part0004

JUST as he had thought, Doris had excitedly agreed to meet him and Bob at the White Cafeteria for lunch before heading out to the Crawford family farm. Bert, wanting to look nice for Doris but casual for the task at hand, opted to wear his grey suit with vest, a burgundy tie, his newly starched and pressed white dress shirt, and a grey fedora with the black band. With his well-polished Florsheim shoes, he was looking quite dapper and feeling confident. He lit a cigar and sipped on his coffee in hopes of calming his nerves.

As for Doris, she had just splurged on a green, floral printed dress with small lace detail at the neck and sleeves; fitted at the waist and flowy at the calves. It had cost her a dollar and ninety-eight cents at Sears, but she felt like a million bucks wearing it .

Doris gently touched her finger-waved hair, thinking about the upcoming opportunity to sit close to Bert and hear his voice; her heart began to race and her face flushed. She shook herself from her daydream and checked the mirror to see how her grandma’s opal earrings looked with her dress. Grandma would have heartily approved, she decided. A dab of gardenia perfume behind each ear, and she was ready for her lunch date.

White Cafeteria was the best local eatery for breakfast and lunch, especially in these tough economic times. One could get a decent creamed chicken lunch for fifty cents. Add a piece of apple pie for a little bit more, and you were living large! A majority of people these days were considered “less fortunate,” and scraped together food for their families as best they could. Having a job was another blessing as the national unemployment rate was twenty-two percent. Somehow, these three people meeting at the cafeteria today had been spared the plight of the jobless, and sat at a four top table waiting to be served by another privileged individual, a working waitress.

“Afternoon. Ya’ll ready to order?” she asked in an especially noticeable east Tennessee twang.

Bert spoke up first, “Yes, ma’am. The lady would like the creamed chicken lunch special and iced tea. I’ll have the same. Bob?”

The waitress nodded, scribbled in her small notepad, snatched the menus from the table and hurried off.

Bert sat across from Doris with Bob at his right. He tried to keep from staring at her, but he was also afraid she would notice him looking away and think he was avoiding her. He couldn’t decide where to look so his darted around everywhere in an attempt to find a place to land. His hands were sweaty, and he had to loosen his tie.

“When we get there,” Doris spoke up, “you should probably let me introduce you to Mrs. Crawford. She should recognize me, and will probably feel more comfortable talking to me first."

"Yes, of course,” agreed Bert.

“I’ll wait to take pictures ‘til you’ve spoken to her. Get her consent and then I’ll walk around and see what’s the most interesting.” Bob could tell Bert was a nervous wreck, so he tried to keep the conversation professional. “If she has any current photos she doesn’t mind sharing with us; that could save us film.”

“Alright. I’ll be sure to ask.” Bert told him.

Their food arrived, and once they began to eat, the conversation began to flow more easily. Discussions of mothers’ cooking, the waitress’ demeanor, and what life must be like on a farm kept the three friends enthralled ‘til the meal was done.

Doris sat down her fork and took a peak at her watch. “Oh my! We’d better get going. I have other things to accomplish after our excursion to the farm.”

Bert paid for his and Doris’ meals, for which she was sincerely grateful, and they all set out together to get the scoop on the largest family in the county.

Bert drove a ’32 Buick that he’d bought for a song from a family man desperate for money. It had needed some repairs, but nothing Bert wasn’t able to fix himself, having helped his father work on farm equipment and other machines while growing up. Doris rode up front with him while Bob was in the back checking his camera and supplies. They had just reached the turn up the hill into Dogwood Alley, when they came to a creek with rapidly flowing water.

“The water wasn’t this high back in March,” Doris explained. “We were able to walk across, and Maggie got all muddy.” She laughed at the memory.

“This car isn’t going to get across all that water. It’ll stall and we’ll really be in a mess. We’re gonna have to walk.” Bert looked back at Bob who was obviously annoyed at the idea of hauling his camera and equipment through water and up a muddy hill.

Bert parked the car on the side of the road near a patch of trees, and grabbed a case of film and equipment. He led the way through a shallow section of the creek with Doris and Bob trudging behind. The rocks were slippery with moss, so he took Doris’ hand to guide her across her safely. Once they were all across, they began the ascent through wet grass and rocky dirt up the hill to the farm.

They had only walked a few feet when Doris gasped and the men suddenly gazed up from watching their feet to see what caused her to react. They found themselves memorized by the picturesque scene; hundreds of dogwood trees blooming small, white flowers by the thousands lined the untraveled road on either side. Each blossom of velvety white petals enveloped a prickly-looking green center. The ends of the petals were indented with a touch of red. Branch upon branch overlaid with flowers; every tree touching the ones next to it, forming waves of white like the foam carried by waves at the beach. They each looked around with mouths agape, absorbing the view all along the way. Once atop the hill, the dogwoods gave way to a scene that did not seem appropriate for such a grand entrance. A small and rustic wood home, a chicken house barely standing, animals and children spread over the acreage, and a portly woman wearing multiple dresses sitting on the porch steps, leaning over a large metal tub.

“What’s she doing?” Bert asked Doris as they neared the farm .

