Friday, August 20, 2010

WHERE WE CAN REALLY LIVE; Mrs. M.B., Nebraska; December 1929

My grandparents, on both sides, were farmers. Some of my happiest days were those summers I spent as a child at "dampers,"--a baby name for "grandpa" that has stuck.

My parents have always lived in town, and it has been one long grind of deeping up with the demands of city life. Never enough money, no matter how much! Always noise, confusion, and restlessness.

My husband was raised on a farm. And now the children love to sit in the evening and hear him tell of the days when he was a little boy. Fishing and swimming, climbing the huge, gnarled apple trees, walking barefoot down the road, kicking up the hot dust between his toes, riding the high loads of hay, going after the cows. It's like a fairy story to them. They don't know that such things are real happenings!

It makes me fairly sick to think that all the things that go to make up ideal childhood are denied them. I look at their surroundings with a scornful and rebellious heart. A tiny little two by four year and beyond that, the asphalt street, always roaring with traffic. Now, I ask you, is that any way for children to live and play? No wonder they're so tired and cross in hot weather. And I, too.

It's our dream to be able some day soon, to get a little place out somewhere, where we can really live. Where my husband doesn't have to leave in early morning and be gone until dark. We'll have a hard time, of course. But, oh, the compensations! We're used to the hard time. How we pinch and scrape! But so far we haven't had any compensations.