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THE  "ARGONAUTS" 


F/'ue  young  Americans  discover  their  Country 


The  "Argonauts" 

WHEN  five  young  people  without  any 
money  are  determined  to  explore  the  whole 
of  America,  how  should  they  go  about  it? 
At  the  end  of  this  volume  future  young  ex- 
plorers may  find  a  valuable  guide  to  sources 
of  financial  backing,  which  include  a  soft- 
hearted publisher.  The  publisher  in  this  case 
believes  that  his  investment  was  completely 
justified. 

There  were  two  girls  and  three  boys,  all 
just  out  of  college,  and  all  previously  on  the 
staffs  of  their  respective  college  newspapers. 
They  traveled  over  15,000  miles  in  ninety- 
two  days.  You  may  call  this  a  book  of  travel 
and  reporting,  if  you  like— it  is  that,  but  it  is 
also  much  more.  These  five  young  "report- 
ers," who  poked  into  every  nook  and  cranny 
on  their  route,  and  then  wrote  up  their  find- 
ings, saw  more  than  our  beautiful  lakes, 
rivers,  and  mountains. 

They  saw  people.  They  saw  governors, 
mayors,  labor  leaders,  Hollywood  stars  and 
"stand-ins,"  writers,  captains  of  industry, 
sharecroppers,  government  officials,  hoboes, 
and  fellow-reporters.  They  asked  questions. 
They  asked  frank  questions,  embarrassing 
questions,  searching  questions.  They  were 
census  takers  of  American  public  opinion, 
conducting  a  sort  of  pint-sized  Gallup  poll. 
Without  fear  or  favor,  they  probed  the 
minds  of  their  fellow-countrymen.  And  they 
found  answers,  some  amusing,  some  serious, 
all  with  the  unmistakable  ring  of  truth. 

Chock-full  of  adventure,  discovery,  unique 
experience,  this  book  is  as  vital  and  alive  as 
the  fine  young  Americans  who  wrote  it. 

MODERN  AGE  BOOKS 

432  Fourth  Avenue,  New  Yorfc,  N.  Y. 


From  the  collection  of  the 


m 


Prelinger 

v    JLJibrary 
p 


San  Francisco,  California 
2006 


THE  "ARGONAUTS" 


THE 
'ARGONAUTS" 

BY 

LILLIAN  E.  ROSS 

GEORGE  WHITMAN 

JOE   WERSHBA 

HELEN  ROSS 

MEL  FISKE 


NEW  YORK  •  MODERN  AGE  BOOKS  •  1940 


COPYRIGHT,    1940,   BY   LILLIAN   E.   ROSS 
PUBLISHED   BY   MODERN   AGE   BOOKS,   INC. 

[BMG  .  UOPWA  #18] 


DESIGNED   BY  BRUCE  GENTRY 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA,  BY  H.WOLFF, NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
HELEN'S  AND  LILLIAN'S  MOTHER 


WHO  WILL  ALWAYS  BE  AS  MUCH  A  PART  OF 

The  "Argonauts"  AS  OURSELVES 


Persons  who  undertake  a  long  journey  involving 
much  hardship  with  a  view  to  gain  are  called  "Argonauts." 

.  .  .  And  we  were  five  who 
wanted  to  taste  in  real  life 
what  we  knew  only  from  books. 


CONTENTS 

:- 

1  Journey  to  the  Moon  i 

2  Everything  for  Industry  7 

3  Where  is  the  West?  31 

4  "Roller-Coaster  Town"  62 

5  Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  82 

6  Magic  Land  126 

7  Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  166 

8  Lone  Star  State  216 

9  "The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  253 

10  "Going  Against  the  Wind"  290 

11  "Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here ?"  316 


Chapter  1   JOURNEY 

TO  THE  MOON 


$  We  had  been  going  to  school  for  fifteen  years.  Now  we 
could  read  and  write.  Fifteen  long  and  unfulfilled  years 
of  hope.  .  .  . 

"Jason  set  out  to  search  for  the  Golden  Fleece  .  .  ."  our 
college  professor's  voice  droned  on. 

Our  fifteen  years  never  were  measured,  for  we  never 
measured  time.  We  had  learned  to  read  and  write,  and 
we  knew  something  about  this  land  of  ours.  We  liked 
some  of  the  things  we  knew,  and  we  knew  some  of  the 
things  we  disliked. 

".  .  .  Jason  had  to  secure  the  Fleece  in  order  that  he  might 
regain  his  stolen  kingdom.  .  .  !' 

Where  was  our  kingdom  of  stolen  opportunities? 

Where  was  the  America  that  could  not  be  found  in  the 
textbooks?  Where  were  the  miners  and  lumberjacks,  the 
cowboys  and  movie  stars? 

".  .  .  With  the  help  of  the  goddesses  Athene  and  Hera, 
Jason  and  Argus  built  a  ship.  Fifty  of  the  foremost  heroes 
of  Greece  joined  the  adventure.  .  .  " 

ti 


2  The  "Argonauts" 

The  fact  that  the  textbooks  had  omitted  the  cowboys  and 
the  Pacific  Ocean  did  not  mean  that  the  goddesses  were 
going  to  help  us  find  them.  You  need  money  to  see  America 
first — money  for  a  car  and  for  places  to  sleep  and  for  food 
to  eat.  We  didn't  have  any  money. 

"Finally,  the  Argonauts  reached  Colchis,  where  the  Fleece 
was  guarded  by  a  sleepless  dragon.  Medea,  daughter  of  the 
King  of  Colchis,  fell  in  love  with  Jason.  She  gave  the 
dragon  a  sleeping  powder.  .  .  " 

We  had  an  assortment  of  diplomas,  a  batch  of  college 
newspapers  we  had  edited,  associate  membership  cards  in 
the  American  Newspaper  Guild  and  a  strong  desire  to 
write  and  to  earn  a  living. 

"Jason  seized  the  Golden  Fleece.  .  .  ." 

We  wanted  to  find  America.  Joe,  Lillian,  George,  Helen 
and  Mel — we  were  only  five  of  21,200,000 — the  nation's 
youth.  In  another  month  Joe  would  be  nineteen  years  old. 
Summer  meant  a  long,  dreary  vacation,  meant  listening  to 
the  family's  incessant  question:  "Why  don't  you  get  a  job?" 
They  didn't  understand  that  a  college  sophomore  six  feet 
tall  with  a  baby  face  and  too  big  for  his  only  suit  had  tough 
competition.  Would  he  never  get  a  break?  What  did 
America  have  to  offer  ? 

George  was  different.  Deliberately  and  methodically,  he 
planned  his  opportunities.  Twenty  years  old  and  a  month 
out  of  college,  he  belonged,  just  as  in  school  he  had  always 
known  he  would  fit  into  the  jam  sessions  and  football 
games.  Big  and  hulking,  he  knotted  his  red-striped  necktie 
carefully  in  front  of  the  mirror,  thinking  how  well  it  would 
strike  the  eye.  "America,  here  I  come!"  He  grabbed  his 
hat,  packed  his  clothes  and  kissed  his  girl  friend  good-by. 

With  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  Lillian  placed  her  new  college 
diploma  in  a  drawer  and  swaggered  out  to  find  her  hard- 


Journey  to  the  Moon  3 

boiled  newspaper  idols.  They  belittled  the  diploma,  but 
they  liked  the  stocky  swagger,  and  the  curly  mop  of  hair 
that  went  with  it.  "So  you  want  to  write!  First  get  out  and 
see  the  country!"  Solid  and  persistent,  Lillian  immediately 
began  the  plans  to  get  out  and  see  it. 