Doris, ignoring his question, slowly walked up to the lady of the house. “Excuse me, ma’am. My name is Doris. Do you remember me?”

The woman looked up and nodded, “Yep. You’re that nurse girl. What can I do fer ya?”

“Well,” Doris began, “this is my friend Bert. He’s a writer for the paper, and he’d like to write a story about your family. And, this is Bob, the photographer who will take pictures of the farm if you give us your consent.”

“What about our family make for a good newspaper story?”

“We believe that your family is the largest in the county. And besides that,” Bert added, “I want to write about how manage to keep things going and feed your family and such with the economy the way it is.”

“If you think it’s news, then who am I to stop ya? I don’t even read.”

“Thank you so much,” Doris smiled.

“Might I ask,” Bert interjected, “what are you doing?”

“Shelling peas.” She unfolded her apron on her lap to show a large pile of peas in the pod. A metal bowl by her side held the shelled peas, and the tub held the shells along with other scraps of food. Mrs. Crawford noticed Bert looking and nodded towards the pen by the house. “For the pigs. ”

Bert sat to her left and began to ask questions while Bob readied his camera. He hauled out of its case a large black square with a cylinder in the middle of the front panel. He then released a latch and the front sprang forth on an accordion-like contraption. The Crawford children were enamored and gathered in close to watch the stranger with the mysterious apparatus. While Bob staged pictures of the younger children (who were more than happy to oblige), Bert interviewed Mrs. Crawford.

“Where is Mr. Crawford? I’d like to talk to him as well.”

“He’s visitin’ one of his grown sons who is sick with the pneumonia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sure you can tell me all about your family and the farm. You bought it recently from Mr. Fox, is that right?”

“Yes, Sir. We now own the property, a mule and a plow and all the chickens. The couple of pigs are for Mr. Fox. He’ll have ‘em butchered come fall.”

“What about the crops? Do you keep all that you grow; do you sell it?” Bert asked.

“We sell most all of it. The small garden behind the house that the girls and I tend to is just for us. The boys help plow the big fields and go huntin’ in the woods for squirrel and rabbit.”

“I remember they brought in squirrels when I was here last,” interjected Doris.

“Those were good eatin’,” Mrs. Crawford spoke with a proud look on her face and a nostalgic glance to her kitchen, looking a bit bare. There was no smell of flour or grease from cooking. Doris wondered if they were in need of food.

“We get by just fine,” Mrs. Crawford looked at Doris as if she had read her thoughts. “We all pitch in and look after each other. I’ve seen my boys, the older ones, steal away some of their food and sneak to the little ‘uns. They think I don’t see it, but I do. None of us are starvin’. We may not have a lot of belongings, but we have each other. We have our farm. We have woods to hunt in.”

Bert interjected, “Do the boys do well with hunting? Does that, with the garden, really provide enough food for everyone?”

“Like I said, we get by. A.J. is bringing more flour with him when he comes home. I use five pounds every mornin’ for biscuits.”

“Five pounds of flour? Every morning?”

Doris was shocked at both the amount of supply needed and at the hard work it took to prepare such a breakfast. Bert cleared his throat, and she realized she was interfering with his interview. She looked at him, a bit embarrassed and excused herself to step outside and check on Bob.

Bob, however, had already walked off towards the big fields where he saw three tall, lean boys standing near a mule and plow, drinking from a tin cup they passed around. One of the little sisters was standing nearby with a bucket of water from the well. Once he reached the group of siblings, Bob held his camera to his eye and maneuvered to capture the best image. One of the boys, Fred, sat on the plow while the other two, Henry and Sam, remained standing. Bob fully expected them to maintain stoic faces, but was pleasantly surprised when they gave him smiles. Not just standard, obligatory posing smiles; but genuine, happy smiles. The kind of smiles that aren’t flashy as if to put on a façade, but more a softening of the face and a light behind the eyes that communicates cheerfulness.

From the looks of their clothes, the blisters on their hands, the holes in their shoes and the condition of the home in which they lived; one would have expected these boys to be solemn, cynical, even bitter. Yet, these young men were content with the life they’d been given. How many people could honestly say that about themselves? Bob reckoned very few.

The flash of the camera startled the boys, and they all had a good chuckle. Henry, the oldest of the three, began to tease Sam about how high he jumped when the flash went off; and the group of brothers continued to laugh as they passed the tin cup once more before returning to work. Bob just stood there watching and admiring the comradery as a spectator admires a team of athletes working together and winning a big game. It was enjoyable to see, and made a person aspire to such achievement…a happy family .

This family, however, was not without its turmoil. Six children had died either at birth or early infancy. This not only bore an emotional toll, but hindered the entire operation of the farm as girls who would normally handle outdoor chores had to care for their mother as well as cover her duties while she recovered.

Carrie Crawford, A.J.’s second and current wife, usually resumed her household chores well before the doctor had given his permission. She was not one to sit idly by and let others work for her. Even still, the few days she allowed herself could cause the farm work to fall behind. They had seen harsh winters and diseased crops, all while farming a hillside with rocky, unfertile soil and only a mule and plow to ready the fields.

