Growing up during the Great Depression was a unique experience. Many families were hard pressed to make ends meet while others were more affluent. My family was somewhere in the middle. Although Dad’s job as a railway clerk didn’t pay a lot, it was enough to sustain a family. There was enough money to pay the iceman and the electrical bill. It was a great luxury to have light at the flip of a switch rather than to light a kerosene lamp.  We even had indoor plumbing. Ah, the advantages of living in town! Mom took a dim view of raising children in town. She had less control of kids’ associates.

We moved into a house on a good-sized lot at the edge of town, close to a bank of the Cumberland River. There was a vegetable garden beside the house and a barn at the back. Dad must have thought that having a barn demanded a cow. He came home one day with a beautiful Guernsey to occupy the barn. We began to have an ample supply of milk and butter. Mom would make cottage cheese once in a while.

I got the job of leading the cow up the street each morning to a hillside pasture with other cows. I’d bring her back each evening at milking time. Watching Dad milk the cow made me curious about how it was done. One lesson was all it took to see the technique. Before I woke up to what was happening I had a steady job, which was not my intent. The calf she had after Dad had the cow bred was a pretty little bull. After about two days the calf quit nursing and the cow’s milk never began to flow. The calf was deformed such that he couldn’t eliminate his waste and had to be destroyed. Dad sold the cow. I lost my job, and we all sorely missed the rich creamy milk she had given us. It was the end of our dairy business.

Frequently a hungry man would stop at the house and ask for food. Sometimes he would offer some work. It didn’t matter to Mom. She would always get a plate of food for him to eat outside. Most of these men were transients on their way to somewhere hoping to find work.

There were not many toys and the few we had were simple and inexpensive. Rather, we amused ourselves by playing games, mostly outdoors. There was no television, of course, to distract us. There were mostly girls in my neighborhood. Girls’ games were all right when other things were not going on. Sometimes I could find some boys playing football nearby and join them. Our favorite games were cowboys and Indians, and war. Both required guns, which we made ourselves from pieces of wood. The ammunition was rubber bands made from slices of inner tubes. The rubber was attached by a clip at the back of the pistol and stretched over the end of the barrel. Releasing the clip, ordinarily a clothespin, sent the rubber flying, thus the name “rubber gun”.

We played around the house and yard of one of the boys. There lived next door a woman alone who would frequently come out and raise a great fuss at us. Sometimes she would threaten us but she never asked us to play more quietly. She had a screened-in back porch with a narrow shelf against the screen where she stored small items such as tin cans of stuff. I had made a cannon with a barrel about four feet long complete with wheels. The ammo took about three rubber bands strung together. One day after a chewing out by the neighbor woman, the boys dispersed for a pow-wow. My friend’s garage sat near the corner of the screened porch. This gave us a clear shot at the porch without being seen. If we hit the screen, things sitting against it would fly. With things all set and hidden from view, the cannon was fired and, as planned, things flew off the shelf with a noisy clatter. Out came the woman fussing loudly, but when she could see no one, quieted down and looked befuddled. The boys almost choked keeping laughter quiet. We had won a battle!

Growing older brought on more adventurous activities. Playing Tarzan along the steep wooded riverbank was a favorite. A grapevine hanging from a tall tree had been cut near its base, making it ideal for crossing over a wet gully. Both my friend Jimmy and I had done it many times. One day Jimmy swung across and I followed, so I thought. Part way through the swing the long malnourished vine broke from the tree. My carefree flight was interrupted and I landed in the muddy gully with the vine following on top of me. I wasn’t hurt but I was mired in mud knee deep.

Climbing Pine Mountain was a favorite adventure for a young boy. I liked to climb the steep slope to the top with a friend and spend the night there. With some food and a blanket, finding a sheltering rock was easy. A few boughs of fir placed under the rock made dry quarters for the night. Morning would be for exploring the area. From the mountain one could see the whole town of Pineville. I thought it a pretty sight. The view of our town from the mountaintop showed why dad didn’t need the expense of owning a car. It was only a short walk to anywhere we needed to go, whereas, before we moved, he was about six miles from his office. So he had sold his car. Being without a car was not great handicap because we road the train when we left town. Working for the railroad gave Dad the advantage of free rail transportation for the whole family. We made a trip to Florida and other places when he could get a vacation. Most of our trips, however, were back to Grandpa’s house where Mom grew up. More than once Mom was slow getting ready to travel. Dad ran ahead to the depot and convinced the conductor to delay departure until Mom caught up. Out of breath we all boarded the train for Grandpa’s house.

It was a tough time for trash collectors. Recycling was a home activity. Anything of potential value was stowed away in case it might come in handy later. A set of good clothes was reserved for Sunday and special occasions. Ragged clothes could be used to patch less ragged ones. Shoes were discarded only when the sole could no longer be attached to the upper. Going barefooted was pretty stylish for youngsters when the weather permitted. I could hardly wait in spring to shed my shoes. Appliances were made such that they could be repaired. Baling wire was a handy thing to have around. The thing Dad hated more than not having things he would like was debt, so we simply made do until he could afford to pay. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson learned in the Depression was frugality. Maybe I learned it too well, judging from the amount of junk stowed at my house. But the Depression was far from over.