Lanky  and  shy,  Mel  brought  all  his  books  home  one  day 
and  said  Ohio  University  had  refused  to  continue  giving 
him  a  college  education  on  credit.  Every  night  he  visited 
his  lanky  and  shy  girl  friend  and  talked  about  the  future. 
What  future?  She  was  a  swell  girl  and  the  only  one  for 
Mel,  but  at  twenty-two  any  guy  knows  you  can't  "live  on 
love."  How  was  it  with  other  young  people  in  the  coun- 
try ?  How  many  doors  had  America  closed  on  its  youth  ? 

Helen  had  tried  to  work  during  the  day,  go  to  school  at 
night  and  write  for  labor  papers  in  between.  Her  soft  sweet 
face  looked  tired.  She  was  tired — "tired  of  working  in 
stuffy  offices,  tired  of  serving  greasy  plates  of  spaghetti  to 
nasty  women,  tired  of  fitting  size  five  shoes  on  size  seven 
feet!"  Her  eyes  always  crinkled,  but  her  face  showed  no 
smile.  Her  sister  Lillian  didn't  know  yet  what  it  meant  to 
work  for  a  living.  But  Helen  knew,  and  now  she  wanted 
to  see  America's  people  at  work. 

Five  of  21,200,000,  we  wanted  to  find  our  America,  to  see 
how  it  looked  and  to  learn  how  we  fitted  into  the  picture. 
Book  critic  Lewis  Gannett  bought  us  a  beer  and  said  why 
don't  you  write  a  book?  Naturally.  Every  roaming  re- 
porter from  Homer  to  Steinbeck  had  done  it.  We  could  do 
it  too.  Publisher  Louis  P.  Birk,  soft-spoken  and  under- 
standing, thought  so. 

"...  Modern  Age,  therefore,  is  willing  to  advance  the 
small  sum  of  fifty  dollars  as  a  starter  when  you  leave  on 
your  trip  West,  and  when  you  send  us  two  or  three  chap- 


4  The  "Argonauts" 

ters  of  the  proposed  book,  in  fairly  finished  form,  we  will 
advance  additional  sums  of  money  on  the  basis  of  our 
judgment  as  to  the  value  of  your  writing.  This  is  our 
gamble.  .  .  ." 

Like  a  family  facing  the  first  of  the  month  without  funds 
for  the  rent,  we  scurried  around  for  more  money  and  a  car. 
We  emptied  our  penny  banks.  We  withdrew  the  last  of 
our  scholarship  money — for  a  real  education!  We  button- 
holed all  our  friends  and  made  them  bring  their  friends  to 
a  "rent  party."  Everybody  had  a  terrible  time.  We  were 
too  busy  counting  money  and  raffling  of!  books  to  enter- 
tain the  guests.  Then  we  visited  uncles  whom  we  hadn't 
seen  for  eight  years  and  renewed  acquaintances  with  fourth 
cousins.  We  began  these  visits  by  inquiring  anxiously  about 
their  health  and  ended  by  asking  hopefully  for  money. 
The  Newspaper  Guild  had  contributed  one  hundred  dollars 
to  our  gradually  growing  fund,  so  that  the  associate  members 
might  be  represented  at  the  annual  convention  in  San 
Francisco.  But  this  was  not  enough  to  get  us  there. 

With  glum  and  worried  faces,  we  sat  around  the  News- 
paper Guild  Club  counting  the  dollars  over  and  over  again. 
"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  began  Helen  slowly.  "I've 
got  a  hundred  dollars." 

"WHAT?" 

"Uh-huh.  I've  been  saving  it  for  years  to  do  something  I 
really  wanted."  Her  eyes  laughed  and  crinkled  in  the  cor- 
ners. "America  is  that  something." 

"Happy,"  the  bartender  at  the  Guild  Club,  had  a  plan. 
"Why  don't  you  buy  a  new  car  on  the  installment  plan?" 
He  explained  how  it  could  be  done. 

Our  friend  Gladys  wanted  a  car,  and  we  convinced  her 
that  she  needed  us  to  break  it  in  for  her.  We  made  the 
down  payment.  The  shiny  black  four-door  Plymouth  was 


Journey  to  the  Moon  5 

delivered  late  at  night,  July  14.  We  named  it  the  "Twen- 
tieth Century  Unlimited." 

July  15.  Bulging  valises,  portable  typewriters,  gasoline 
stove,  fishing  pole,  blankets,  a  mascot  Dopey  doll,  cameras, 
tin  dishes,  canned  goods,  copy  paper  and  a  hatchet  were 
packed  into  the  car.  Mel  sat  cramped  in  the  driver's  seat, 
his  long  legs  bent  so  that  his  knees  brushed  the  steering 
wheel.  The  gear  shift  was  stiff,  the  brakes  tight  with  all 
the  newness  of  a  car  that  had  registered  hardly  forty  miles. 

Lillian  and  Helen's  mother,  a  lovely  white-haired  woman, 
came  downstairs  to  say  goodby. 

"Be  careful,"  she  said. 

"Don't  worry  about  us,"  said  Helen. 

"No,"  said  her  mother,  "but  write  home  every  day." 

Forward! 

"Well,  now  let's  get  organized,"  declared  Lillian  briskly, 
as  we  drove  through  familiar  Prospect  Park  toward  the 
Manhattan  Bridge.  "I  suggest  we  elect  various  departments 
to  manage  the  work  on  this  trip.  Who's  going  to  handle  the 
money?" 

George  had  a  degree  in  business  administration.  He  had 
studied  accounting  and  bookkeeping,  and  he  knew  how  to 
pinch  pennies.  We  had  to  be  five  on  a  fussbudget. 

"All  in  favor  of  George  for  the  Finance  Department, 
please  say  aye." 

"Aye!"  said  George,  Mel,  Helen,  Joe  and  Lillian. 

Mel  was  the  only  one  who  had  a  driver's  license.  So  we 
elected  him  Travel  Department — caring  for  the  car,  plan- 
ning our  routes,  packing  and  unpacking  luggage.  .  .  . 

If  we  were  going  to  "cover  the  country,"  we  would  need 
an  efficient  City  Desk  Department. 

"I  nominate  Lillian,"  said  Mel. 


6  The  "Argonauts" 

Elected  by  acclamation,  Lillian  immediately  passed  out 
long  sharp  copy  pencils. 

"Food  and  lodging,"  drawled  George.  "That  calls  for  a 
woman's  touch."  He  looked  meaningfully  at  Helen. 

"But  I  can't  cook!"  protested  Helen. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Mel.  "We've  got  enough  canned 
goods  for  a  week." 

Helen  paused,  then  said,  "Well,  I  know  how  to  use  a  can 
opener." 

That  settled  it.  We  elected  her  Food  and  Lodging  De- 
partment. 

"What'll  I  be?"  asked  Joe.  "I'm  the  only  one  left." 

"Library  Department,"  said  Lillian.  "We'll  want  to  keep 
newspaper  clippings  and  research  material  and  stuff." 

Joe  hesitated. 

"All  those  in  favor  of  Joe?" 

He  was  elected.  From  that  point  on,  we  decided  every- 
thing by  a  democratic  vote. 

"Dig  in,  George,"  said  Mel,  "we're  coming  to  the  Tun- 
nel." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

"Half  a  buck." 

