who showed an inclination to be cross or moody. Whether this helped a teen-ager over the impossible years was doubtful, and maybe they preferred a disagreeable disposition to the Cod-Liver Oil. Who can know? Another natural supplement was the Papaya melon. That’s all. Just the meat of the melon. It was supposed to banish colds and fever. Maybe some housewives were a little skeptical of this one. There did seem to be a general consensus that in order to be good for us, it had to taste bad. Papayas are delicious.

Mama made Fried Green Tomatoes. The idea was new then, and how could we actually know that it would be a staple in the latter part of the century. At first, the idea turned us off, but Mama could be persistent---“just try it, you’ll like it.”

FRIED GREEN TOMATOES

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

One or more large green tomatoes One half cup flour One cup cornmea Two eggs---beaten. Vegetable oil Salt and pepper to taste. Slice tomatoes evenly, salt and pepper on both sides. In medium bowl, add corn meal and flour. Mix well. Heat enough vegetable oil to cover both sides of the tomatoes, on medium or high. While oil is heating up, dip tomato slices into bowl of beaten eggs. Take from egg mixture and immediately roll in the cornmeal and flour mixture. Coat well. By now, oil should be hot enough to drop coated tomatoes into. Fry well---or until crispy light and brown. Drain on paper town and eat while still hot. Delicious! Really!

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER TWELVE On the first of May each year, San Perlita Grade School had a May Pole festival. Somewhere in the middle of April, each class chose a candidate for King, from among their ranks. The process was an emotional one. As each class trotted out their chosen one, the candidates were presented to the school. The last week in April another election was held, with everyone having a vote, and a King of the festival was chosen. Sometimes there would be a run-off and an emotional turmoil ensued, the result being another election. It would be close, but one would always pull a little ahead and win. On Maypole night, this boy would be crowned King and would choose his queen among the little girls in school. All girls in grades between first and sixth were eligible. Hopes were high among the girls and, in her private day dreams, each saw herself crowned in a sparkling crown and a velvet, fur-trimmed cape draped ceremoniously over her shoulders. The chocen King was carried high for a few days and was held in awe by the rest of the students. Little girls flirted and fawned, and the King found himself the most popular boy in school. By this time everyone’s interest would be on a tall pole that was being fixed in the ground, with a ring of ball-bearings at the top that would allow it to turn. Back in a corner of the high school auditorium, a committee of students, under the direction of several students, worked on the throne for the King---and one for his Queen. The two thrones would be ordinary Rattan chairs with large, fan-shaped backs and wide arm rests. They were decorated with crepe paper and gold tin-foil with carefully blended pastel colors. These two were alluded to as the “Rainbow Thrones.” On the appointed day, paper ribbons of pastel colors would be attached at the top of the May Pole and allowed to swing out at the bottom. The ring of ball bearings at the top of the Pole allowed these streamers to rotate around, and they fluttered lightly in the breeze until school was out and excitement approached fever pitch. The beautifully decorated thrones would have been brought out to the May Pole, and a festive mood throbbed over the school. It would be getting near sun down when decorative lights were turned on to give a soft glow to the arena. Everyone came. On this night the King would be crowned and seated on his throne and would choose some lucky little girl as his Queen. One year June was crowned Queen. Excitement had been high at our house, and it had been speculated over for days. By the time of the crowning, there were always indications of who the Queen

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

might be. Little grade-school children are not very discreet. And all indications pointed to June this time. By the time darkness fell, the soft lights on pastel hues gave the May Pole scene a surreal, mystic appearance. Suspense lay in great layers and expectancy hovered among the children. Then, softly, the music started and a hush fell over the crowd. From somewere a dozen little kindegarten girls, dressed as fairies, danced forth and each grasped a ribbon from the May Pole. Several had to be coached by their mothers from ringside, and one cried and her mother took her out of the program and cuddled her. But the others carried on; each grasping a ribbon from the May Pole. Swaying softly, they seemed to float, as they slowly revolved around the Pole, singing in childish voices. Fairy rings are all about us, as we dance upon the green Thrice good luck, the fairies shout us As we kneel to crown the King And the little fairies stopped with their heads bowed. The music continued and two little boys, dressed like elves with green feathers in their hats, escorted the King to his throne. He was seated and the two little elves danced as they backed away. All was serene and silent for a moment as the music played in the background and a night breeze fluttered the ribbons in the hands of the kneeling fairies. Then, suddenly, came the Nature Princess. This was usually one of the older girls; dressed in a full skirt that swirled around her, like a soft cloud. She held a velvet pillow, upon which was a gold and jeweled crown. This had been made by the students too, with gold foil and a ring of green glass beads, draped artfully in loops and around the edges. The ingredients were simple, but the finished product looked like the real thing. Under the soft lights, it sparkled like a million jewels. Nature Princess placed the crown on the Kingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head and, with a bow, stepped back. With this bow, the music swelled and the fairies came to life. Dipping and swirling, with their ribbons clasped firmly in their hands, they swayed in perfect harmony to the music. Then it was time for the dance of the elves, and six little â&#x20AC;&#x153;elvesâ&#x20AC;? spun into the spotlight; all were dressed as the first two had been, and, in fact, these two were included. But who noticed? The fairies were still as the elves danced, and when they had bowed out, Nature Princess danced.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

The music became a crude version of “The Sugarplum Fairy,”and Nature Princess ruined it, but San Perlita didn’t know the difference. She was lovely in her white, shimmering dress and flowing blonde hair, and that was all that mattered. When the time came to announce his Queen, the King rose. All fell silent as he looked majestically out over the crowd. The audience held it’s breath as a deliberate silence fell over everything. Then he called June’s name, and the crowd went wild. Mothers had tears in their eyes and the other little girls tried to look happy for the winner. It was a very emotional time for the audience as she was escorted toward the throne, and the first part of the ceremony was repeated. “Fairy rings are all about us---” Sometimes the smiles were a little strained, but nobody noticed. June, herself, was serene. No matter how much the secret is guarded, the May Queen always knew in advance that she was the chosen one. June knew, and had prepared herself for this moment. She had decided from the first that there would be no gasp of surprise and breathless excitement---no tears or fawning modesty. She had been chosen Queen, and she would act like one. Serene and confident, she nodded her “thank you” as Nature Princess laid several long stemmed roses in her arms. It was an emotional moment for the audience, as the King received the crown, from the same velvet cushion, and turned to June. Wild clapping broke out when a velvet cape was draped over her shoulders, and the coveted crown was placed on her head. I was rather proud of June as I watched from the audience. She straightened and stood tall, nodding graciously to the small crowd---rewarding them with a slight smile. There was more dancing and visiting before the May Pole ceremony was over, and June was congratulated and hugged as she made her way through the crowd---still in her cape and crown. It was a small triumph, but one she would always remember. To this day, I can’t remember who the King was that year. We only saw June, with everyone kneeling to crown her. She got to keep the gold crown too. To us, it was gold, even if it were made of tinsel, and the Crown Jewels of glass. She didn’t get to keep the royal cape though. It was fashioned from a large velvet towel, belonging to one of the teachers, and she wanted it back. But June was given the silver wand. I always thought the fairies got the wand, but San Perlita

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

never did go strictly by the rules. Whatever the rules, June was a pretty May Queen. Then the ceremony ended and the throne turned back into a pumpkin. The moment of glory was over, and everyone was going home. It had been a satisfying evening, and by midnight the arena was bleak and empty; the crepe paper and now-limp ribbons moving slightly in the breeze and the forelorn May Pole looking bedraggled and forgotten. A few bits of paper was scattered on the ground; to be picked up by a tired and jaded janitor in the morning, and everyone would return to their mundane chores and every day existence. All except June. She lorded it over the rest of us for the next week---sometimes she got downright overbearing---until the event slowly faded. But she hung onto it as long as she could.

And with the soft lingering memory of the May Pole still wafting over the little town, Easter seemed to creep slowly forward. Mama always prepared our Easter Baskets herself. Shredded green paper could be made without much effort, and groups of little girls boiled eggs and put forth their best artistic skills with crayons. Sometimes the result was a little less than artistic, but they were included anyway. Mama made Eastor Egg dye with scraps of crepe paper. This crepe is so pretty when used for decorative purposes, but when soaked in a cup of hot water, all the color comes off in the water; leaving the original piece of crepe paper white and lifeless. Mama collected these scraps, left over from church pageants and occasional displays at Dora Mooreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Grocery and Post Office. She never threw anything away, and when the occasion arrived wherein she could find use for them, she had them. These hot cups of colored water was perfect to dip our eggs in. Easter was a soft promise. New growing grasses and young romping animals. Egg hunts sprang up everywhere. Candy eggs were rare, but the boiled ones were festive and colorful. There was no such thing as Spring Break, so the Easter holiday was â&#x20AC;&#x153;itâ&#x20AC;? for school kids. Classrooms were decorated with colored pictures of the Easter Bunny in all his glory, hovering over a nest of brightly colored eggs---all compliments of the students, and in a more somber vein, there would be crayon-colored pictures of Christ at the entrance of an empty tomb. The real reason for Easter. These serious pictures were always colored by the most artistic kids. Those that could keep their crayon strokes within the lines.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

A favorite at Easter was the Bunny Cake. It seemed this appropriate creation appeared on almost every party table, and was fairly simple to make.

BUNNY CAKE One and one-half cup flour One half cup shortening Two thirds cup sugar Two eggs One and one-half teaspoon baking powder One and one-fourth teaspoon vanilla One medium-sized, well greased cake pan, shaped like a rabbit. Mix flour, baking powderand salt together and set aside. In large mixing bowl, cream shortening, sugar, eggs and vanilla. Beat until lemony. Fold in dry ingredients---a little at a time---stirring well after each addition. Beat mixture well. Bake at 350 degrees in the rabbit-shaped cake pan until knife slides out clean Empty cake on cake plate.

