12/15/05 — PART ONE

By Duane Crawford

Unionville. Mo., Correspondent

With invaluable input from my late parents, some 15-20 years ago I proceeded to jot down memories of growing up on an Iowa farm in the `30s and `40s. Rather than organize and polish those thoughts into short stories, which was my intention to do for at least my family, I stored them in a file and forgot about them until recently.

As I finally begin to compile those nostalgic recollections into short stories, many Daily Iowegian readers from my generation and earlier will have similar memories of life in an Iowa farming community during the Great Depression and the year America went to war. For our younger generations, I hope the stories serve as history lessons.

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When I was born on Feb. 17, 1935 in my Grandpa Crawford's farmhouse between Richland and Keota, during one of Iowa's harshest winters on record, several anxious aunts and neighbors assisted an old country doctor with the delivery duties. Though my parent's small farm was only down the road a piece, the Spartan conditions of the home and the frigid weather would have threatened the lives of mother and baby.

Because poor farm families could not afford hospital expenses, babies were born in the homes under the care of midwives and a doctor. Dad used to say to me, "Somehow that old pill pusher got his Model T Ford through the storm to our house. I told him that I didn't have any money. He said we'd work something out. After you were born, we dickered a bit over the bill. We finally agreed on three of your mom's prize hens and a quart jar of my homemade wine. I figured it was a fair trade." My three younger brothers and two sisters would command a greater price.

I feel fortunate to have grown up on a typical Iowa farm in the `30s and `40s. I vividly recall how the lives of ordinary country folks were centered around family, neighbors, a country store, a church and a one-room schoolhouse. The two small cemeteries were stark reminders that life began and ended in the community.

Farm families did not drift far from their community roots, and their children were raised to participate in the sweat and toil of daily tasks and to appreciate the simple things in life. Few citizens of farming communities possessed wealth or even the means to acquire riches, but everyone took pride in believing that farm families were the very heart and soul of our nation.

Contrary to what many people may think, city folks suffered more from the Great Depression than their country cousins. Despite leading frugal lifestyles, without even basic luxuries in most households, every farming community knew how to survive the hard times by binding together and having fun in the process.

Even under the worst of conditions no one bellyached, because such responses would have fallen on deaf ears. In fact, farm families didn't consider themselves being in a depressed state. The recreational and social activities of individual families and whole communities may have been viewed as primitive by today's standards, but what we did was inexpensive, educational and enjoyable.

Though I recall bits and pieces of the first five years of my life on that austere Iowa farm, the summer of 1941 was a definite turning point in my childhood. Like every other summer, neighbors helped each other with threshing and haying. The difference for me was finally being made part of the work brigade. My main job was to keep the workers supplied with water. Wives and older daughters did their part by preparing splendid meals for the work crews at the farm where they were working.

In early September 1941, I took another giant step towards what I then considered manhood by being a first grader at Tyrone School. We didn't have kindergarten in those country schools. Located a mile from our house, that weather-beaten one-room schoolhouse had served the complete educational needs of my dad, uncles, aunts and cousins. Like they did in their childhood, I walked the same dirt road to and from school each day in all kinds of weather.

The school wardrobe for country kids was sparse. Shoes, usually hand-me-downs from my older cousins, were a cold weather item. After the ground thawed in spring and until the first hard frost in the fall, the boys and most girls were expected to go barefoot. My school wardrobe consisted of a couple pair of patched and faded blue overalls and long-sleeved shirts. With ribbons and bows used to keep their hair in place and looking pretty, the girls took more pride in their appearance than us boys.

As Thanksgiving came and went that year, we all looked forward to the joys of Christmas. To keep us in line, parents gave this age-old warning, "You gotta be good or Santa ain't gonna stop at our house." But we all knew that the jolly fat fellow would only leave one or two presents for every child, because he was also facing some hard times.

Grandpa Bond had scheduled his stay at our house until January 1942. In mid- November, he had laid his trap lines along the creeks of the community. As a proud and patriotic veteran of the Spanish American War, he was the idol of all his numerous grandchildren.

Grandma Bond had passed away several years before I was born. Grandpa lived on his meager government pension and on the revenue he received from the animals he caught in his trap lines each winter. His home was his family. Throughout the year, he rotated his visits among his eight children.

Humble, generous and honorable, he was respected by everyone. Even though he was 70-years-old, he continued to walk with the proud, brisk straightness of a soldier. To keep his britches up, and they always seemed to be old, faded and baggy, he'd thread a strand of rope through the belt loops. A man who seldom cursed, his only sins were chewing tobacco and an occasional snort of wine. He had a powerful influence on me!

When I was 5-years-old, I was permitted to tag along when he checked his trap lines every morning. Once I started attending school I could only accompany him on weekends and holidays. Apparently, he must have sensed my growing up in 1941, because he gave me a new responsibility on those long trap line checks. "Ya gotta carry the animals we catch," he instructed. I was the happiest boy in Iowa! My grandpa trusted me to do a big job!

Unlike our national leaders in the late `30s and early `40s, farm families paid little attention to the war clouds gathering over Europe and Asia. Most families could not afford the luxuries of radios, magazines and daily newspapers. Farmers' main concern was basic subsistence for the family. When the subject of those foreign troubles was brought up, most farmers said, "That ain't none of our business."

During the first week of December 1941, our community was looking forward to school and family Christmases. We had no way of knowing that America was about to be attacked and drawn into a world war.



TO BE CONTINUED