"Is  it  agreed  by  the  group  that  we  spend  half  a  dollar  to 
cross  the  Hudson  River?"  George  asked  pompously.  We 
agreed.  George  handed  two  quarters  to  Mel,  drew  out  a 
small  brown  notebook  and  marked: 

Expenses  for  July  15 
Holland  Tunnel 0 


Chapter  2  EVERYTHING 

FOR  INDUSTRY 


ty  "Gee,  at  last  I'm  out  of  Brooklyn!"  Joe  pointed  to  the 
NEW  JERSEY  sign  halfway  through  the  Holland  Tunnel. 

As  we  came  into  the  open,  a  bright  green  billboard 
greeted  us. 


EVERYTHING    FOR    INDUSTRY 

MAYOR  FRANK  HAGUE 


Helen  turned  to  glance  back  at  the  sign.  "I  wonder  what 
that  means?" 

"It's  just  a  rah-rah  touch,"  George  declared  knowingly. 
"Like  'everything  for  deah  old  Yale,'  you  know,  'Boola- 
boola,  boola '  " 

"It  means  you  can  run  your  business  more  profitably 

7 


8  The  "Argonauts" 

here,"  Mel  interrupted,  speaking  quietly,  without  turning 
his  dark  eyes  from  the  road.  "My  dad  once  wanted  to  bring 
his  print  shop  to  New  Jersey,  because  labor  and  other  ex- 
penses were  cheaper." 

Lillian  took  out  a  new  notebook  and  on  the  first  page 
wrote:  "Everything  for  Industry?"  She  frowned  impor- 
tantly. 

Mel  crooked  his  arm  on  the  window  as  we  crawled  to- 
ward Philadelphia  at  thirty  miles  per  hour,  the  top  speed 
allowed  for  a  new  car.  Trucks,  tin  lizzies,  home-made 
trailers,  streamlined  roadsters  and  even  motorcycles  whizzed 
past  us.  When  we  managed  to  pass  a  limping  relic  of  an 
auto  we  shouted  triumphantly,  "Why  don't  you  get  a 
horse?" 

We  felt  good.  Everything  had  worked  out  fine.  Gladys 
expected  to  get  her  car  back  good  as  new,  because  Mel,  quiet 
and  calm  and  capable,  had  told  her  so.  You  knew  to  look 
at  him  that  he  wouldn't  ever  forget  grease  or  oil.  We 
weren't  worrying  for  the  moment  about  money,  although 
we  were  to  be  plenty  worried  before  we  had  been  to  San 
Francisco  and  back.  We  weren't  worrying  about  food  be- 
cause beaming  parents  had  poked  eggs  and  canned  beans 
and  cookies  into  the  corners  of  the  car. 

We  felt  more  than  good.  We  were  going  to  see  our  coun- 
try. We  knew  we  belonged  to  it,  but  how  and  where  we 
were  not  sure.  We  knew  some  of  the  things  we  wanted  to 
see.  Young  people  first  of  all.  Were  they  like  us?  Were 
any  of  them  sure  of  how  and  where  they  fitted  into  their 
country's  life?  We  wanted  to  ask  them  about  the  things  in 
which  we  believed. 

We  were  all  stubborn  about  some  of  our  beliefs,  but  we 
were  not  at  all  stubborn  about  the  methods  to  achieve  them. 
We  believed  that  people  shouldn't  step  all  over  each  other 


Everything  for  Industry  9 

and  push  the  little  fellows  into  dark  corners.  We  knew  that 
people  could  work  together  and  for  each  other;  we  five 
were  experimenting  with  this  belief  in  starting  out  together 
to  cover  the  country.  We  believed  in  specific  things,  like 
unions.  We  belonged  to  one,  the  American  Newspaper 
Guild,  and  were  proud  of  it.  We  believed  in  general 
things — like  freedom,  not  autocracy;  peace,  not  war;  good- 
ness of  human  beings,  not  evil. 

We  wanted  to  see  how  people  lived  and  worked  in  Amer- 
ica and  what  happened  when  they  didn't  have  work.  We 
had  read  a  lot  of  statistics  about  America,  and  now  we 
wanted  to  see  what  they  proved.  We  wanted  to  under- 
stand our  country. 

Joe,  the  youngest,  eagerly  took  notes  on  everything,  his 
blond  round  head  poked  out  the  window  as  a  sign  to  the 
people  of  the  state  that  he  was  not  going  to  miss  a  thing 
about  them.  Sure,  he  had  his  prejudices  about  life,  but  he 
aimed  to  take  a  complete  and  objective  look  at  America. 
The  rest  of  us  talked  about  the  days  and  hours  to  come. 
George  began  a  refrain  we  were  to  hear  many  times. 

"We've  got  to  save  money.  We're  on  a  five-dollar-a-day 
budget,  excluding  the  costs  of  the  car,  and  we  have  to  econ- 
omize." He  spoke  emphatically,  with  the  authority  of  one 
experienced  in  high  finance.  "The  first  economy  measure 
is  the  little  item  of  cigarettes.  I  brought  my  cigarette  ma- 
chine. We'll  roll  our  own." 

He  produced  a  sample.  Lillian  tried  it  and  moaned.  Out 
of  the  daily  appropriation,  two  dollars  and  a  half  would  be 
spent  on  lodging.  The  other  half  of  the  sum  would  cover 
food,  postage,  cigarettes  and  other  miscellaneous  items. 
Eventually  Lillian  would  learn  to  appreciate  corn  silk 
wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 

We  rode  into  Philadelphia  with  a  chip  on  our  shoulders. 


10  The  "Argonauts" 

We  knew  all  about  big  cities.  We  came  from  one.  As  soon 
as  we  stopped  near  an  automobile  supply  store  (we  needed 
a  baggage  rack),  Joe  rushed  out  of  the  car. 

"Hey,  Joe,  where  are  you  going?" 

"Want  to  interview  some  people.  Philadelphia  is  an  im- 
portant spot." 

Lillian  meanwhile  turned  the  back  seat  of  the  Twentfeth 
Century  Unlimited  into  a  miniature  "city  room."  She 
opened  one  of  the  typewriters  and  arranged  a  stack  of  copy 
paper  on  the  small  ledge  under  the  rear  window.  She  made 
notes  of  people  to  see  between  Philadelphia  and  Chicago 
and  wrote  letters  informing  them  of  our  coming.  Helen 
suggested  subtle  phrases  that  might  bring  food  and  lodging 
results.  We  would  arrive  late  at  night,  hungry,  tired,  etc., 
etc. 

Lillian  pulled  out  the  NAMES  book. 

Jay  Franklin,  Washington  columnist 
Blue  Ridge  Summit,  Pa. 
Friend  of  publisher 
Lunch  .  .  .  maybe 

Cleveland : 

George's  Aunt  Gussie 
Newspaper  Guild 
Bert  Foster,  automobile  worker 
food,  beds,  etc.  ...  a  cinch 

The  NAMES  book  was  our  key  to  the  country.  Food  and 
information — the  NAMES  could  give  them  to  us. 

Paoli,  Malvern,  Coatesville,  Black  Horse,  Paradise,  Bird- 
in-Hand  .  .  .  names  on  the  map,  they  moved  by  in  slow 
procession,  cluttering  the  road  to  the  West.  The  farms  of 
central  Pennsylvania  spread  their  colors  before  us.  The  red 


Everything  for  Industry  1 1 

oats,  green  corn,  dark  brown  earth,  gray  Old  Dutch  homes 
and  huge  orange  barns  plastered  with  purple  "Mail  Pouch" 
ads  marked  a  pattern  on  central  Pennsylvania.  After  a 
while  we  anticipated  the  uniform  repetition  of  the  colors, 
as  we  might  acknowledge  a  familiar  print  on  an  old  dress. 
The  large  billboard  advertisements  were  ugly  ornaments  on 
the  dress.  Signs  warned  us  to  have  faith  in  the  coming  of 
Christ,  to  shave  with  Burma,  to  travel  next  time  by  rail- 
road and  to  drink  Coca-Cola. 

