Faye Eggert is my great grandmother. She lived in Casper, Wyoming during the time of the Great Depression and maintained a beautifully written diary about her experiences and daily life. Because there is no way to provide a link to her writing in my MLA citation, I am posting some of it on this blog for reference.
The drought Faye speaks of in this passage is the same one that the Joads experience in The Grapes of Wrath, which turns the Midwest into a dust bowl and ruins the crops for poor farmers. Although Faye lived further west, she was similarly affected by the change in climate.The heat flows around me thick and sticky and it is like trying to live in a world with warm clear Karo syrup pouring over your head. Inside an old woman is talking to Aunt Del. They were girls together in Virginia. They mention so many things and so many people. She tells about a visit to California, the best time in her life, when the winter was full of flowers and for two months there was not a day she was not in the car going someplace to see something. I have to smile, California has a sound of its own that I recognize perfectly. It must be a blessed place to have given so many people the time of their lives. She commiserates with Aunt Del on having only one child and that a boy, “I always tell my daughter, who has the two boys, how she missed it- not having a girl. I always say there’s nothing more satisfyin’ than havin’ a daughter.” The maple tree hangs down its branches of leaves in black quietude in the summer night. They are talking of Sally Inglesby, dead many years. Aunt Del says with a shy laugh like a young girl who has been honored beyond her deserts, “I never thought to be here this long.” I can barely see the trumpet-vine now that climbs in the tree of Mr. Feggler’s orchard; perhaps I wouldn’t see it if I didn’t know it was there. The heat is almost suffocating. Aunt Del says “We’ve seen many things, had many times.” There is a wistful remembrance of a lifetime in her voice. The other woman speaks up more firmly, “Yes, we have lived a long time. I know one thing, I’ve had a life of hard work. But I don’t regret it; I was able to do it.” A toad is hopping stealthily across the brick walk back to the garden where March is watering.They are talking now how the old times have passed. The grand rich crops, the favor of heaven’s rains. So many terrible things are happening. They do not realize perhaps that it is only their strength to contend with the reverses of life that is passing. They are talking how godless people have grown-- how they look for a great change, a terrible “reckoning.” I think they only figure it to themselves so that leaving the world will not be such a hard thing, and life fraught with omen of the wrath of God is not so good a thing that they need hold to it much longer. And I sit here young and somehow filled with the certitude that change is the only thing to be expected and so I feel the foundations of life as sure as they ever were or ever can be. If drought is the succession to fruitfullness then it must be so and God has no special rancor against us.
As we searched all the hot day for house-keeping rooms, we began to feel bitter and hopeless. We resented the nice big homes we saw. “They could rent a couple of rooms very easily if they liked. Why do people need so much room?” And we came at last to the smoky dirty edge of town to the row of tourist cabins, ashes strewn in the doorways, and corn cobs to burn in the little monkey stoves, the dark cement rooms-- it seemed good enough, it was a place at least to get in, to put your things about, to be alone.
Sometimes there swells in me a class hatred like a poisoned fever. Today I saw a man come out of his trim English style house with a little wrought iron lantern over the door and grey venetian blinds at the windows, he had the look of a man that smelled nice and he was dressed in soft tweeds. He carried his bag of golf clubs around to where his sleek car waited in a spic and span garage. It was then the hatred welled up in me, because of Martin who never had an afternoon off, and lay in sweat and oil with the sand blowing into his eyes as he struggled with worn-out machinery. Martin who will probably never smell nice or play any game again.Martin was Faye's husband; during the Great Depression, she traveled from town to town with him and their two daughters so that he could find work. She spoke of him lovingly but often with a hint of exasperation, as if he was yet another burden who had no time to help her out with family life. One need look no further for an example of a strong 1930s woman.