Standing on this same hillside, Bob watched as young children fed chickens with smiles and laughter, teenage boys guided the mule while discussing the pretty neighbor girls and sunlight shimmered on the white dogwood blossoms. He and Bert knew Doris was right, this was a story worthy to be told.

The first photos were of the Johnson’s who had two sets of triplets, twelve children in all. The beginning of the story reviewed how citizens of the county worked to build a home for the large and struggling family. Just below the picture of the Johnsons with their brood stretched out in a line across the front of the house were pictures of the Crawford’s: A.J., Carrie, individual children and the picture of the boys with the mule and plow. There was also a picture of their home with a caption that read, “Barely room enough for a family of nine.”

The article shared general information about how the property was bought from Mr. Fox, a notable local businessman, and how A.J. had twenty-four children, twelve each by two wives…Nola, his stepdaughter, was not included. There was mention of the beautiful dogwoods and Mr. Crawford’s traveling to see his ailing son. Basically, the article treated the family as a novelty of the county, an amusement.

All of Bert’s writing detailing the family bond and methods of survival had been edited to oblivion. Instead of a story of inspiration, it was just another fluff-piece to act as a diversion for the troubling news affecting the world. Though Bert was disturbed by this, he was also aware that this was the way journalism often worked. Stories were manipulated, and the narratives that offered more excitement or controversy were often made headlines. People showed more interest in the debauchery of the world than the wholesomeness of everyday people working together to survive.

Bonnie and Clyde made the front page almost daily. They were a notorious pair who robbed a string of banks and stores, traveling across five states. Law enforcement knew them to be extremely dangerous, willing to kill anyone who got in their way including innocent bystanders and officers of the law. The public, however, romanticized the couple as “Robin Hood” types. Their celebrity was also, in part, due to the lighthearted photographs of the two of them that were left behind for police to find, and subsequently released to the media. In January they had staged a prison break to help free a childhood friend, Raymond Hamilton. The duo shot at guards, and fatally injured one. Even still, some people viewed them as heroes for the underdog and unjustly accused.

Of course the news that affected everyone was the Depression. Men lost jobs, families lost homes, and people took their own lives. The Civil Works Administration, established in 1932, was an attempt to put people to work building roads, bridges, airports, hospitals and schools. Even still, many families were suffering without prospect of recovery any time soon.

To add to the problems within the United States, a dust storm, lasting three days, blew over three hundred million tons of soil over the West and Southwest. Deposits blew east as well, and even some coastal cities had to light their street lamps during the daytime.

Political uprisings, turmoil in faraway lands, the Depression, emboldened outlaws; these were the reports that caught people’s attention and persuaded them to spend some of their precious funds on a newspaper. Bert understood this; so he could hardly be upset with the changes his editor had required. At least they had gotten most of a full page spread.

Doris, however, would be severely disappointed. He wondered if he should call her to smooth things over; let her know it was just part of the business of selling news. He sighed heavily as he picked up the newsroom phone. Here’s hoping…

“It’s terrible! Just terrible!” Doris was practically in tears. “It is nothing like I promised Mrs. Crawford. I told her it would be inspiring and uplifting. Instead, the headline is about the Johnson family, and what’s written about the Crawford’s is generic information. Nothing about their struggle or the way they look after each other.” She sighed and thought about her next words, “I don’t blame you, Bert. I understand what you’re saying. It’s just not at all what I had hoped for.”

“I know. But, think of it this way; maybe someone will see what you saw when you first met them. Even though the whole story isn’t told, some mother will instinctively recognize that if Mrs. Crawford can successfully care for all those kids, then she, too, can care for her own and survive.”

“It’s a nice sentiment, Bert.”

“Just trying to find the silver lining.”

“And, that’s one of the things I like about you. Most reporters are all about the sensation, the headline. You always write with heart.”

“Not that many people ever read what I write.”

“That’ll change, Bert. One day your work will be really appreciated, and you’ll have the recognition you deserve. Until then, know that you have my appreciation.”

“I know it. It means a lot to me, really; but, I’d like something else from you.”

Now he had peaked Doris’ curiosity.

“What’s that?”

“A date.” Bert said with his crooked, charming smile.

It took Doris what seemed like forever to answer.

“I think that can be arranged,” she replied.

Having arrived at home after a long day at the paper, Bert hung his hat on the coat rack, tossed his suit coat over a chair and hurriedly removed his tie; letting it drop to the floor. He grabbed a cigar from the box on his bookshelf, and pulled a silver lighter engraved with his initials from his pants pocket. He went outside and sat on the balcony of his apartment in the second story of a storefront in downtown Knoxville. His feet propped on the railing, his cigar resting between his fingers, and the sounds of Mr. Chapman closing up the drugstore below sounding in his ears; Bert relaxed, feeling pleased with the day’s outcomes.

The article was published, be it not as anticipated; and he had an upcoming date with Doris. Sure, there was a lot wrong with the world, plenty to weigh a man down. But, if Bert knew anything, he knew that life was too short to let circumstances become burdens. Whatever else was going on, life, at this moment, was good.