The  sun  was  hot.  We  took  off  our  coats  and  rode  toward 
the  golden  sky.  We  wondered  why  people  lived  in  crowded 
cities  when  all  this  beautiful  land  was  available.  The  val- 
leys were  picture  postcards  made  real.  The  soft  hills  walled 
in  the  beauty,  hiding  it  from  the  surrounding  towns  and 
cities. 

Lancaster  was  the  center  of  this  "garden  spot  of  America." 
We  felt  the  timeless  dignity  of  the  town  in  the  old  stone 
houses,  in  the  large  thick  trees  lining  the  streets. 

Eddie  Wagner,  head  stock  boy  at  the  five-and-ten-and- 
up  store,  proudly  told  us  about  his  home  town.  It  was  big 
to  Eddie,  always  would  be  big,  as  long  as  he  stayed  in  Lan- 
caster. 

"Most  people  here,"  Eddie  said  quietly,  "work  in  the  big 
factories — Armstrong  Linoleum,  Hamilton  Watch  and  the 
others.  They  worked  straight  through  the  depression." 

"Sure,  they  have  unions  here,"  Eddie  answered  our  ques- 
tion. "But  not  in  my  place.  There's  a  fellow  who  lives  in 
my  row.  He  started  the  strike  at  Armstrong's.  Got  the 
workers  a  five-dollar  raise.  They  fired  him,  though,  after 
things  quieted  down.  Now  he  can't  get  a  job.  Gee,  he's 
smart.  He  can  name  you  every  star  in  the  sky." 

Eddie's  supper  hour  was  almost  up,  and  he  hurried  back 
to  work.  We  too  thought  of  supper. 


12  The  "Argonauts" 

"I'm  hungry.  Let's  eat  up  to  forty  cents  apiece."  Joe  was 
always  hungry. 

"Thirty-five  cents  should  be  enough,"  Helen  proposed 
timidly. 

We  voted. 

Satiated  with  forty  cents'  worth  of  chicken  croquettes  and 
succotash,  we  walked  down  Main  Street.  Saturday  night. 
People  piled  out  of  trolley  cars  into  the  square.  Lines 
formed  to  the  right  at  the  movie  houses.  Girls  and  boys 
self-consciously  walked  by  arm  in  arm.  The  Amish  master 
farmers,  who  took  oaths  to  none  but  God,  strolled  stiffly, 
their  eyes  straight  ahead.  They  had  labored  and  prospered 
on  the  farmland.  Their  ancient  horse  and  buggy  outfits 
still  brought  them  into  town.  Their  ancestors  had  come 
here  more  than  two  centuries  ago.  Clutching  at  the  old  way 
of  life,  even  in  their  dress,  these  hard-working  farmers 
seemed  lonely  and  forgotten.  We  stared  at  the  full-bearded 
man  with  clean-shaven  upper  lip  wearing  a  tight,  black 
suit  and  shoestring  bow  tie,  and  at  his  wife  dressed  in  a 
large  gray  bonnet  and  gingham  to  the  ankles.  The  Amish 
lived  frugally  and  were  confirmed  pacifists.  The  picture 
shows  had  caught  up  with  them.  While  some  still  owned 
the  richest  farms,  many  had  deserted  their  profitless  land; 
had  come  into  town  to  work;  and  had  sent  their  bony, 
angular  daughters  into  the  factories. 

Helen  and  George  entered  a  chain  store  grocery  to  buy 
coffee  and  bread  for  the  next  morning's  breakfast.  The 
others  found  a  sandwich-sign  man  on  the  corner.  Old  and 
toothless,  he  mumbled  to  himself  as  he  gave  Mel  a  hand- 
bill. He  looked  surprised  when  Mel  talked  to  him. 

"I  was  in  the  last  war,"  he  nodded,  "and  this  is  what  I 
got  out  of  it.  Some  of  'em  became  millionaires,  but  I 


Everything  for  Industry  1 3 

couldn't  even  get  a  job.  Nobody  wants  to  hire  a  war-shocked 
old  man." 

He  paused  and  handed  some  circulars  to  a  group  of 
young  boys.  .  .  .  "New  roller  skating  rink,  everybody  wel- 
come. .  .  ."  the  circular  said. 

"My  son's  in  the  army  now,"  he  continued.  "What  can 
you  tell  a  strong  healthy  boy,  out  of  work  for  three  years, 
who  has  to  come  to  his  daddy  for  carfare?"  He  examined 
us  carefully,  pushing  his  wrinkled  face  close  to  ours. 

"It's  fine  to  have  you  listen  to  me.  Lots  of  young  ones 
don't  care  to  listen.  But  I  know  more  than  you'd  guess." 
He  shuffled  away,  chuckling. 

Helen  and  George  returned,  loaded  with  bundles. 

"Peanut  butter!"  George  pointed  knowingly  to  the  pack- 
age. "It's  good  for  the  digestion.  Contains  all  the  essential 
oils  and  stuff." 

Joe  scowled.  "Didn't  you  get  cereal?"  he  demanded. 
"I've  got  to  eat  cereal  every  morning.  My  father  said  so." 

"Too  bad.  You're  living  with  us  now." 

Helpful  hints,  garnered  from  friends  and  family,  were  fol- 
lowed more  carefully.  Inspect  the  tourist  cabins  before  regis- 
tering, we  had  been  warned.  Helen  gingerly  picked  up  the 
bed  covers,  looked  under  the  pillows,  and  tested  the  mat- 
tresses. Then  she  inspected  the  washrooms. 

"How  much?" 

"Two  and  a  half,"  the  scrawny  manager  replied  mechani- 
cally. 

"Okay." 

Mel  started  to  unpack  the  baggage.  People  drifted  out 
from  other  cabins  to  watch  our  growing  pile  of  belongings 
on  the  lawn.  They  gaped. 

"You  got  all  that  in  your  car?  Gosh  almighty,  I  hope 
my  wife  doesn't  see  this!" 


14  The  "Argonauts" 

The  girls  bolted  their  cabin  door  and  lowered  the  shades. 

Mel,  Joe  and  George  squeezed  into  one  narrow  bed  in 
the  other  room.  George  placed  our  treasury  under  the  pil- 
low and  the  hatchet  on  a  small  table  near  the  bed. 

We  slept. 


Breakfast — home-made  Sunday  breakfast — prepared  on 
the  gasoline  stove.  Three  cents'  worth  of  gasoline  boiled 
the  coffee  and  fried  the  bacon  and  eggs.  We  chewed  dry 
crusts  of  bread  for  more  than  an  hour  before  the  stove 
finally  came  through.  The  greenish  coffee  tasted  watery; 
the  bacon  was  burnt,  the  eggs  cold.  But  we  were  proud  of 
this  first  breakfast.  After  all,  none  of  us  could  cook.  George 
took  his  turn  at  the  dishes.  When  Helen  went  to  investi- 
gate, she  found  him  spraying  the  tin  plates  with  a  garden 
hose.  She  banned  that  time-saving  device  immediately. 
Maybe  she  couldn't  cook,  but  she  at  least  knew  how  to  wash 
dishes. 

The  Lone  Ranger  Rides  Again  was  billed  at  the  Strand 
as  we  drove  through  Gettysburg. 

Uniformed  guides  offered  to  show  us  around  the  battle- 
fields. 

"See  where  ten  thousand  men  died,"  one  barked. 