FROSTING FOR BUNNY CAKE Three egg whites---cleanly separated. One-half cup sugar One half teaspoon Cream of Tartar A package of long-stripped coconut In medium bowl, beat egg whites and half cup sugar until smooth. Add cream of tartar and beat until mixture stands in peaks. Spread over rabbit-shaped cake. Sprinkle cocoanut liberally over cake. This gives it a realistic look. A jelly-bean or an M & M can be used for eyes.

And, for girls, an Easter Dress was a must. The nearest thing to an Easter Parade took place in church on Easter morning. Many girls had matching hats, and the baby girls were adorable. There is

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

nothing cuter than a little kindergarten girl in fluffy ruffles and a matching bonnet. But older girls tend to be more sophisticated---if there is such a thing at Easter. They had to balance a sense of fashion with the softness of the holiday mood. Usually, mothers made Easter Dresses, and, during those hard times, they had to use what they could afford. There was a new fabric called “voile” on the market that one year, that seemed, on the surface, to be ideal. It was airy and pretty, and had a soft balmy texture that embodied the Easter spirit---and most important of all---it was affordable. The problem with this fabric, was that it tended to be a little stiff. It didn’t “give” with the natural sway of the body, and didn’t “fall” when one stood up. When molded; it tended to stay in that shape. Thus, when the girl sat down, she could be prim and pretty, but when she stood up, the shape of her butt was molded on the back of her dress. She could reach back and smooth the back of her dress before sauntering out into the mainstream, but, any time she sat down, it was all to do over again. So many times, a girl fighting back embarrassed tears, threw her Easter Dress on the bed and vowed never to have anything to do with “voile” again. So be it.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

CHAPTER THIRTEEN In hard times man falls back on primitive instincts. This was hard times and the instinct seemed to be hunting. After the murder investigation of the Blantons as they hunted in the King Ranch, most men now stayed out. And the men in the Valley couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t compete with their mammoth-hunting ancestors, but they made a good showing when a hungry family waited at home. A lot of the Valley was still uncleared then, and they managed. Wild ducks and geese are tender and easy to prepare, and venison has always been a staple. Wild meat has a low-calorie, high protein content and has a distinct flavor all itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own. But it must

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

be prepared right. The hunters in the Valley always dressed out their game on the spot. It must be cooled right away. Larger game, like venison and wild hog, should be “aged” for a few days at a constant 34 to38 degrees F. This tenderizes the meat. Wild meat tends to be a little strong. This can be altered by putting meat in a pot of cold water. Add half a cup of baking soda and let it sit for twenty four hours in the coolest place in the kitchen. Change the water and baking soda two or three times during this period. Rinse well before cooking. Another tenderizer for wild meat is vinegar. Soaking a day or two in vinegar makes a world of difference.

But the term “Wild Meat” covers a vast territory. For some the very idea of eating squirrels and groundhog were just unacceptable. But a hungry family can overcome a whole passel of taboo inhibitions. Some might hold their noses at some of them and some might wonder, while other might be driven by sheer desperation to try them. The instinct for survival is our strongest one and hunger is a powerful drive. However, Mama took a dim view of some of those recipes and could turn her nose up, and her thumbs down in such a way that left no doubt as to her opinion. None of that stuff in her kitchen. To Mama, the line between what was meant to be eaten and what was not, was as visible and distinctive as the one between “Shou shalt” and “Thou shalt not.” She told us, with eyes of steel, that the ones that slither and creep are not to be eaten. But there were some who claimed to love these exotic dishes, and vowed to eat them long after the depression was over. After all, we still eat snails, don’t we? At least some of us do. There was the lowly armadillo. There were those that baked the armadillo, and swore it tasted like pork. A cynic and bitter Southwest called it the “Hoover Hog;” a derisive jab at President Hoover and the depths to which he had taken the country. The armadillo is a gentle and harmless little animal, with a brain the size of a pea, that roots in the ground. It’s really a clean animal---a lot more so than hogs. But, to Mama, it was unthinkable to eat one. Wild hog was one thing; armadillo quite another. To the more delicately inclined, there was another name for armadillo.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

Vichyssoise. This exotic name gave the armadillo a more respectable flair. What’s in a name? Evidently quite a bit. Those too squeamish to eat armadillo, had no trouble eating Vichyssoise.

PORK VICHYSSOISE One cup armadillo (or white pork) meat, cut into small chunks. One and one half pounds of pinto beans---soaked overnight in soft water. Three white potatoes---diced Worcestershire sauce---to taste Sufficient water One half teaspoon vinegar One tablespoon chopped garlic Three tablespoons cooking oil Two medium onions---chopped Salt and pepper to taste Place armadillo pieces into pot. Add chopped onions. Saute meat and onions in cooking oil until browned. Add beans and cover with water---a generous amount of water---and bring to a boil. Now add garlic, vinegar, potatoes and the pepper and salt. Bring to a boil again, then turn heat down and simmer. Add more water when needed. Dish must be covered with water at all times. As it cooks, the juices from meat, veggies and beans will mix and produce a delicious juice. Dish is ready to serve when pinto beans are soft. Armadillo meat is a lot like white pork. It cooks well and a lot of folks like it. You just have to remember that you are eating Vichyssoise, not Hoover Hog.

And there were other “wild” options, if one knew where to look. One morning Mama sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and eyed her nearly empty shelves of canned fruit and preserves. We were down to having honey with our breakfast biscuits, and she needed an idea. But she was stumped. She had just about run out of ideas. Then her gaze fell on a prickly-pear cactus that had sprung up in the yard,

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

near a big old mesquite tree. Those pesky things spring up everywhere they can get a toe-hold. This one was small, but covered with beautiful yellow cactus roses and ripe red pods lined in plump rows, called pear apples. Ripe red pear apples. But there was a catch to those pear apples, and it was a major one. The whole cactus plant was covered in tiny thorns. The hair-fine kind that can get into the skin and be almost invisible. All thorns are bad, but the worst kind is the kind that one can’t see. It seemed the darned things penetrated where there was no way of penetrating, and before long they were announcing themselves to their human hosts. Mama didn’t see why these plump ripe pods couldn’t be made into jelly or jam, but getting to them, seemed insurmountable. She studied the situation for several days as she went about her housework. The idea came when she went with Daddy to feed the farm animals and observed that he also burned cactus for the cattle. He built a fire and impaled each Prickly Pear leaf on a pitchfork to hold over the blaze. As she watched, he turned each leaf over until all the thorns were burned off, before feeding them to waiting cows. As the cows stood contentedly chewing burned prickly pear, Mama began to get a nucleus of an idea. But one thing just kept sticking in her mind---a cow’s skin is tough, and a human’s is not. The same hair thorns that a cow would ignor, could give a human itchy fits. But there had to be a way, and burning was a step in the right direction. Then she remembered that boiling had enabled her to slip the skin off tomatoes, and she didn’t see why she couldn’t use the same technique with cactus apples. So Mama burned---and boiled---and came up with another winner. She wasn’t sure if it were jelly or preserves, since it would never completely jell or become firm. It remained a thick heavy syrup. But which-ever it was, it was a hit from the first morning, and Mama preened a little when little ones licked their spoons.

CACTUS JELLY Cut a pot full of denuded (burned and boiled) cactus apples---or pear apples sounds more respectable--- in small pieces; add enough water to cover tops of the fruit, and cook over low fire, adding

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

water when needed. Cook slowly over low flame, until pulp is separated from juice. Place in cheesecloth bag and squeeze out juice. Measure three and a half cups of juice from cooked fruit Add one fourth cup of lemon juice. Eight cups of sugar. Bring pear apple juice , lemon juice and sugar to a high rolling boil, then turn heat down very low and stir thoroughly, cover and simmer---until mixture sheets from a spoon. Remove from heat, skim off foam quickly, and pour into a container. Cactus Jelly has a unique flavor and keeps well. However, it does not ever completely jell. It remains a heavy syrup, but it is delicious. It can also be used with plain cake---a la strawberry shortcake. It is one of the few fruits that are completely native to the Southwest. The early Spanish were undaunted by fierce cactus thorns and made the cactus apple a part of their staple diet. Those early ones were tough.

During those hard times, most of the farmers had hives of bees. The honey was a prized food and took the place of expensive sugar in many cases. A farmer plowing in the fields would sometimes see a swarm of bees in search of a place to hive, and would hurry over to throw loose dirt into the swarm. This always confused them, especially if it penetrated to the center of the swarm where the queen was. Once confused, they swarmed in an erratic circle. The farmer could then fan them with loose dirt toward his farm yard and to a place where they could be housed. Most men could “herd” a swarm of bees as well as a herd of cattle. Then he had a swarm of bees for his own use. Robbing the bee-hive was a sensitive operation. Bees are slow to anger, but even this hardworking peasant objected to having his house robbed. Most men---in fact the majority---respected his right to anger and stayed a safe distance away. And some were downright, unabashedly cowards. Out of this medley, were those who weren’t afraid to wade right in. They wore netting and thick gloves and made a big show of approaching the hive while everyone else got further back out of the way. These bold ones knew the rules. They were to take just so much of the honey. They would leave enough for the bees to live too. But the bold ones were also a bit arrogant---especially with an audience.

