might be blind, but she certainly wasn’t deaf. So that was how Pop had found out. A simple lesson learned.
THE DEPRESSION YEARS The 1929 Depression had men jumping out of six-story windows, and thousands of others riding the rails looking for work. Whole families went from harvest to harvest all of them working, from the eldest to the youngest, earning just barely enough to get food. Pop got some work by moving around close to home. Even so, Mom bore children during these times. The depression ran on slowly, but even though it was tough, things were okay for the growing Weed family. During this time Pop would send a few dollars home, and Mom, smart old Mom knew that no matter how poor people were, they would buy soap, booze, and spend their last penny to see a movie. The movies helped people forget their problems. Using this knowledge, Mom told the restaurants that she and her girls would take away all their grease, so it wouldn’t plug the septic tanks. June was only five and Pat two, but they helped Mom as best they could, although Pat was more a chore than help. Mom brought this dirty looking mess home and would heat it, and screen it through a fine screen again and again until it looked really clean. Then she sold it to the soap factory. The depression ran right into World War Two, and as the children grew they learned what work was from Mom. With the help of those old enough, she would pick apples and sell them to the winery. Remember that she still had me in diapers, and was carrying Tom in her belly. June or Pat would watch Bob and me, while the rest helped Mom. They were taught to look out for gallon vinegar and wine bottles along the roads, in dumps, behind the stores, and anywhere else they might be found. The trick to making an extra penny on these was to clean them out before selling them to the wine factory. The kids were told by Mom never to tell Pop, or he may want the money. We wouldn’t kill our chickens, as we wouldn’t have eggs, so we ate pigeons instead. Some nights, as a treat and a change of diet, we would get flashlights, climb to the very top of the bigger barns, flash the lights into the eyes of the pigeons roosting up there, snatch the stunned pigeon off his roost, and put him in our sacks. Mom, or one of the girls, would clean and pluck the feathers. www.dialogue.ca
Mom would either roast them or make pigeon pot pies. They made a great meal. Hey! Times were tough, and we were many! We also fished. When the fish was running up the creek, Pat and the older boys could literally shovel them up on the banks with hay forks from the deep spot at the road culvert. Sometimes they got as many as three at a scoop. As soon as I was old enough, I was waist deep in the creek along with the others. It was great fun; we were splashing around and hollering. We had the creek so stirred up with mud; we couldn’t see the fish. It didn’t matter. We still got at least one with each stab of the fork. With all this excitement, pushing and shoving would start, and once one of us was pushed into the water it wasn’t long before we all got plunked in. Laughter echoed down the road for miles. Then the mud balls started flying. Because we ganged up on them, Pat and the bigger guys got as many mud splats as the smaller ones. So as we trudged up the lane with our catch, Mom would see a sorry looking, wet and muddy bunch. She’d just shake her head, and with that sly smile of hers tell us, “Get the fish and yourselves clean before you dare come into my house.” This change of diet was good for us, even though suckers are really bony. We smoked some and Mom canned a few. At her insistence, we also delivered fish to all the neighbours. Unfortunately, this run didn’t last long before the fish were gone. We did this every year as long as I can remember. I’m not going to mention the salmon run because it wasn’t legal, but I won’t tell if you don’t. June always stayed home because now she was looking at the boys, and was too good for this childish nonsense. Mother Hen did what she had to in order to feed and protect her chicks. Pop left an old Colt-45 revolver at home with a box of shells. When we were old enough to understand, we were taught that if a stranger came, we were to go into the house, both upstairs and down, and make lots of noise. If the stranger kept coming toward the house, Mom would stick that old 45 out through the crack in the door, pointing up, and BOOM! No more strangers, they were on the run! If there was a noise at night, and especially during the depression and war years, she didn’t try to find out if it was man or beast, just BOOM! The old 45 went off. Those years we lost nothing to theft. …/ VOL. 29 NO. 2, WINTER 2015-16
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