No,  thanks.  Men  had  planted  neat  corn  patches  amidst 
the  gray  monuments  and  crosses — food  for  the  living,  life- 
less stone  for  the  dead. 

Six  youths  in  an  open  model  T  passed  us  and  waved. 
Their  wheels  shimmied  and  rattled,  and  they  waved  base- 
ball hats  as  they  sang:  "Wishing  will  ma^e  it  so,  just  %eep 
on  wishing  .  .  .  wishing  will  ma\e  it  so  .  .  ." 

We  took  up  the  song  and  climbed  the  curving  road  to 
Blue  Ridge  Summit,  on  a  blue  Pennsylvania  mountain. 


Everything  for  Industry  1 5 

Jay  Franklin,  newspaper  columnist  and  political  commenta- 
tor, awaited  us.  He  had  returned  recently  from  a  trip  around 
the  country,  and  we  had  called  him  for  an  appointment. 
Maybe  he  could  give  us  some  ideas  about  people  and  things 
to  see. 

We  put  on  our  best  manners  and  hoped  we  would  not 
appear  awkward  or  amateurish.  Franklin,  our  first  "impor- 
tant national  interview,"  looked  at  our  bright  car,  freshly 
pressed  suits,  clean  notebooks  and  long  copy  pencils.  He 
smiled  faintly.  After  a  few  weeks  of  being  with  America 
and  her  people,  we  were  to  reach  the  stage  where  Helen, 
the  most  timid  of  us  all,  would  pat  a  mayor's  wife  on  the 
back  as  she  made  flippant  remarks  about  her  ducky  bonnet. 
But  as  we  followed  Franklin  into  his  house,  we  breathed 
uncomfortably  until  we  found  firm  support  in  five  tall- 
backed  chairs  grouped  around  the  table. 

"I  don't  know  if  there's  much  I  can  tell  you."  Jay  Frank- 
lin pointed  to  the  large  map  of  the  United  States  which  we 
had  spread  out  on  the  table.  "Just  look,  inquire  and  form 
your  own  opinions  about  things.  Don't  start  out  with  pre- 
conceived notions  about  this  country,  because  you're  in  for 
a  surprise." 

His  serious  expression  changed  to  a  smile,  a  wise  smile, 
in  character  with  his  heavy-rimmed  glasses  and  quiet  black 
suit. 

"What  did  you  find  out  on  your  trip,  Mr.  Franklin?" 

"The  most  important  thing  I  found  out,  and  I  think  you 
will  too,  is  the  economic  basis  of  sectionalism.  .  .  ."  We 
looked  at  each  other.  "You'll  see,"  Franklin  explained, 
"how  the  lives  of  the  people  in  any  one  section  of  the  coun- 
try are  inextricably  tied  up  with  the  economic  resources  of 
that  area." 


16  The  "Argonauts" 

"We  saw  a  sign  in  New  Jersey,"  Lillian  declared.  "  'Every- 
thing for  Industry'  it  said.  .  .  ." 

"That's  the  idea,"  Franklin  quickly  added.  "From  New 
York  to  Chicago,  you'll  see  how  industry  affects  and  directs 
the  lives  of  people.  Of  course,  you'll  have  to  determine  for 
yourselves  whether  or  not  everything  is  for  industry." 

"Good  luck!"  He  waved  as  we  started  down  the  steep 
mountain  side. 

"Wasn't  he  a  grand  guy?"  Helen  placed  her  notebook  on 
the  "desk"  under  the  rear  window. 

Mel  turned  the  wheel  sharply  as  we  swung  around 
curves. 

"That's  how  really  great  people  are,"  Lillian  declared 
seriously.  "Nothing  false  or  pretentious  about  them.  Only 
the  phonies  are  snobs." 

Joe  wrinkled  his  forehead.  "But  what  did  he  mean  by 
'surprises'  in  store  for  us?  Suppose  we  don't  see  everything? 
Then  we'll  get  a  wrong  picture  of  the  whole  country." 

"We  just  can't  generalize,  that's  all."  George,  in  the  back 
seat,  placed  his  feet  out  the  side  window.  "We  can't  gener- 
alize about  the  particular  things  we  see  unless  we're  abso- 
lutely sure  they  represent  the  typical." 

At  Waynesboro,  a  few  miles  away,  we  began  to  learn 
what  Jay  Franklin  had  meant. 

"Hey,  what  street  is  this?"  we  called  to  a  group  of  boys 
standing  on  a  corner. 

"Main  Street!    Whady'a  think?" 

"This  is  the  country's  biggest  industrial  city  for  its  size," 
a  small  restaurant  owner  told  us.  "Our  population  is  10,000. 
About  6,000  used  to  depend  on  work  in  the  factories.  There's 
not  a  single  union  in  town.  We  had  a  general  strike  back  in 


Everything  for  Industry  17 

1919,  and  they  put  about  a  hundred  strikers  in  jail.  They 
didn't  get  me.  I  left  town.  Everybody's  still  afraid." 

Everything  for  Industry? 

As  we  returned  to  the  car,  a  group  of  dirty-faced,  un- 
combed children  watched  us  silently  from  the  curbstone. 
Their  bare  feet  rested  on  the  hot  asphalt.  We  turned  our 
eyes  to  the  church  steeple,  over  which  the  tree-studded  blue 
mountains,  lovely  and  serene,  swept  up  toward  the  sky. 

We  twisted  through  the  Alleghenies.  The  curving  road 
changed  into  a  straight  white  line,  dark  forest  on  both 
sides.  In  the  dusk,  it  looked  like  the  long  straight  part  in 
a  woman's  sleek,  black  hair. 

Suddenly,  we  found  ourselves  out  of  the  green  mountain 
land.  The  transition  into  Pittsburgh  surprised  us.  Tall 
brick  chimneys  stood  in  military  rows,  emitting  blots  of 
black  smoke  that  blended  with  the  night.  Spasmodically,  a 
fiery  glow  to  one  side  of  the  city  would  illumine  the  sky  and 
die.  Smoke  dust — at  first  we  thought  it  was  fog — substi- 
tuted for  air.  The  giant  Westinghouse  plant  sprawled  be- 
low us,  dark  and  solid. 

"Schenley  Park,"  a  sleepy  drugstore  clerk  advised,  when 
we  asked  about  tourist  cabins.  As  we  entered  the  park,  a 
car  pulled  up  alongside. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  a  gruff  voice  asked. 

"To  the  tourist  cabins.  We're  from  New  York." 

"Follow  us,"  the  voice  commanded. 

We  were  uneasy,  but  we  obeyed.  We  climbed  after  the 
other  car.  On  the  hilltop,  deserted  and  dark,  we  stopped. 
George  clutched  the  hatchet  as  a  man  approached. 

"Looking  for  a  place  to  camp?"  the  man  called.  "This  is 
a  good  camping  place.  You  can  pitch  your  tent  right  here." 

He  was  a  policeman.  We  had  everything  except  a  tent. 
We  spent  the  night  in  cabins  outside  of  Pittsburgh. 


18  The  "Argonauts" 

3 

Five  persons  in  an  over-stuffed  car,  and  we  wanted  com- 
pany. After  a  twenty-mile  stretch  through  West  Virginia 
had  added  another  state  to  our  growing  collection,  we  felt 
like  veterans  of  the  road.  A  young  boy  standing  near  a 
rainbow  pottery  stand  hailed  us.  His  name  was  Nelson 
Dallas.  Would  we  take  him  into  Cleveland?  He  squeezed 
into  the  front  seat,  and  we  bombarded  him  with  questions. 
He  had  a  fifteen-dollar-a-week  job  in  an  amusement  park. 
No,  he  hadn't  finished  high  school.  What's  the  sense  in 
learning  the  same  old  stuff  over  and  over  again  ? 