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

They approached as if they were entering a lion’s cage with a whip and a chair, and seemed to exude just a faint contempt for the more timid individuals standing a safe distance away. Everyone called on these brave ones when it was time to take in the honey, and they enjoyed something a little akin to celebrity status. There does seem to be a few people who can walk among the residents of a swarming hive and come away unscathed. Maybe the bees can smell fear, as dogs seem to do. But then there are others who just seem to attract the ornery little insect. Daddy just declared that he could be walking through a pasture and one single bee would come meandering by, and sting him. Almost as if his very presence irritated the testy little beast. But the young and innocent onlooker---more or less ignored---can sometimes be brash in their curiosity. We had an adolescent friend who was more bold than the usual. A girl with long thick, really pretty---but thick---hair. This girl was more-or-less inclined to ignore the warning of the experienced, and got a little too close to the hive when the bees were in an angry mood. It didn’t take long for an infuriated bee to dive for her and get tangled in her hair. Several minutes of slapping availed nothing and soon she had more bees entangled in her hair. As with a person on fire, her first instinct was to run, and she tore out down the dirt road screaming and tearing at her hair. To the by-standers, it looked bad as they had no idea what was wrong with the girl. She could be in pain or she could be having a fit. Finally, several of the younger men caught her and picked the bees out of her hair. The bees were already dead from all the slapping and tearing, but the girl didn’t know that. Fresh honey is good in so many recipes. It can be used on pan-cakes in the morning---in lieu of syrup---or simply mixed with butter and spread on biscuits or toast. It’s delicious in tea, and some people have even been known to eat it with a spoon. One of our favorite treats was Lemon Peel Honey Muffins.

LEMON PEEL HONEY MUFFINS

Two and a half cups oat bran, uncooked Two cups whole wheat flour Two teaspoons baking powder

Nuggets From the Great Depression Lois Scott

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One and one-half teaspoons baking soda Two cups unsweetened applesauce One half cup vegetable oil One half cup honey Two large egg whites One half teaspoon almond extract Three tablespoons grated lemon rind.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Grease cuplets in two muffin tins, or use paper muffin cups. In a medium bowl, combine flour, bran, baking powder and baking soda. Mix well. In another bowl, combine apple sauce, oil, honey egg whites, almond extract and lemon peel. Mix well. Beat slightly until batter is smooth. Fill prepared muffin cups almost full. Place in oven and reduce heat to 375 degrees. Bake 18 to 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Honey can be used in a number of sauces and glazes, and I have never heard of anyone being allergic to it.

In the fall of the year, Mama liked to meander around through wooded pastures and along fence rows. She observed the tiniest snail and saw beauty in the minuscule blossoms underfoot. So small, they seemed to cling to fence posts for protection. And sometimes she found more than she bargained for, but she took this in stride too. She never turned away from anything that needed help, whether two legged or four legged, and that happened to be the situation when she peered through the bushes and saw a mama cat and three kittens, near death from starvation and lack of water. Mama brought them home, fed and refreshed them, and fixed a box of clean, soft rags for the kittens. After having water and a good meal, the mama cat sat down and took stock of her surroundings. She would be sharing the yard with a medley of strangers who were now eying her with equal curiosity. The guineas set up a noisy den but kept their distance, and Tige and Pup raised their ears and whoofed at

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her, but showed no hostility. Several resident cats smelled noses with her and gave her a few warning hisses, and the chickens simply ignored her. There didn’t seem to be a threat of any kind, but she was still a little uneasy. Mama watched from the kitchen winndow and observed a few things about the new-comer. She was not a pretty cat. Long and lanky, with a bent ear and keen yellow eyes, she seemed to have no endearing features. She was also an old cat. Mama guessed that this would probably be her last litter of kittens. She was named “Granny.” Granny settled in with an ease that was unusual for an outcast, but she let it be known early-on that she could hold her own. And, with good food and water, her kittens began to fatten and flourish. Mama would hear them thumping as they played in their box, and knew it would not be long before they would be coming out into the everyday world. It was actually only several days later that she found the first one on the floor outside the box. When it became obvious that they were ready to leave their box, Mama put them outside the kitchen door in the sunshine, and fixed a food bowl for the kittens alone. They thrived, and, before long, they were venturing further and further out into the yard. Several times Tige nipped at one of them, but it was only a threat. But about the second time this happened, Granny made her presence known. With ears slightly flattened and tail lashing slowly and uneasily, old Granny cast slitted eyes around the yard and saw threats to her kittens everywhere. Not one to hesitate, she then set about to run everything there, out behind the barn. There would be no threat to her kittens. The yard residents didn’t go easily. It took some persuasion with Tige, but finally she gave the dog a swipe that brought blood and he went howling out where all the others waited. Poor old Pup was old and stove-up, but he went as fast as his short little legs would carry him. Several times, the resident cats peeped around the barn and gave plaintive “meows” before Granny got them---and before long, they realized it was useless to complain. Granny had laid down the law.

And that big old lanky cat could run. The resident cats plowed ground getting away from her

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wrath. Mama watched from the window, but decided to let them settle it themselves. Evidently, it was becoming somewhat of a power struggle, and she had to admire old Granny for standing up for her kittens. But Tige was Pete’s dog, and when he brought him around to the kitchen door one morning, Granny couldn’t object. She was outranked. And Tige just had to rub it in. Looking straight at old Granny, he walked brazenly over and took a bite out of the kitten’s food dish. That was the mistake of the century. Granny gave a hiss that made Tige’s hair stand on end, and, with a wild lunge, dug all four sets of claws in Tige’s rear end. Tige bawled and tried to get away and run back out behind the barn, but Granny held on---like a sack dragging behind. She rode Tige‘s butt all the way around behind the barn before she let go. Tige never got uppity toward Granny and her kittens again. Mama had been tempted several times to interfere, but, as she thought about it from her vantage point in the window, she decided that it was best to let them work it out themselves. Sure enough, in time, Granny’s kittens got old enough to fend for themselves and Granny relaxed. She was not nearly so aggressive now and eventually the residents of the yard inched cautiously back into their old routine. But Tige kept an eye on her for a long time. He’d never trust that ornery old cat again.

There were several roads into Raymondville, and on down into the Valley, from the farm. One was a dirt backroad that wound around through scrub brush, pastures, and irrigation ditches. High weeds whipped the sides of the car, and sometimes the narrow road almost played out, but would re-connect a little further on. Mama dubbed this road “Frog Hollar.” She never liked to go through “Frog Hollar” if she could help it. Some parts of it were just too isolated. Suppose something happened to the car? What were chances of anybody else coming through before the heavy nightfall. Mama was sure the night would be extra dark and forbidding in Frog Hollar. But there was one advantage. The Frog Hollar road met with the pavement just a few blocks from Valley Baptist Hospital. It was a short cut in an emergency. Going through

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this back way would save a lot of miles---and time---if something unthinkable should happen. Mama had a unique name for a lot of things. She believed in that old saying “If the shoe fits, wear it.” There was a trail that led down through a long lane into our pasture, where we brought the cow in every night. This path was pleasant enough ordinarily, but on hot sizzling days, with no shade, and sand burrs laying a trap for bare feet, we always hurried a little faster. Mama dubbed this “Lizard Run.” On these sizzling days, with heat waves shimmering ahead, the ground seemed to be alive with red ants and a few lizards. These two species loved hot, bearing-down days. Mama had no problem with lizards. In fact, she felt a sort of empathy with them. They would stand very still and watch her---as motionless as a stone---but, at the tiniest movement, would shoot off like a bullet---only to pop up somewhere else and watch her with black beady little eyes. However the little creatures were harmless, as was their cousin, the horned toad. Horned toads were everywhere. They were slow and ungainly, and loners by nature. Their only means of defense seemed to be their looks. They looked like miniature dinosaurs with horns everywhere. But something about the little critters fascinated kids. We caught every one we found, but wouldn’t think of hurting one. Eventually, we would turn it loose. But they were so docile and harmless, we just wanted to hold them. However, there was one thing that not many people knew. The ungainly little dinosaur would spit in your eye, if it was mad. And, worst of all, it would spit blood. But, as small as they were, the spit of blood was only a speck, and very seldom did one get mad enough to go to that length. Usually gentle and long-suffering, they went their own way, and didn’t bother anyone. The only creatures that had anything to fear from the horned toad, was the red ants. Big old ants; with dull red color, and no sense of humor. A bite---or---sting from one left a dull paralyzing pain that just seemed overwhelming, and caused a kernel to form inside the upper leg. It would take a day or two to get over it. And these ants built big spreading dens on the ground. Like a big fried egg, with the nucleus a well traveled little tunnel in the ground where hundreds of them went in and out, and were busy all day long. They seemingly had dens everywhere, and were the favorite food for the horned toad. The horned toad had a tough skin and horns everywhere, and they were immune to the sting of the red ant. One little toad would invade one of the ant spreads and have dinner.

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Hurricane season began somewhere in the middle of summer and lasted until around the last of October. Usually this didn’t mean much, but a few tropical storms have devastated the Valley, since it borders on the Gulf of Mexico. Sometimes they have come close enough to drench the tip of Texas with rain, and sometimes they brought strong winds---and a few times they have hit dead center. During those years, most houses in the Valley were not built to withstand the fury of a hurricane, and everyone had to seek shelter in a well-built establishment. In San Perlita there was only one. The school building. And, in the late summer of 1933, one of those furious ones hit. The radio gave warnings, and those without a radio were contacted by neighbors. Word spread and everyone watched the sky with a worried expression. As the storm came closer, it became obvious that it was not going to change it’s course, and San Perlita was right in it’s path. Everyone in the Valley began to board up their windows and prepare. And the residents of San Perlita, and outlying areas, gathered their families and went to the San Perlita High school building. Everyone got the warning, and sometimes several families arrived together. Those that had automobiles transported as many as they could, and everyone brought blankets and pillows. This was a bad one, and everyone went---one way or another--Whether they wanted to or not. Everyone milled around inside in the hallways, and a few old crabs made it miserable for everyone else, but within a few hours, these had been put in their place, and a pecking order established. Families grouped together in the hallways, and staked out claims in the classrooms, and one scrappy young hen, with her two chicks, homesteaded in the Principal’s office. The first night, there was mostly rain with a little wind---and that weird, pallid atmosphere that accompanies a hurricane. Almost as if it warned the huddled masses inside the school that it was on it’s way. Blankets were spread and pillows handed around as children were bedded down, and mothers clucked and cooed in concern. The men all stacked up before the school entrance, to watch the storm from the safety of within. The next morning the hurricane hit in all it’s fury. Those men still at the entrance looked at each other, and several wondered out loud how their automobiles were faring---out in the parking lot. Cars were not that easy to come by, and those that had them were proud. Small children whimpered and clung to their mothers, and older ones sat looking out over the scene with large, solemn eyes. The hallway looked drab

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and in disarray, and there was a line at each restroom door. Women with tired, weary faces folded blankets and tucked pillows away, while wondering about breakfast for the children. The lunch room was opened and several ladies volunteered to cook; rummaging around to see what was there. They added condensed milk to what eggs were available, and oatmeal to the pancake batter and the children ate. Even the little hen in the Principal’s office emerged and took back a breakfast for her chicks. It was slim fare, but it would do.

