Depression Days in South Jersey
I
A great depressions' hit the country - news is really bad;
has been, since Fall; we realize there's not hobs to be had.
I ought'a know, I've made the rounds without a drop of luck.
I'm thankful that I hung onto my wheezin' ol' Ford truck.
Soon's the weather breaks I'll get back in the swamps and woods;
that way I'll earn a little sump'n' gath'rin' seas'nal goods.
It's true that now-a-days they don't have too much cash for buyin';
but every little bit helps, so we gotta keep on tryin'.

Banks panicked, lost our savings; still, we don't have the cares
and loss of will to live, as do disheartened millionaires.
We never had a whole lot; guess that's better after all.
Them who lived the highest had the furtherest to fall.
We eat a lot of turnip stew, but mostly pots of beans.
With just "one chicken in the pot" we know what lux'ry means.
But we can't kill our chickens off, we need 'em for the eggs;
and one was never 'nough with four kids reachin' for the legs.

Food orders that they call "relief" the gov'ment will provide -
if you declare yourself a pauper and swaller back yer pride.
"Commodities" they'll give ya; most fam'lies have a card
to get pinto and navy beans and flour, rice and lard.
We ration what we have; all hungry mouths is got to eat.
It's lucky our old stove burns wood to cook with - and for heat.

We sing to keep our spirits up, but still they're sinkin' low.
We can't afford a battery to play the radio.
Christmas came and Christmas went, we couldn't buy play toys;
the kids was disappointed so it didn't bring many joys.
It's winter, nineteen-thirty, and the country's in a mess.
Here I sit, talkin' to meself; these crazy times, I guess.

II
It's still hand-to-mouth existence - everybody's poor.
Even them was well-to-do don't have a whole lot more.
At least we got the garden now to eat from, and to stock the pantry;
Momma's workin' hard to fill each jar and crock.
There's slippr'y salt pork in the barrel, ain't seen no chops or hams.
We go out in the bay to catch some fish or tread for clams.
Huckleberries rip'nin' up; the fam'ly goes and picks.
The little kids are swattin' skeeters; scratchin' jigger ticks.
They're belly-achin' 'bout the heat; we all could use a breeze.
My back is started achin'; so I'm pickin' from my knees.
I tell the kids to concentrate on dumplin's or a pie;
we'll can the rest if there's no sale, for when the snowballs fly.

I found a nice fresh patch of moss down in the South Branch swamp;
I took the kids and dog a-long and let 'em have a romp.
I drag the moss and lug it out until I've got a pile;
get out the dinner bucket, call the kids, and rest awhile.
Load the truck and wonder if my labors are in vain;
back home I spread it on the landin' - hope it doesn't rain.
Next mornin' when I go out, I'm relieved to see it's dried;
pitch it over lightly and dry the other side.
Rake it up - bring it in - press it into bales -
stand it in the corner -there. I hope we get some sales.

It's summertime in thirty-one; I haven't got a dime.
I guess we'll have to stick it out - one day at a time.

III
We've used up, made do, worn out, 'til there's nothin' left to hoard -
but the fam'lies still together and for that we thank the Lord.
Our clothes are patch upon patch, shoes shabby as can be -
we resemble Coxey's Army on their march upon D.C.
Cranberry pick'n' time is here; the days are gettin' cool.
The little cash they're promisin' should clothe the kids for school.
Soon's the mornin' dew dries on the berries - mark our lines;
ease ;the scoop's teeth in and gently pull them from the vines.
Dump them in the measure, and keep it up all day;
trade 'em in few tickets to cash in fer yer pay.
We took our litt'lest one; she hitched a ride on Mommy's skirt.
Now and then she tumbled but, no mind, she didn't get hurt.
First day out my back's so stiff, I'd druther stay in bed.
Close my eyes and all I see is green with spots of red.

Later on, I'll gather holly, laurel and pineballs -
keep it here 'til Chris'mas, in case the florist calls.
Folks sacrifice to keep their pets - we share meals with our dog.
It's all we can do to buy greain for the chickens and the hog.
First frost we get we'll slaughter; then we'll have fresh meat, at least.
We'll set aside a ham to roast for our Thanksgivin' feast.
And it's the Fall of thirty-two, and times are hard right now;
can't afford to be discouraged, so we'll see 'em thru' somehow.

IV
Well, another winters' past - so far the fam'lies fed -
if only poor man's gravy and a loaf of homemade bread.
We heard the city folks are formin' bread lines, to survive.
We got a brand new baby daughter; that makes number five.
Days are gettin' warmer, almos' time to plow the field -
enlarge it - with the fam'ly growin' we'll need bigger yield.
Sow the seeds for carrots, beans and put in the termaters;
mound up ground for corn and squash; plant turnips and pertaters.
I chop some extry firewood down and saw it on the rig,
in case it brings cash money; we could buy a nice young pig.

A new man's down in Washin'ton, they call Frank Roosevelt;
he's promisin' the nation that a new deal will be dealt.
He says there's jobs for all men want to work. I'm on my way
to put down my John Hancock for the W.P.A.
And it's Spring of thirty-three, and we're still hangin' in;
and we're singin' with the country, "Happy Days are Here Again."
-Lillian Arnold Lopez "Pineylore"

Lillian Arnold with 5 of her 6 daughters (left to right)
Shirley, Wilma, Mildred, Bertha, and Lillian
(not pictured, eldest daughter Edith)

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