"The  truant  officer  is  supposed  to  come  after  you,  but  too 
many  kids  have  to  quit  and  get  jobs.  The  police  can't  catch 
up  with  them,"  said  Nelson. 

"Five  hundred  miles,"  Mel  broke  in  authoritatively.  "Got 
to  have  the  oil  checked." 

We  left  Nelson  at  his  amusement  park  near  Cleveland 
and  headed  for  the  city.  "My  Aunt  Gussie  will  treat  us 
fine,"  George  assured  us.  "We  don't  have  to  worry  about 
anything  in  Cleveland." 

We  didn't  have  to  worry.  When  we  rushed  into  Aunt 
Gussie's  neat  one-family  house,  she  rushed  out — but  only 
to  buy  some  food.  Five  extra  for  dinner  was  a  bit  of  a  sur- 
prise. She  returned  struggling  with  five  bundles  almost  as 
big  as  she  was.  Bubbling  over  with  worries  about  how  we  ate 
and  slept,  she  fed  us,  as  if  it  was  the  most  important  task  she 
would  face  in  the  next  two  centuries. 

Aunt  Gussie  didn't  want  us  to  go  traipsing  around  town 
that  night.  All  the  relatives  were  coming  over,  and  how 
often  did  she  get  to  see  George  anyway  ?  Relatives  were  all 
right,  but  that  was  not  our  reason  for  coming  to  Cleveland. 
We  took  Cousin  Hilda  along — Aunt  Gussie's  youngest  and 


Everything  for  Industry  19 

still  unmarried  problem — and  started  to  search  for  the 
Cleveland  newspapermen.  We  found  them — until  two  in 
the  morning. 

Don  Pond,  slight  of  build  and  short  of  temper,  insisted 
on  buying  drinks. 

"What'll  you  have,  scotch,  rye,  rum  ...  ?"  he  asked. 

"Beer,"  Mel  said,  and  Joe  and  George  nodded. 

"Sherry,"  said  Helen. 

"Scotch,"  Lillian  requested  in  her  most  professional  man- 
ner. 

Pond  ordered.  "Now  .  .  .  you  want  to  know  about  in- 
dustry in  Cleveland.  Hah!  We've  got  one  helluva  situation 
here.  Labor  is  split  in  Ohio.  The  CIO  backs  one  political 
candidate,  and  the  A.  F.  of  L.  backs  another.  Result?"  He 
held  out  his  hands,  palms  up.  "We've  got  a  conservative 
Republican,  Governor  Bricker,  who  claims  he's  running 
the  administration  like  a  'good  business  enterprise.'  And 
what's  he  doing?  Slashing  appropriations  for  schools,  re- 
lief and  everything  else!" 

"There's  dynamite  in  this  town,"  Ted  Cox,  editor  of  the 
Union  Leader,  the  city's  labor  paper,  put  in  abruptly. 
"Some  day  it's  going  off,  and  somebody  will  have  to  be 
responsible  for  setting  off  the  spark." 

"If  you  want  to  see  some  of  the  dynamite,"  Pond  sug- 
gested, "come  out  to  the  Fisher  Body  picket  line  at  six 
o'clock  tomorrow  morning.  Thirty  strikers  were  sent  to 
the  hospital  this  morning  after  a  row  with  the  cops." 

At  2:30  A.M.  Hilda  took  Helen  and  Lillian  to  a  friend's 
house  across  the  street.  Aunt  Gussie  piled  blankets  on  the 
three  boys  in  her  spare  bedroom. 

"Strike,  strike,  strike,"  grumbled  Aunt  Gussie,  giving 
each  of  them  an  apple.  "Did  you  come  to  Cleveland  to  get 
your  heads  broken?" 


20  The  "Argonauts" 

George  peeked  sleepily  from  under  the  covers  and  blew 
her  a  big  kiss.  "We're  looking  for  the  economic  basis  of 
sectionalism."  He  bit  into  the  apple  and  sighed. 

Alarm  clocks  punctured  our  dreams  at  five.  Mel  tiptoed 
out  to  Aunt  Gussie's  front  porch  and  waved  the  flashlight 
in  the  dark  as  a  signal  to  the  girls.  Rain!  We  slipped  into 
raincoats  and  rubber-soled  moccasins  and  followed  Pond's 
directions  to  the  three-acre  General  Motors  plant.  The 
large  gray  buildings  surrounded  by  a  high  wire  fence 
seemed  to  go  with  the  drizzling  morning.  Policemen  pa- 
raded everywhere — on  foot,  atop  horses,  inside  cruise  cars. 

About  sixty  men  and  women  walked  in  the  line  before 
the  gates  of  the  plant;  their  collars  were  turned  up  to  keep 
off  the  cold  rain,  but  they  held  their  heads  high.  A  thin 
woman  clad  in  a  baggy  green  sweater  carried  a  baby  girl 
as  she  walked  with  the  strikers. 

Lillian  spied  Bert  Foster,  blond,  diminutive  leader  of  the 
United  Automobile  Workers  Union,  whom  she  had  met  at 
the  American  Youth  Congress  in  New  York  a  few  weeks 
before.  He  moved  up  and  down  the  picket  line,  giving 
directions,  arguing  with  the  police.  Lillian  wondered  at  the 
change  in  the  flippant,  lighthearted  fellow  she  had  taken  to 
Coney  Island.  She  remembered  how  he  had  wondered  at 
the  sword  swallower  in  the  freak  show  but  had  scornfully 
compared  the  roller  coasters  with  the  bigger  ones  in  Cleve- 
land. They  had  played  the  rabbit  race  and  won  the  Dopey 
doll — now  our  mascot  in  the  car. 

Wearing  a  red  turtleneck  sweater  and  corduroy  trousers, 
he  shook  hands  and  grinned  at  an  equally  smiling  Lillian. 
"Now  it's  my  turn  to  entertain  you,"  he  said.  "C'mon, 
get  on  the  picket  line." 

We  got  on  the  line.    Lillian  paired  of?  with  a  brown 


Everything  for  Industry  2 1 

young  seaman,  Helen  with  a  large  Hungarian  toolmaker, 
Joe  with  a  stocky  Irishwoman,  George  with  a  dark  little 
Italian,  Mel  with  another  tall  and  wiry  youth. 

"The  cops  can't  hurt  us  more  than  the  sight  of  our  hun- 
gry kids " 

"...  Don't  want  nothin'  except  to  live  decent.  .  .  ." 
"...  The  neutral  police  .  .  .  what  a  laugh!  .  .  ." 

"A  scab  goes  through  the  picket  line, 
A  man  stays  out;  he's  got  a  spinel" 

"I  like  to  be  out  where  there's  laboring  people.  I'm  one  of 
them,  and  proud  of  it.  Their  fight's  mine."  Dressed  in 
soiled  khaki  trousers,  Roy  Sjodin,  son  of  farm  folks  in  Min- 
nesota, kept  step  with  Lillian  as  the  line  moved  slowly  by 
the  gates.  He  belonged  to  another  union,  the  National 
Maritime  Union. 

"You  in  a  union?"  he  asked.  Lillian  said,  in  a  matter  of 
fact  way,  "Sure,  the  American  Newspaper  Guild." 

Roy  smiled.  "That's  a  good  union." 

Suddenly  a  man  shouted,  "Scabs!   They're  comin'." 