The Principal had stayed all night helping to maintain order, see to the comfort of everyone and try to evict the little hen from his office. He hadn’t had much luck with the latter. She had made a stand in there with a palet on the floor for her chicks, while she, herself, curled up in the desk chair. Each time the Principal knocked discreetly on the door, he was met by a determined stance and fiercly challenging eyes. The principal, himself, was new that year, and just a tad apprehensive in the face of this. He hadn’t counted on having to deal with a tremendous catastrophic situation like this. Some of the smaller children in the hallway, tried to get a ball game going to break the monotony, but the ball always landed where it wasn’t supposed to, and several women snapped in irritation, causing a reaction from other, protective, mothers. There might have been a minor skirmish in the hall if the Principal---beginning to look haggard and frazzled--- hadn’t intervened and banished the ball to the security of a utility closet. Outside, the hurricane raged like a hungry beast.

It was one of the worst the Valley had ever known, and, as daylight gave a dense light outside, the men at the entrance tried to strain their eyes to access the damage---but they could see nothing. For most of the day the storm hung on and the wind and rain pounded the school viciously. But as evening approached, it began to weaken, and by dark, it’s strength seemed to have blown over, but small squirmishes still made themselves felt, and it seemed as if they looked outside into a wall of wind and water. To the miserable people huddled inside, it seemed as if time stood still, and they were, in some way, hostages. They were trapped by the weather. Hungry children whimpered and mothers spread blankets and prepared to spend another night. Everyone milled restlessly and miserably, but prepared to make the best of

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it. The worst part was that they weren’t even sure they had homes still standing to go back to. This was the most miserable night of all, but when morning came, they looked out to a clear blue sky. Clouds had receded and the sun peeped out---revealing the chaos in all it’s horror. Everyone pushed their way out on the circular cement porch, framing the front of the school. Water lapped at the edges of the little porch and trees were down everywhere. The bushy citrus trees, in nearby orchards, were still standing, but naked as the day they were planted. All the leaves, along with their fruit, floated on the ocean of water that covered everything. As the first rays of the sun cleared and beamed down---almost apologetically---on the huddled masses coming to life, the Principal urged everyone to stay on the cement porch until it was safe to try to step off. He was a little hoarse this morning, with tired red eyes and frazzled hair. But he had a look of relief on his face, that over-rode any defects. The cars in the parking lot had only their tops visible, and grown men wept. Most of the families went home in wagons, pulled by mules. We had come to the school ahead of the storm, with an uncle. He had a new car and had been rather smug about helping folks with his prize automobile. Now, this Uncle and his family, went home with us---in a wagon pulled by mules. Daddy walked home to get the wagon and mules---not knowing if there WERE any wagon and mules. He had been relieved to find the house still standing; although with the porch mangled and submerged, and the mules and cow standing in water up to their withers. Dead chickens floated everywhere, but we had a house. Riding through the empty street of San Perlita, in the back of the rattledy wagon, I remember dragging my hands through the water all around and finding a soft crust of leaves, dead limbs and citrus fruit---not yet ripe---floating. Most families did find their houses intact. Sparsely-made houses can “breathe” and “give” in cases like this, where some rigid, tightly-build ones will break. It was a long time before the Valley recovered from the storm, but no lives were lost. Residents had endured several miserable days in the San Perlita school building and the little hen in the Principal’s office had vacated without having to be evicted. Folks began to stir and gather their mundane lives about them.

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After this ordeal, mundane sounded pretty good.

But not everyone came through without loss. Some of the older houses didn’t make it. In these cases, San Perlita did what Americans have always done---they came together and helped the unfortunate ones to get on their feet. Old animosities were set aside temporarily, until everyone was on equal footing again, and those that needed help were taken in. This is not to say that everything was sweetness and light among the families---just that basic survival took first place.

Mama was pretty good at stretching her budget and what ingredients she had. As one lady so aptly put it, “She could subtly and salaciously add water to the soup.” But nobody apologized for shortages after the hurricane. The Great Depression was still sitting on the land and sounds of war were beginning to be heard in Europe. These were situations that affected everyone, and a vague uneasiness was beginning to be felt. But in most households food was still the first priority, and a common potato casserole alongside a scratch biscuit was more than welcome.

POTATO AND CHEESE CASSEROLE Two pounds potatoes, peeled and quartered One half cup butter or margarine One medium onion---chopped Three slices bacon---chopped Salt and pepper to taste Cheddar cheese---grated Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Chop potatoes into small chunks and boil until tender. Drain water. Add butter. Add salt and pepper. In separate fry pan, fry chopped onion and bacon, then mix with potatoes. Place potato mixture in pan; sprinkle cheese liberally over all. Bake until heated thoroughly and cheese is melted.

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And nothing was wasted during that time. Scraps of bread were made into a makeshift pudding. At first, this seemed as improbable as watermelon rind preserves, but, as with the preserves, it was surprisingly good. Wild fruit like blackberries or plums began to be added and each cook added her own personal touch. As each generation embraced it, it took on a new respectability and went from “bread scraps” to “Bread Pudding. Not to be outdone, Mama brought a little of her own inheritance into the mix, and her name for the dish stuck. Mama’s version sounded less hard scrapple and more exotic.

INDIAN BREAD PUDDING Two cups bread crumbs Two teaspoons cinnamon One fourth cup dark raisins One fourth cup melted butter Use whatever fruit is available---apples, peaches, apricot or plums. The list is long (fruit juice will do.) Mama even used berries on occasion. Grate bread. Add butter & stir well. When mixture is well blended, set aside. Lightly butter inside of a mold or small pan. Set aside. Go back to breadcrumb mix, combine sugar, raisins and cinnamon and blend in. Prepare the fruit you will use with spices and sugar to taste. Pre-heat oven to 350 F. Go back to buttered mold---or pan---and put layer of fruit in bottom of pan. Add layer of breadcrumb mix and alternate with layers of fruit and breadcrumbs. Sprinkle with cinnamon , and bake.

Our first bread pudding dessert was new, different and delicious. We bragged on it and ate it enthusiastically. But as the depression wore on, so did the bread pudding. Maybe Mama overdid some things. However, with a few trimmings, additions, substitutions and whatever the imagination can conjur up, it has survived the years, and each generation adds their own personal touch and embraces it all over again.

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Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a keeper.

Mama always had a small bouquet of wild flower on her table. They would be tucked into whatever container Mama could find. Sometimes it would be a cleaned mustard jar or chipped jelly glass, but it was a bright spot in a sea of despair. Hard times will bring out the hard-core character in a person and his imagintion comes vividly into play. What one can imagine, he tries to do, and---in many cases---succeeds. During the Great Depresion, there were no frills or affluent luxuries, so young people made up their own entertainment. But there was one other difference. A big one. They had the most luxuriant playing field of all times---clean, uncluttered beaches, miles of natural forests and unpolluted waters.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN On late summer evenings, about dusk, the cicadas started to sing. And what loud singing, coming from all the trees. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been told that these things hatch out every seven years. But a crop always hatched

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out yearly, and we took this with a grain of doubt. Each current crop blossomed around cotton-picking time. This loud-mouthed little bug is completely harmless and looks like a big house fly. They are a rusty color and blend in with the limb of a tree. But something about their song in the hot droopy stillness of a summer evening was comforting. It said â&#x20AC;&#x153;home.â&#x20AC;? Another annual event around cotton picking time was a carnival. They kept their ear to the ground and always knew when the farmers had their cotton checks tucked away in the bank, minimal as they might have been. According to the fortunes of San Perlita, came the carnival. After cotton-picking time, most residents were hungry for a little recreation between the last picking and the first day of school, and the Mexico citizens also waited a few days before heading back home. This carnival wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all that much; having a Ferris Wheel and giant swing set that would circle almost vertical as it spun, and a bumper car unit. Kids loved these bumper cars, and occasionally some of the bigger kids had to be reined in as their enthusiasm overcame their caution. These little cars had rubber bumpers that could crash into a neighboring car without hurting anyone---or the car. This was fine and Dandy until kids realized they could back off and get a good aim on a particular friend in another car, and the jarring impact would almost snap the neck of his target. Usually, there was an attendant watching, and older kids were brought under control. Then there was the Ferris Wheel, where kids could view the entire town of Raymondville from the top. This was a unique experience for most, and they were thrilled to their toenails, but, as with most thrills, there are a few drawbacks. The wheel rotates and the seat swings, with the seat above you, slowly coming into a direct spot above you at every round. Usually that seat above would contain a friend or classmate, and everyone enjoyed it---but sometimes someone got sick on the Ferris Wheel. When the attendant finally spotted the problem, the poor kid below was a stinking mess, and the one above still sick---and still throwing up. He was taken off and the Ferris Wheel had to wait for someone to clean up the mess before it could continue. But this particular carnival was so predictable that folks began to expect it at the same time each year. We knew the crew, and were on a first-name basis with everyone connected with it. Young people slurped soft drinks and licked cotton candy as they meandered along sawdust trails, and hawksters would be heard hawking Kewpie Dolls and Teddy Bears from the various booths. Tinny, abrasive carnival music

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floated out over the entire scene and, to ordinary working people of the Great Depression, this was as good as it got.

