OBSERVATIONS
The Great Depression The tin roof is a distant memory, but I can still hear music in the patter of rain.
BY HARRY NOBLE
2 6 TEXAS CO-OP POWER August 2010
M
y dad, a native of Sabine County in East Texas, moved to Wichita Falls shortly after the end of World War I, borrowed money from an uncle and opened a small radio shop. The stock market crashed in October 1929, six weeks before I was born. This fiscal collapse ended seven years of unparalleled prosperity for the United States. Prices plummeted, banks began to fold, and in less than a month, some $30 billion in stock value had disappeared. Within four months, 3.2 million people were unemployed. Dad entered into a bleak struggle to find customers to keep his shop open. By winter of 1934, the depression had a death grip on the economy. With three children to feed, he had to give up the shop. Having inherited a 270-acre farm in San Augustine County, he decided to return to East Texas where the family could survive with a large garden, chickens for eggs, milk cows for dairy products and steers and hogs for meat. Since there wasn’t a spare inch of room left inside our Model T Ford coupe, Ginger, my collie, already a seasoned “running-board rider” on short trips, was allotted space on the left running board for the entire journey—more than half of which was driven on gravel roads. The time was marked by fixing flats, stopping for gasoline, stretching cramped muscles and traveling through downtown Dallas. We averaged slightly less than 25 mph. We left Wichita Falls around 6 a.m., spent the night in a tourist court in Henderson and arrived at my grandparents’ home in deep East Texas about 10 a.m. the following day. Two scenes remain vivid: As we made the grueling trip, Dad sang “Pennies from Heaven” without the slightest hint of defeat or fear. And when we arrived in East Texas and my grandparents met us at the front gate, I was last to be hugged by my grandmother, who whispered, “Well, bless your little heart.” At that moment a “pet” relationship was established with my grandparents that lasted the rest of their lives. When my grandmother asked my grandfather why he was standing at the foot of the bed where I was napping, he replied, “I was just listening to him breathe.” We lived with my grandparents on their farm for three months, waiting for the tenants to move out of Dad’s house. Then on July 4, 1935, we began an all-day cleanup. The three-room, frame house was unpainted with a tin roof and two small porches, on the east and west. A giant walnut tree also shaded the west side. The floors were made of rough lumber, and the walls were bare, with no canvas or