Mounted  police  in  their  white  raincapes,  like  Arab  ma- 
rauders in  the  silent  Valentino  films,  rode  into  the  picket 
line.  Foster  and  other  strike  officials  stood  before  the  scabs' 
car,  asking  them  to  go  back.  The  police  tried  to  clear  a  path 
for  the  car.  Steel  workers  blocked  the  way,  their  steel- 
tipped  shoes  protecting  them  from  the  horses'  hoofs.  Work- 
ers pushed  us  to  the  rear  of  the  crowd.  "Be  careful,  girlie, 
you'll  get  hurt.  We  know  how  to  go  about  this." 

George  raised  his  camera  to  take  a  picture  of  a  police- 
man swinging  at  heads.  The  policeman  saw  him  and 
swung  at  George  with  his  lead- weigh  ted  club.  Someone 
pulled  George  back.  "Look  out,  kid,  get  back." 


22  The  "Argonauts" 

Another  scab  car  drove  up  to  the  gate.  "Butch,"  the  fif- 
teen-year-old union  mascot,  jumped  on  the  running  board. 
He  drove  his  hand  through  the  window  into  the  driver's 
face.  The  police  searched  wildly  for  a  picket  with  a  bloody, 
glass-cut  fist.  But  the  boy  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
hid  in  the  crowd. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  picket  line  laughed.  Eight  scab  cars 
were  parked  in  the  yard  which  accommodated  ten  thousand 
during  normal  operations.  Bert  Foster  smiled  happily  and 
said,  "Let's  get  some  breakfast."  He  led  us  into  the  strike 
kitchen,  in  a  cellar  across  the  street.  Clean  oilcloth  covered 
the  long  narrow  tables.  Husky  workers  in  aprons  poured 
coffee  and  served  cereal  and  rolls,  while  others  washed 
dishes  for  the  new  shifts. 

Bert  Foster  gulped  his  coffee.  "Got  to  hurry  to  court. 
Arrested  on  a  disorderly  conduct  charge.  You  know,  bosses' 
method  to  get  rid  of  strike  leaders."  He  smiled  bitterly. 
"So  long.  See  you  again." 

Roy  Sjodin  took  us  to  the  quarters  of  the  twenty  seamen 
who  had  come  from  Toledo  to  show  their  support  of  the 
strike.  Two  large  rooms  in  a  former  brothel,  pictures  of 
nude  women  on  the  wall,  ten  bare  cots  in  each  room.  Roy 
waved  his  hand  and  bowed.  "Our  royal  suite,  folks." 

So  we  took  leave  of  Cleveland  and  the  automobile  strike. 
We  had  met  industrial  workers,  people  solid  and  good.  We 
liked  them  for  their  simplicity  and  courage.  On  the  picket 
line  we  had  not  felt  afraid  because  they  had  no  fear. 

We  had  not,  as  Aunt.Gussie  seemed  to  believe,  gone  out 
looking  for  a  strike,  but  we  were  glad  we  had  seen  one.  We 
saw  that  the  lives  of  these  people  depended  on  an  industry, 
and  an  industry  that  could  be  heartless. 

Two  weeks  later,  in  California,  we  read  that  the  auto- 
mobile workers  had  won  the  strike. 


Everything  for  Industry  23 

4 

Indiana  looked  fat  and  green.  We  thought  we  had  reached 
the  West,  the  real  m'coy,  and  we  wanted  to  talk  to  a 
farmer.  We  found  him  in  a  gas  station,  helping  his  friend. 
He  had  his  troubles.  Harvest  was  coming  on.  He  needed 
twenty  dollars  to  hire  a  combine,  and  he  didn't  have  twenty 
dollars.  He  couldn't  borrow  any  more  money  from  the 
bank  or  grain-elevator  man.  Was  this  slight,  middle-aged 
man  in  grease-stained  overalls  the  American  farmer?  Was 
his  problem  the  "farm  problem"? 

"If  it  was  up  to  the  farmers,  we  wouldn't  ask  for  gov'n- 
ment  help.  'Tain't  easy  to  kill  yer  best  hog  and  bury  him 
under  the  eyes  of  a  gov'nment  man,  when  you  know  there's 
people  a  mile  down  the  road  that  needs  food." 

"How  does  the  government  help?"  Helen  was  puzzled. 

"Well,  the  farmers  can't  get  a  price  on  the  market  now- 
adays. The  gov'nment  says  there's  too  much  food  growin'. 
So  they  stop  us  from  raisin'  stuff  by  payin'  us.  See?" 

We  saw.  We  had  memorized  "the  law  of  supply  and  de- 
mand" in  our  economics  courses.  But  now  it  was  a  little 
confusing.  There  was  demand  in  the  faces  of  hungry  peo- 
ple. There  was  supply  in  the  rich  farm  fields  of  Ohio  and 
Indiana.  But  demand  without  money  was  not  demand. 

"Coin'  inta  Gary?"  A  tall  youth  dressed  in  a  flashy  green 
suit  waved  the  car  to  a  halt  after  we  had  left  our  farmer. 

"I'm  from  Texas,"  he  announced  as  soon  as  he  was  seated. 
"From  the  Bar  X  Ranch.  I  ran  away."  He  gave  us  a 
forced,  jolly-good-fellow  smile,  showing  two  front  teeth 
missing. 

"Are  you  one  of  the  Bar  X  boys?"  George  asked.  "I  read 
about  you  ten  years  ago.  All  the  kids  in  the  Bronx  read 
those  stories." 


24  The  "Argonauts" 

Texas,  our  companion  continued  unabashed,  was  a  thor- 
oughly Republican  state.  He  had  ridden  buckin'  broncos, 
just  like  the  subway  trains  in  New  York  City.  He  enter- 
tained us  with  adventure  stories  about  chasing  cattle  rus- 
tlers, beating  up  the  Capone  gang  in  Chicago  and  attending 
"Purdue  University  in  Kansas"  for  a  year.  He  shrugged  at 
our  surprised  faces.  Joe  fondled  the  hatchet  and  George 
his  pocket  knife. 

"That's  nothing,"  he  declared,  "I  earn  forty  dollars  a  day 
sometimes.  All  I  have  to  do  is  slug  those  CIO  skunks  who 
make  all  the  strikes." 

He  got  out  at  Gary.  We  wondered  if  he  would  find  any 
work  "slugging"  here. 

The  Carnegie-Illinois  Steel  mill  stretched  over  the  cen- 
tral part  of  the  city.  Gary  lived  on  steel.  Traffic  moved 
slowly  around  the  plant,  and  workers  congregated  in  little 
groups  near  the  curbs.  Everything  was  steel,  Carnegie-Illi- 
nois steel,  in  Gary,  a  young  waitress  explained.  When  the 
mill  worked,  people  ate,  went  to  movies  and  bought  clothes. 
When  the  mill  closed  down,  people  waited  for  it  to  open 
again. 

Only  half  the  people  in  Gary  were  working,  and  at  that 
only  three  days  a  week.  The  steel  workers  were  trying  to 
get  the  City  Council  to  do  something  about  the  unemploy- 
ment problem.  Most  of  the  young  people  in  the  plants 
belonged  to  the  union.  But  with  the  mill  working  at  only 
40  per  cent,  the  older  men  were  given  preference. 

We  went  into  the  street  to  compare  notes.  Jobs?  Two 
young  fellows  on  their  way  home  from  business  school 
answered  the  question  politely. 

"Jobs  are  scarce." 

They  were  going  to  business  school,  hoping  their  addi- 
tional training  would  help.  But  there  weren't  many  jobs 


Everything  for  Industry  25 

outside  the  mill.  They  had  combed  the  city  for  work  since 
their  graduation  from  high  school  two  years  before. 