Each evening before retiring, we would hear the lonely, far-off sound of a freight train going through San Perlita. It’s mournful blast seemed to carry over the still evening air, and tell of far-off places and lonely people. The sound of a train seemed to emphasize the bleakness of the situation, and something about the long mournful howl touched the soul. It’s wail carried the sound of hopelessness and defeat. All who heard it, knew there were men on that train. Men with nowhere to go. Men who had been stripped of their pride and self-respect, and rode the rails hoping for some kind of miracle---even a break of some kind would be welcome. Eyes saddened as the wail of the freight train faded away into the night. School seemed to be the only place the children felt as if they could test their metle. They devised their own games. Young boys brought their tops, and some could spin them with just one jerk of the cord. Tops would spin furiously and dirt would fly. But Marbles was also a favorite, and sometimes a school yard fight would break out over someone’s “clearie” or “stealie,” and accusations were heated over just who won someone else’s marbles. Sometimes one boy would end up with an excess of marbles and have to out run a dozen more enraged boys, calling him a cheater. Marbles was serious business on the school ground. And adolescent boys would go fishing and camp out. Sometimes they simply camped on a pond bank, or insignificant lake where there weren’t even any fish---or in a wooded pasture---just for the fun of roughing it. It was the first small steps of independence. Older boys went in for more sophisticated sport; not allowed on the school grounds, or in polite company. On those high windy days, these boys made, and flew, kites. Most were made of newspapers, but what they lacked in beauty, they made up for in bold and daring ingenuity. Skillfully tucked into the kites, would be a razor blade. Every contestant had one attached. Then, the boys would fight with their kites in the air; the goal being to cut the string on someone else’s kite and send it looping off---who knew where. These dog fights in the air always attracted a small crowd---mostly men. Sometimes bets were placed, and when someone’s kite went spinning out of control, a cheer would go up from the crowd. But, by the time

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the game reached this stage, someone always interfered and the game would be cancelled temporarily. But it was a challenge and the boys enjoyed it. In the late evening, kids had chores to do, and none questioned it. Even on those summer months when cousins were at the farm, they did their share. No excuses were accepted. It was always a busy time and each child had a set-in-stone schedule that never varied much. Some had to bring in the wood and chips, some brought the cow home for milking, some gathered eggs and some of the older ones would have to help feed the livestock. By the time darkness fell, the family would be winding down. Supper would be over, and the dishes washed, baths would be accomplished and Mama would bring out the kerosene lamps. They didn’t give off much light, but at least we could see our way around. For those with radios---usually run on batteries---this was prime time. Everyone relaxed by listening to “Fibber McGee and Molly, and would usually sit enthralled with the follow-up of country-western music. But some times these music sessions would be irritating. We only had so much battery juice, and there were not that many stations. There was one obnoxious station in Del Rio Texas that irritated everyone. They advertised everything from Simulated Diamonds (meaning fakes) to Crazy Water Crystals, that was supposed to keep one regular. And they were abrasive and persistent. They hammered the name into our consciousness and would stop a pretty song midway and start shouting about the merits of their products. Folks with limited air time were irritated. Irritated! My foot! We were mad! I’ve often wondered if anyone ever bought any of that stuff. We sure didn’t. Come morning, the cow would be milked again and then taken back to the pasture. Sometimes, if we had a dry year and grass was scarce, the cow would be taken to a place of lush grass and staked for the day. At night, she always got a treat of hay and sugar beets. Everyone had a cow or two. The milk and butter were a God-send. Mama always placed her milk in crock containers in the wooden ice box. It was always covered with a clean white cloth. And as the rich milk set, the cream rose to the top. This was skimmed off and put in a large fruit jar, and each child had to take his turn shaking the jar until butter happened. Mama never

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had a churn, but seemed to get along quite well without one. Those long ago days seem quaint and nostalgic now, but there was a challenge, and a foundation was laid, upon which the next generation would build. Of this, character is molded and set.

As another summer drew to an end, cousins would go home, Mama started getting school clothes ready and a feeling of change fell over all. The holiday season loomed, and a vibrant current crackled slightly in the air. Halloween was right around the corner, and, with it, mixed feelings emerged. Hallween was not celebrated as a holiday, actually. It was just a time when kids had fun and adults had headaches. The pranks that were pulled off then were a lot harsher than at any time since then. To the young juvenile, it was anything goes, and it usually did. It was the young high school boys who were usually the culprits. The same ones who played the watermelon patch high drama and the orange stealing game, also played the Halloween games. And they would invariably target Dora Moore. Dora would prepare herself a week beforehand, and was pretty good at reading faces. She knew it was coming, but she didn’t know what. But the young boys were also good at the game, and, no matter how much Dora discreetly studied their faces and mused into their eyes, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Bland openness and a friendly, candid gaze would meet her own. Dora would be a hard person to fathom on the day before Halloween. She would say nothing (what could she say) when one of the boys came in for his mail---or a sack of flour, but there would be a subtle under-tone of humor and---Dora was sure---evasiveness. The boys were adept at keeping a stone face. Innocent as a new-born lamb. She would be on her guard all day before the dreaded night arrived. She would know something was being planned, but there was not a twinkle in an eye, nor a sly smile to give anyone away. Still she knew. Sometimes nothing would happen and she would give a sigh of relief, but it was always more likely she would have a “surprise” in the morning. One morning, she was ready to give her sigh of relief, when she got in her car and headed for her Store and Post Office. Upon arrival, she found an old out-house blocking her way. The Moores had to inch around it to get inside. It smelled to high heaven and Dora

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turned a little green at the sight of suspicious looking brown splotches inside on the seat. However, there was no one around with which to charge the deed. Dora knew someone was getting a laugh out of her discomfort, but the street was empty and still. Someone, some where was chuckling, but not a soul appeared. But Dora was up to it. Nobody put much over on her, and she knew---and the boys around San Perlita knew---that a challenge had been thrown out. Dora’s two brothers fumed and threatened, but Dora kept a stone face, and simply called someone to haul it away; maybe to what was left of the little bulbshaped park. She would not give anyone the satisfaction of being angry and indignant. Let the city fathers dispose of it. If someone reacted, it wasn’t Dora. She could be just as poker-faced as the teen-age boys. Halloween was over for another year and Dora’s Grocery Store and Post Office was not diminished in any way because of it. However, it was some satisfaction to know she was equal to anything the rascally boys could throw at her. It was a triumph---of a sort---and a stand-off with the ornery mischiefmakers. “til next year.

PAPILLA SPANOLA One fryer---cut into pieces Two large potatoes Two carrots One and one half cups of milk One tablespoon of flour Two onions---diced One half cup peas One tablespoon of soft butter---or margarine Salt and pepper to taste. Boil chicken and potatoes until tender. Set aside to be cubed into small chunks. Mix onions and peas and set aside. Make a cream sauce with the butter, flour and milk. Beat well. Add onion and pea mix,

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along with salt and pepper. Stir well. When thickened, add chicken and potato cubes. Grease baking pan and put mixture therein. Top with bread crumbs, and let brown in oven for a half---or three-fourths hours at low temperature. The same mixture can be baked in a pie crust to make Chicken Pot Pies.

The term “pot luck dinner” can mean anything. I guess originally it meant anything that can be thrown into the pot. But, through time, the pot luck dinner attained a respectable mantle. So many dishes that we use every day could touch on the “pot luck” label here and there. Good, man-satisfying dishes. With a lively imagination and the courage to experiment, almost anything can be brought into being.

And there were amusing little incidents that broke into the monotony of a long day. Daddy had his jokes too. Once, he came home from hunting---far into the night---and hadn’t bagged anything. He had an empty gunny-sack thrown over one shoulder, and had learned to walk softly in order to sneak up on prey. Now he moved without a sound in the silent deepness of night. Tige was asleep on the front porch. Daddy suddenly gave a war whoop and threw the gunny-sack over Tige’s head. Tige almost had a heart attack. With a wild bawl, he leaped into the air and came down running. His bawl had turned into a part howl and part bugle as he ran, and finally settled into a fierce gobble. Terrified, he ran out into the pasture. He could see now who it was, but he had been woken from a sound sleep and couldn’t calm down for the rest of the night. All night long, he barked, and it wasn’t until the cold light of day that he slowed, and ventured back on the porch. He just knew---in that first moment---that something had him. Daddy gave Tige a hug and a pat after breakfast, and Tige forgave him with a thump thumping of his tail on the floor. Dogs forgive very easily. However hard those years were, sometimes there was still a lightness of spirit. I remember Mama singing Baptist hymns as she went about her housework. She’d been raised in the Baptist Church, and, although she didn’t go any more, she still sang the old songs. She was a free thinker and found God in a

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beautiful sunset or the courtship of two Red Birds in a tree by the window. She listened for the song of the Field Larks or the call of a Brown Thrush, and loved going to sleep to the sound of frogs croaking after a big rain. She heard the Night Owl on the hunt in still, moonlit pastures and loved looking out over acres of ripening grain and hearing the Whip-or-Wills dip over the cotton fields at dusk. Sometimes Mama and Daddy sat out on the porch until far until the night and talked; Tige and Pup lying contentedly at their feet. To Mama, this was where God lived. And something about their soft conversation must have been reassuring to small animals that came out at night. There was no fear. Raccoons, possums and even a few Night Hawks would show themselves. Not afraid---but they still kept a respectable distance. And once, a Bobcat ventured within sight and scared all the others away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Our house was modest, and looked more-or-less like everyone else’s. And, in and around the house, we had about what everyone else had, a cow, several mules and two dogs, plus the assemblage that lived in the yard. And Mama always made sure our cow was always placed in lush grass for the day. She named her simply “Jersey” and a careful observer could see a bond between Mama and Jersey. Sometimes Jersey took a stubborn streak, and we knew the two had had their differences, but there was still an understanding. Only once, did we ever know of Mama losing her temper with Jersey, and that was when the cow stepped on her toe---and just stood there---on Mama’s toe. Mama wore low-cut tennis shoes around the

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farm, and these didn’t offer much resistance to the weight of a cow. Jersey didn’t know, of course, that she was standing on Mama’s toe (in fact crushing it into the ground.) so the agony was prolonged. Mama tried shouting at the cow; her face grimaced in pain. But Jersey didn’t understand hysteria. She relaxed and stood there. Mama yelled at her and beat at her with her fists, but the cow didn’t budge. Finally, with a superhuman shove, and a sharp kick in the shins, the cow moved---grudgingly. Mama limped home and soaked her foot in hot water, then applied an Aloe Vera poultice. I heard her up during the night several times, and could see her nursing her foot. The poultice seemed to help with the pain, but the next morning Mama had a purple and red foot, with red strips running up her leg. She knew this was a danger signal and applied a fresh leaf of AloeVera. The rest of us assumed her chores as best we could, and eventually we saw the signs of healing. Mama was mad at Jersey for a while, but Jersey never did know why.

Every few months the Baptist Church in San Perlita had a Church Supper. The Church of Christ tried to keep a little community spirit going too, and had their own socials. Dora Moore always attended both. She didn’t see all that much difference in the two doctrines, and socialized with everyone, regardless of their affiliations. And, although Dora’s contribution usually took the spotlight, others were good. Some of the runner-ups were keepers. Church socials are not meant to be competitive. Nobody got a blue ribbon for a special dish or were judged on the uniqueness of their recipes, but all the ladies had an eye on their neighbors dishes anyway.

This souffle never really had a name. Dora devised so many of her own recipes, that they simply bore her name---sort of like a label.

DORA’S CHEESE SOUFFLE Six eggs---separated Four tablespoons butter One level teaspoon of salt Four tablespoons flour

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One and one half cups of milk One half pound English cheese Dash cayenne---optional Put water in double boiler and let bring to a boil. Grate cheese and set aside. Melt butter in top of double boiler. Add milk, stirring constantly. Slowly add flour, salt---and cayenne, still stirring constantly. When the sauce is thick and smooth, add the cheese, stirring until smooth and the cheese is melted. Beat egg whites until they peak and fold into mixture. Mix well. Pour into baking pan and bake at 350 F. until springy to the touch.

Dora tried not to wear a smug expression as her souffle was placed on the table. After all, this was not a competitive affair. In church, everyone was supposed be united. We smile encouragingly at each other’s little victories, and wish them well. But Dora was good at reading faces, and she saw the same expression on each countenance. If that wasn’t greed, she didn’t know what was. Well, she might be nosy, but she wasn’t a hypocrite, so Dora let her smug smile emerge---and stay there. Some of the ladies of German descent brought recipes that had their beginnings in historical times and in circumstances that we could only read about. Apple Strudel and Bratwurst Bread made their way to the Church table and sat proudly beside Spanish Fajitas and Swedish Meat Balls---and Angel Food Cake sat side-by-side with Devil”s Food Cake. Everybody smiled at everybody else, and, for a little while all was peace and light. For a little while. But in spite of all the church socials and lunch room contests, the Great Depression still lay over the land; like a giant snake that tightened it’s coils every few weeks and refused to release it‘s victim.. The ladies who brought dishes to the socials and contests were strained to the limit. Sometimes after a contribution, the lady who took home the glory, fed her family Potato Soup and Cornbread for a few days to make up for the deficit. That really didn’t bother Mama. She liked Potato Soup and Cornbread. In her veins ran the blood of generations of Cherokee, who, for a long time, considered Cornmeal a staple. Then there were the ladies from Louisiana. They had their own cultural recipes, and had been

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slowly integrating into the main stream of San Perlita. Shy, at first, but gradually acclimatized, they brought their own brand of Creole tastes into the mix. Some of the more dug-in and die-hards around the surrounding country had never tasted Creole dishes---and furthermore---wanted no part of them. But, when Creole cooking was introduced, and accepted, into the very fabric of San Perlita; it was inevitable that they would taste them---and like them. Louisiana was settled by Acadians, who had been transplanted from their homeland against their will, but survived to establish a culture of their own. From them, came the poetic ballad, “Evangeline,” an epic tragedy, set in those early days after being transplanted, and it is now a classic. The Acadians are a funloving people and like the lively---and spicy---side of human nature. Both in food and life. At first, some of their recipes raised the hair--and sent the taster charging toward the drinking fountain. But the ladies of San Perlita worked over some of them, and found ways to cut back on the pepper and spice, and they became popular.. One Louisiana lady brought Shrimp Gumbo to one of San Perlita’s church socials. This dish caused even Dora Moore’s antenna to go up, and before the evening was over, she had the recipe. She would try it in her own time, and, whether it was a success or not, depended on whether it made an appearance under her name at the next Baptist Supper. Dora would always give the Acadian lady credit for the recipe, but let it be known unconditionally who prepared it. But for most Creole dishes, one must first prepare a “roux.” This is a foundation for the dish. This was something new. Every cook in Louisiana knew what a roux was, but nobody in San Perlita did. But word spread, and this is how you make one. Mix one half cup flour and one half cup of cooking oil. Stir over medium to high heat until the desired color is reached. The perfect roux is mixed---from coffee color to a medium chocolate color, and has the consistency of thin paste. If all went well, you have a roux.

SHRIMP GUMBO One perfect roux Two cups shrimp---washed, shelled and de-veined Salt and pepper to taste.

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Two cups stewed tomatoes One small onion---chopped Two bunches green onions---chopped One bell pepper---chopped Two stalks celery---chopped One half teaspoon garlic---chopped One cup okra Creole seasoning to taste Gumbo file---according to taste Slowly add hot water or broth to roux, stirring as it is added. Chicken or beef broth is ideal. Add Okra and tomatoes and stir. Add shrimp and salt and pepper. Add anything else that suits your fancy. Some folks like it spicy and hot, and some like a variety of vegetables. Add remaining ingredients and simmer. Add file (last) and serve over rice..

STEAMED RICE Two and a half quarts water One tablespoon salt Five cups rice. Put water in pot and bring to a boil. Add rice and salt, stirring frequently. Cook for about fifteen minutes. Drain and rinse with hot water Put two inches of water back into the pot and bring to a boil. Put the rice into a pot with small holes and place on top of the pot with boiling water, and let steam. Fluff rice occasionally. After rice has steamed to the desired consistently, put into individual bowls and spoon the gumbo over the top. This can be a main dish---or THE meal.

The Lower Rio Grande Valley had itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s share of deprivation, but humans donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always accept defeat so readily. Some fight back any way they can. Out of sheer desperation, small-town gangsters cut a

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scarlet path across the Southwest. Most notorious in our part of Texas was Bonnie and Clyde. Young kids who fought back at an adversary that left it’s mark everywhere, but could not be grasped and destroyed. Who can say what first motivated them to begin their robbing spree, except lack of cash. Nobody had any, but few went after it like these two. Most folks during the Great Depression blamed the banks for their problems, since most farms were the victims of foreclosure, there were times when ordinary families gave aid and support to the outlaws It was even reported that, at one time, when the two outlaws were robbing a bank, a sharecropper farmer came in with his meager deposit and was in line when Bonnie and Clyde made an entrtance. While Clyde gave the orders with a rifle in the crook of his arm, Bonnie stood in the doorway with a machine gun, looking both ways and blocking any interception. As Clyde approached, the farmer held his meager deposit toward Clyde in a gesture of classic defeat. But, to his surprise, Clyde waved it aside. “We don’t want your money, Mister. Just the bank’s.” With their Model T Ford, they outran and outsmarted J. Edgar Hoover at every turn. Clyde had the Ford souped up, and it would shoot off on a pin-point and leave it’s pursuers in the dust. At one time, Clyde wrote a letter to the Ford Motor Company, praising the car and extolling it’s quick take-off and light swiftness. I have heard that the Ford Motor Company has this letter framed and hanging in their foremost executive office today. One man observed that “The damned little old Ford, seemed to take almost human-like delight in out-running everything in sight.” But Bonnie seemed to have deep feelings. There wasn’t any doubt what would happen to them, only when it would, and Bonnie thought about these things in quiet moments and after the world was asleep at night. She expressed herself in poetry, and from these private poems, gave the reader a brief insight into her very soul. The innermost place, in human beings, where they face God. She was reconciled with the idea of death. She’d chosen violence over longevity, and she dealt with it. There would be no return for her, and the tiny little girl with the look of helplessness, learned to handle a machine gun instead of a broom. Her future lay written in stone. However, there was no sudden fear, nor second-thought hesitation, on her part. Bravely, she was known, in at least one instance, to cover Clyde’s escape from a trapped position, with her machine gun fire, while they made their get-away. Bonnie never looked back.

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In other parts of the South and Midwest, others were also striking back---John Dillinger, Prettyboy Floyd, Machine gun Kelly and others. These small time outlaws made their mark and left a narrow trail of protest and flattened bank accounts in their wake. And sometimes there was fear. There was one town in Louisiana that received word that Machine Gun Kelly was headed their way. The town panicked. Within a short time the residents had locked their doors, pulled the shades, and maybe hid under the beds---who can say where they hid. But, after a prolonged interval, Machine Gun Kelly did not make an appearance, and they found out later, that he had taken another road to his destination. He never came anywhere near their town. John Dillinger had the dubious distinction of being Public Enemy No. 1. Like his contemporaries, he aimed for the banks. That’s where most of the money was. Families were cast out, desperate hobos rode the freight trains and Prohibition cast a long shadow over the land. And in the more sophisticated parts of the country, like Chicago, there were big-time gangsters like Al Capone. But these Chicago Gangsters were a completely different breed. They were smoother, more organized, and seemed to have no conscience. Prohibition cast a long shadow over the land, life was cheap, and hit lists were issued with no consideration for friendship nor kinship. To rural and small “hit and run” outlaws across the land, these big time gangsters were another world. Another branch of a like-minded brotherhood, but one who occupied a strange habitat of glass and concrete. A world that was separated from theirs by stronger barriers than steel or barbed wire. But there was one final difference…..the small “hit and run” outlaws didn’t survive….the Chicago gangsters still make their presence felt, only by more subtle and sophisticated means.

But our own little rural community had it’s problems, and, to us, they were paramount. The Depression had tightened another notch, and thievery had become rampant. Nobody’s chickens or livestock was safe. Even the most honest, upright man will raid his neighbor’s hen house, if his family is hungry. This was small-time; not gangsterism nor machine-gun fare, but it was a serious matter to farmers. Families joked about “chicken thieves” over supper tables. (Any light hearted comic scene was welcome, like a shaft of light in a dark room.) However, stealing chickens was no joke, and anyone caught leaving the

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yard with a plump hen in his arms, got a load of rock salt in his rear-end as he cleared the fence. The thief would have to pick rock salt out of his hide for days, in the privacy of his bedroom, He smiled a lot in public and kept his mouth shut. The rock salt would be a dead give-a-way. A sure way of identifying a chicken thief, as one rear end looks like another in the dark. And it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just chickens; although they were the main challenge. Vegetable fields were prime targets too; not just the watermelon field, but tomatoes, onions, cucumbers and squash. The rich soil and year-round growing season of the Lower Rio Grande Valley of Texas, would grow almost anything. With a toe-sack or water-bucket, one could get a prime salad in just a short time---if he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get caught.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN We had venison a lot during the Depression. And Mama even knew how prepare left-overs that were good. She always cooked the larger chunks first. Smaller ones kept better in the wooden ice box and could be used in smaller meals later on. When there was a big chunk of venison left over, she would heat it up by preparing about half a cup of oil in an old iron pot that she seldom ever used, and let simmer slowly.

LEFT-OVER VENISON AND VEGETABLES One venison roast One small onion One and one half cups flour

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Three carrots---chopped One and one half cups venison broth Four medium potatoes---cubed One half teaspoon chopped garlic Salt and pepper to taste Put roast in hot oil and brown slowly on both sides---still on low heat. Now take the roast out. Meat juices will have mixed with the oil. Stir flour into the pot. Stir well. Mixture will thicken. Add the venison broth until you have the desired consistency (this can also be called beef gravy) Continue to stir slowly. Add garlic, onions, carrots and potatoes. Keep stirring. Now put the roast back in; making sure the meat is covered with the vegetable mixture. Turn it over on both sides and let it wallow in the vegetable gravy. Simmer slowly, on low heat. Now---cover the pot and bake in preheated oven at 3 25 or 350 degrees for two and a half hours.

This goes well with a nice salad. Most of the vegetables grew in the garden and it’s surprising what a lively imagination can come up with. PO’ BOY SALAD One head lettuce---chopped One large tomato---diced into small pieces One medium onion---sliced thin in artful rings. Mix together and toss. Anything you want to add that sounds compatible is acceptable. The lettuce, tomato and thin rings of onion are only the nucleus. The sky’s the limit.

The Great Depression produced more than just food shortages. There were tragic stories that made their way to the surface. One couple, the Calloways, died and left ten kids without anything. Of course, everyone did what they could, but one single family was unable to take in all ten kids, and it was arranged

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to divide them up among different families, as they could afford it. It sounded like the only way, and the kids would all be living in the vicinity and could all see each other as they grew up. But the kids had other ideas. They were a strong-minded lot and declared their determination to all stay together. No amount of reasoning, arguing and explaining had any effect. It was a sad situation, but it seemed the only thing to do was leave them alone. They had their heels dug in anyway, and were determined to take care of themselves. They ranged from age fifteen to age two, and the older ones were already adept at taking care of younger brothers and sisters. Roy Calloway was the oldest and strongest of the brood, and he was already somewhat of a minor outlaw in the community. Small and skinny, he had sharp, needle-point eyes that seemed to pierce a hole in one’s defenses, and was not afraid of the devil himself. He was a shadow in someone’s vegetable field or orange orchard, and could make each cartridge count when on the trail of a cotton-tail rabbit or mallard duck. The Welfare Department in Raymondville tried to keep track of the kids, but each time they approached, they were met with polite, hospitable smiles, but with a set countenance and stubborn stance. The whole brood felt the same way and were prepared to put up a united front, if necessary. Apparently the kids were surviving. Most families were understanding of the kids efforts to take care of themselves, but a few old die-hards were still insistent that they accept help, whether they wanted it or not, and threatened action of they caught one of the Callaways in their field. They meant it, but their hard-fisted attitude just caused a more stubborn glint in Roy Callaway‘s eyes. Everyone suspected that Roy could hold his own, one way or the other, and he was not averse to taking whatever course of action was required---fair or unfair. The kids scrounged and somehow managed, but, after all, who didn’t? Vegetable raiding and chicken thievery was pretty prevalent, and everyone pretty well took care of themselves and theirs, but there was an undertow of admiration for the Callaway kids---even though everyone knew they had to resort to whatever they could. Little and elusive, Roy was not hesitant, nor squeamish, when it came to feeding the family, and---with the sharp eyed instincts of a snake, and the reflexes of a bolt of lightening---could dart in and out of a vegetable patch without getting caught. All the kids did what they could---how they could---but they would not accept charity. Rabbits and wild-fowl were plentiful, and they were not averse to “Hoover Hog.”

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With Roy, it was a matter of eat or be eaten, and he was capable of meeting life head-on. One of these farmers, Erich Savich, was particularly vocal about the “ridiculous mess” at the Callaway house. He saw no reason that the kids could not be farmed out, and then everyone’s property would be safe from them. But there was something about the sharp, hawk-eyed Roy that gave pause to the most belligerent. So Erich Savich never managed to be around when Roy was. But to back up his claim, he kept a shotgun loaded with buckshot within reaching distance, whenever he could. This shotgun was also taken with him to his fields, and Savich had eyes like an eagle ---or a weasel; depending on whose side you were on. The Callaway kids---and Roy in particular---became a thorn in the side of San Perlita, and it was inevitable that Dora Moore, of the Grocery and Post Office, would have an opinion. She always spoke softly and decisively; never pausing in her duties, and letting her opinion float around the room, and settle into thoughtful reasoning deposits among her listening audience. Before nightfall, Dora’s opinion would be spread all over San Perlita. And, this time, Dora was on the side of Roy Callaway. In some secret spot, under the cover of her consciousness, she admired the kids who held their own, and especially Roy. Dora had her own opinions but she also listened to other opinions too---and either accepted or rejected them. The situation had made it’s way into the Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting and The Ladies Missionary Union, and was being bandied about with either wrath or admiration. But nobody heard Roy Callaway’s side of the story. Roy was always visible. He was young and he came into town when he could. He was a likeable young man, when not crossed, and was well aware of the trouble he was stirring up. But, he was dedicated and determined to live his life his way. For most folks, it was simply a matter of “live and let live,” and, if the kids could do it, more power to them. But Erich Savich had made his brag, and it was soon all over San Perlita that he was out to get Roy Callaway. “---and he’d better not catch one o’them Callaway kids in his fields.” It seemed inevitable that there would be a show-down, and Erich Savich let everyone know he was ready. Folks heard nothing at all from Roy, but one evening just after sundown, Erich Savich saw someone in his field, gathering vegetables, and let go with the load of buckshot. The buckshot sprayed all around; tomato vines were shredded and corn tassle floated in the still air, but apparently he missed his

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main target. Roy let his vegetable collection drop and fired back. He had heard all the talk around town, and knew Erich Savich was gunning for him---and he had come prepared. And Roy didn’t miss his target. Erich Savich had been hit in the throat, and managed to make it back to the house, where the family rushed him to the hospital. He underwent surgery and came out alright, but, despite their best efforts, he lost some of his vocal chords. Afterwards, he was always known as “Whispering Savich.” An investigation was held, but there was that matter of proof. Who could say for sure that it was Roy Calloway. It was late evening and shadows had been gathering in preparation for darkness. All Erich Savich could tell them for certain, was that there was a “figure” in his field, gathering vegetables. No real identification---although in Mr. Savich’s mind, there was no doubt as to who it was. Roy Callaway never had an opinion one way or another. And somehow, the Calloway kids raised themselves. Roy saw that each one went to school, regardless of whether he wanted to or not. Sometimes they had their disagreements and, at times, a fight would break out, but Roy was the boss and they all knew it. They also knew that their very existence depended on staying together and listening to their oldest brother. Each one went to work as soon as he got was enough and they all shared. In later years---after it seemed the family had each moved out into their own lives---Roy left San Perlita and folks lost track of him. The rest of the family was still in Raymondville, and, with their background of standing their ground, each had managed to get a smattering of education and a life. San Perlita moved slowly along, but the hangers-on in Dora’s Grocery and Post office, were astonished one Saturday when the newsreels showed Roy Callaway as a star spangled rodeo rider--Riding in Madison Square Garden, in New York City.

The Dust Bowl in the Midwest was all the news, and it affected women more than men. Women were more sensitive to it, and were cooped up in the house for days on end, as the consant blowing of strong wind grated on their consciousness and set their raw nerve ends on fire. Dirt was everywhere. No

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matter how secure the house, it just seemed to seep in. Most had childen, and they were dirty and hungry. There was no way to leave, even if there had been an opportunity. There is something about the blowing wind and accompanying dry abrasiveness, that spawned hopelessness and helplessness and can drive a person crazy. The suicide rate rose alarmingly among women of the Dust Bowl years. So many reached the end of their endurance and snapped. Another sad part was that there was only one way to effectively end one’s life quickly and permanently, and that was usually a butcher knife. And the children saw it all

Every year when crops were harvested ,Mama and Daddy fought badgers, coyotes and bobcats to raise chickens. Mama would order a hundred baby chicks and had a brooder under the bedroom window to house them at night. These tiny helpless ones drew predators like flies to molasses, and they had to keep one ear open to alarm all night long. During the first weeks of the chick’s life, they never got a full night’s sleep, but as the chicks grew older, they could be put in the chicken house at night. They were allowed to roam free in the yard all day long---and on occasion a coyote would hide in the cane patch and grab a careless chicken that strayed too close---badgers and bob cats were never so bold. Then there was always predators from the air. Chicken hawks and owls didn’t have to hide in the cane patch, and could strike at any time. But these would go for smaller game; and, until the chicks were old enough to get out of harm’s way, there was always the threat. However, a chicken hawk or owl is a lot smaller than a coyote, and can only carry so much. One chick at a time, and they had to hurry. Daddy kept the shotgun, loaded with buckshot, ready behind the kitchen door.

And then there were the little shenanigans that really did not fall into the category of thievery, yet barely squeezed by Mama’s “Shou Shalt Not,” list. In these cases the logical response was to do nothing. Our feisty dog, Tige, was still a young dog, and we knew that sometimes he rambled at night. He brought in personal items from neighbors garages and Mama would have to return them. It was

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embarrassing, but the neighbors were understanding. They soon learned to keep their garage doors closed. On this particular afternoon, Mama came in from the garden to find two bicycles parked in the driveway. Following her line of view, she saw two little boys in the ten-to-twelve age bracket talking with June and Pete. The four youngsters were standing nose to nose and arguing hotly. Mama interfered and asked what the problem was. “Our baseball glove is missing and we think your dog took it,” one little boy turned to face Mama. “Tige hasn’t left the yard,” June said in response. “We know he was in our yard last night, and now our baseball glove is gone.” One of the accusers said without hesitation. “Well---Tige didn’t take it. You don’t see it lying around, do you?” Pete defended his dog. After more lively discussion, the boys got on their bikes and left. Mama had gone into the house with her vegetables when June came in and whispered conspiritorally, with her hands cupped around her mouth, “Mama, it’s in the garbage can. Tige tore it to shreds.”

In 1936 Franklin D. Roosevelt was in the White House and well into his second term. He was trying to do something about the Depression and having a hard time of it. He had inherited a biggie. In an effort to get us back on track, programs were springing up that gave work to the struggling man. There was C.C.C. for young men and the W.P.A. for older family men. That didn’t mean that men of a certain age were delegated to a specific unit---just that it seemed to fit. Daddy went to work for the W.P.A., and left every morning in the back of a truck with about a dozen other men. This was his first venture into public work. He had always farmed, and his father and grandfather before him had farmed. Always a free soul, it must have been hard for Daddy to adjust. But he managed to bear with it. Besides, he was making five dollars a day. We were really settin’ in high cotton. Other relief agencies were also springing up. There was a place where one could sign up for clothes. New clothes. They were nice clothes, but it was not unusual to see several other kids in school wearing the same thing. The pattern nor the variety of these clothes never varied much. They all looked

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alike, and everyone knew where they came from. To have to wear “relief clothes” was galling to a people of freedom. However, a warm, nice looking coat was pretty welcome when a blue norther hit and there wasn’t anything else. There might be a number of kids with the same one, but nobody complained. Mama could never bring herself to sign up at what she called “The Relief Office.” Times had been bad, but she had weathered bad times before. There was a line that she refused to step over. The same old “Thou Shalt Nots” that were a guideline as to what we ate, were still in place when it came to what we wore. We would not wear relief clothes. She fixed up Pete’s old coat and put new leather pockets on it, and added a velvet colar to mine, from an old outdated one that she had had in “Flapper Days.” June’s coat, from several years ago, had to make do for another year and Daddy’s old frazzled work coat had to persevere. Rose was still small and had to take a hand-me-down from one of our cousins, but Mama spruced it up with pretty buttons and a little velvet trim around the pockets and collar. Mama could be rather creative when she wanted to---or had to But she refused to go to the Relief Office. By the next year, the log jam had began to shift a little, and some were cautiously humming “Happy Days are Here Again,” under their breath. Daddy was still working for the W.P.A., but was eying the land for spring planting. He was anxious to get back into the old mold again and see green things springing up from the soil. Our old Model T Ford was looking mighty seedy by now and the old farm truck had given up the ghost. It had been so long, and now there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Everybody felt it. They saw all the signs and rejoiced. And the farmers left standing put in a bumper crop of onions. This is a winter vegetable, but the Valley had a year-round growing season, so that made the market a good one. And in an exuburant mood, the Valley decided to have an Onion Festival. Everyone wore an expression of hope and expectancy as plans were made and a ray of brightness and color returned to the street. San Perlita didn’t have much to contribute to the Onion Fiesta (except the onions) but everyone was ready to kick up their heels and enjoy themselves. Especially the young adults. An Onion Queen would

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be chosen from a Valley full of beauties, and there would be a dance in her honor. She would reign over the Onion Fiesta Parade, and everyone would smile and just be happy. That sounds so simple and vulnerable now. “Just be happy.” But folks wanted it so much that they grasped for it with both hands. Daddy had even put in an onion crop, but he had been limited; and the land he chose in which to plant it, bordered the yard. It had made him feel good just to be working the land again, and to see light on the horizon, but it had been a trying time, as chickens love green onion sprouts. Well guess who got the eternal job of “chasing the chickens out of the onion patch.” Kids, with flexible muscles and the strength and agility for long dashes---who else? That included all of us, and we knew it was useless to complain. Needless to say; in spite of all the leverage thrown at them, the chickens managed to get their share of green onions, and a large circular area around the yard was almost denuded of onion sprouts. Daddy didn’t chastise or blame. It was a beginning. On the first day of Onion Fiesta, the streets were full of colorful streamers and jolly people. Everyone greeted his neighbor---and everyone else, whether he knew them or not---and music blared out over the streets. And, in the morning edition of the Valley Morning Star, appeared a full, front page picture of the Queen, with three or four long, green, freshly-pulled onions in her arms---in lieu of roses. What the Queen thought of this, was not published, but it would have been lost in the melee anyway. In the spirit of comraderie, a small box-like enclosure was set up on the busiest part of what Raymondville called “Main Street,” and those imprisoned were required to pay a fine to be released. Of course the “fine” was a minimal one, and the revenue collected from the “jail.” was added to the contributions to the “Fiesta Fund.” to help pay expenses. Everyone enjoyed it when someone landed in jail and pictures of the unfortunate---or fortunate--- ones were splashed all over Raymondville’s small local newspaper. In the spirit of the occasion, it was an honor to be thrown in jail and have one’s picture in the paper. The whole Valley celebrated this first crack in the hard-packed depression, and other small towns celebrated a “Stock Show;” sponsored by the F.F.A., (Future Farmers of America) in which youngsters showed the livestock that they had raised, and cared for. Bids were made on the sale of these animals. Some brought a hefty price---but there was a problem. A heartbreaking one. After a child has raised and bonded

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with an animal over long months, there is affection, even love. Everyone knew that these animals were sold to be slaughtered, and sobs and tears dampened the spirit of the occasion. One rancher was so moved by the tears of a young owner of an animal he had just bought, that he gave the animal back. This raised a limp tearful cheer in a somber atmosphere, but it was only the tip. Others were not so fortunate. Other little towns in the Valley celebrated the Valley onion bonanza in their own way. One held a beauty contest. But somehow beauty contests always rouse a green-eyed spirit of jealousy, no matter how much denial was made. In a beauty contest, there are no impersonal or neutral ones---especially among the mothers. Daddy put in a full crop the next spring and there was a market for it. We had a little money now, and soon there was a new Chevrolet sitting in the driveway. Mama was singing old hymns again and Daddy grinned a lot. And the last baby was born. Danny Joe was the fair-haired one. He was sick for awhile, after he was born, and Mama bonded with him fiercely. The depression was winding down now, and he would have some of the things the rest of us had been denied. The last two children, Rose and Danny had been born in the light. The dark clouds had showed signs of lifting from our land and we could laugh again. Others were also feeling the warmth of rejuvenation. Everyone went to Raymondville on Saturday afternoon, and here was once again a carefree air of hope and expectancy. Kids went to movies again--usually a western. They were such simple movies. The cowboys in the white hats always won, and the cowboys in the black hats always got their come-uppance. The good guys had absolutely no faults, and the bad guys had absolutely no redeeming qualities. It didn’t take much to figure out the plot and we all cheered for our heroes. And so many of the older folks went to see the news-reels. It was where they got the latest news worldwide and something to talk about while the “young-uns” paraded along the street. By then, most folks had a radio; although those in rural areas were still run mostly on batteries. But we had a better program selection and everyone listened to “The Shadow” and “The Inner Sanctum. There was news on the radio too, but there was something about seeing the news on film in the theatre, that appealed to the crusty old farmers. Pictures would always speak louder than words, and there was always neighbors on the street to discuss it with. It was a simple life,

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But we loved it. The world was turning again and we could laugh and enjoy ourselves. By nightfall, most families with small children had gone home and the teen-agers taken over the streets. There was no roudiness nor violence, just a parade of young people walking from one end of town to the other--which wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t very far. Everyone was on display. Cars were parked vertically along the short street, side-byside, and the people who sat in them had a ring-side seat. Girls in the parade were very self conscious of their looks, and the boys had roving eyes, and never missed a one. Older farmers; still on the street by nightfall, talked crops and mature women gossiped in the tradition of rural America. Saturday night in Raymondville was the busiest and most colorful night of the week. Dates were made and jokes were told and the bright lights of the small townâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one main street seemed as brilliant as those of Broadway. It had been a long dry spell and simple pleasures were appreciated. THE END

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