Two  young  Negro  girls  standing  near  a  jewelry  counter 
in  Wool  worth's  had  the  same  story  to  tell.  "A  job  is  the 
thing  you  want  most,  but  it's  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world 
to  get." 

Carnegie  Steel  was  big  and  important;  it  reached  into 
many  continents.  Carnegie  endowed  libraries  in  which  we 
had  read  and  studied.  But  the  workers  in  Gary  never  used 
those  libraries;  their  children  never  went  to  college. 

"Everything  for  Industry  .  .  ."  Lillian  mused. 

"You  mean  everything  for  industry,"  Helen  corrected. 
"That's  the  way  it  looks." 

Chains  of  factories  and  hamburger  stands  marked  the 
twenty  miles  from  Gary  to  Chicago.  We  felt  all-knowing 
and  prepared  for  anything  in  Chicago.  Lake  Shore  Drive 
into  the  city  reminded  us  of  our  own  Riverside.  Tall,  snooty 
apartment  houses  faced  the  water.  Tan  boys  and  girls  in 
tight  bathing  suits  played  on  the  beach. 

As  soon  as  we  had  parked  the  car,  we  made  directly  for 
Texas  Guinan's  old  night  club,  a  remembrance  of  things 
past.  At  the  entrance  hung  a  large  sign:  HEARST  STRIKE 
HEADQUARTERS — only  the  present  mattered  there  now.  The 
old  red  and  gold  decorations  were  covered  with  notices: 
"Strikers  Due  on  Picket  Line  Today,"  and  "Excuses  Don't 
Win  Strikes,"  and  "Hearst  Papers'  Drop  in  Advertising." 

Yes,  another  strike,  but  one  we  had  known  of  and  helped 
from  afar  by  collecting  funds  from  students  and  refusing  to 
buy  products  advertised  in  the  struck  papers. 

We  entered  and  stared.  Copy  boys  were  painting  signs. 
Reporters  were  turning  out  leaflets.  Rewrite  men  were 
seated  around  a  circular  desk  getting  out  stories  on  the 


26  The  "Argonauts" 

strike.  A  circulation  manager  was  cutting  a  sports  writer's 
hair.  Sob  sisters  prepared  the  "strike  lunch"  at  the  bar. 

"Hello.  We're  associate  members  of  the  Newspaper  Guild 
of  New  York,"  said  Lillian. 

Harry  Wohl,  his  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up,  a  bedraggled  tie 
hanging  carelessly  from  his  limp,  loose  collar,  shook  hands 
with  us.  "So  you  want  to  walk  on  our  picket  line?  Okay. 
Tomorrow  morning." 

"Okay." 

"Got  a  place  to  sleep  tonight?"  he  queried. 

"Not  yet." 

"We'll  put  you  up,"  he  said,  smiling. 

We  wandered  about  headquarters,  discovering  strike 
facts.  The  strike  had  already  cost  the  Hearst  management 
$8,000,000.  It  was  the  longest  and  largest  white-collar  strike 
in  American  labor  history.  More  than  500  newspapermen 
on  both  Hearst  papers  in  the  city  refused  to  go  back  to  work 
unless  their  demands  were  met.  No  arbitrary  firings.  The 
right  to  belong  to  a  union  of  their  own  choosing.  A  living 
wage.  They  wanted  these  simple  rights. 

Mike  Fusello,  a  stocky  circulation  manager,  explained 
what  it  was  all  about.  The  strike  had  started  in  December 
1938,  and  the  newspapermen  were  prepared  to  fight  to  the 
end.  Eighteen  babies  had  been  born  to  striking  families  in 
the  course  of  the  strike.  Their  fathers  and  mothers  had  to 
feed,  educate  and  care  for  them.  That  was  what  they  were 
fighting  for.  "Goons"  hired  by  Hearst  had  assaulted  the 
strikers.  Nate  Aleskovsky,  young  and  wide-eyed,  showed 
us  pictures  of  strong-arm  men  slugging  pickets  with  crank 
handles  and  kicking  fallen  boys  into  a  state  of  unconscious- 
ness. Chicago  courts  had  issued  injunctions  against  the 
Guild  on  the  charge  of  "disorderly  conduct." 

Activity  at  headquarters  ceased  as  the  strikers  congre- 


Everything  for  Industry  27 

gated  for  their  nightly  meeting.  We  pledged  the  support  of 
associate  members  of  the  Newspaper  Guild.  The  strikers 
cheered. 

Helen  and  Lillian  slept  at  the  home  of  a  rewrite  man  and 
his  wife,  while  the  others  stayed  with  one  of  Chicago's  ace 
reporters.  Everything  in  these  homes  belonged  to  us  during 
our  stay.  "That's  the  way  you  learn  to  do  things  when 
you're  on  strike,"  the  rewrite  man  declared.  "Not  according 
to  Hearst,"  his  wife  laughed  and  turned  to  the  girls.  "Well, 
do  we  look  mean — as  if  we're  going  to  throw  bombs  and 
start  riots?" 

Early  the  next  morning,  the  rewrite  man's  wife  woke  the 
girls.  She  brought  coffee,  without  cream  or  sugar.  "We've 
learned  to  like  coffee  plain  like  this.  You  learn  to  like  a  lot 
of  things  when  you  have  to  go  through  a  strike." 

We  walked  on  our  second  picket  line,  relieving  two 
young  copy  boys. 

"I  took  the  copy  boy's  job,"  one  of  them  explained,  "figur- 
ing on  working  myself  up  to  a  reporter.  They  stalled  me  for 
three  years.  Under  the  Guild,  I'd  get  a  chance  to  prove  that 
I  can  hold  down  a  job." 

We  told  him  we  were  associate  Guild  members. 

"You  need  them  around  here,"  he  said.  "There  are  a 
couple  of  college  boys  scabbing.  They  don't  know  a  thing. 
Which  I  guess  is  why  they're  scabbing." 

Months  later,  when  we  read  that  the  Chicago  Guild, 
after  seventeen  months,  had  won  the  Hearst  strike,  and 
their  right  to  self-respect,  we  felt  that  these  newspapermen 
had  won  something  for  us  too. 

5 

Youth — it's  a  problem.  People  sometimes  say  that  as  if 
there  were  something  wrong  with  youth. 


28  The  "Argonauts" 

We  visited  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association  and 
the  National  Youth  Administration  to  find  out  about  youth 
in  Chicago.  Miss  Knorr,  YMCA  employment  director,  told 
us  there  were  ten  applicants  for  every  job  that  came  through 
her  office.  "I  don't  know  what  the  other  nine  do.  Some 
come  in  and  tell  me,  'What  can  we  do ?  Jump  in  the  lake?'  " 

"You  want  to  know  about  youth?"  a  large,  red-faced 
man  interrupted.  "I'll  tell  you.  All  this  pampering  of 
youth  and  the  unemployed  is  ruining  the  country.  Let 
them  shift  for  themselves  like  I  did  forty  years  ago."  He 
was  introduced  as  Major  Skully,  a  YMCA  official  and  an 
old-time  power  in  the  Republican  Party  in  Chicago. 

"Youth  problem.  Hrrmph,"  he  said.  "Sure,  there's  a 
youth  problem,  and  it's  everybody's  problem :  to  stop  spend- 
ing the  nation's  wealth."  He  explained  how  each  young 
American  owed  large  sums  of  money  and  was  going  to  be 
drowned  in  the  morass  of  depression  for  the  next  three 
generations  by  the  weight  of  mortgages  around  his  neck. 

In  the  lobby,  a  gray-suited  youth  had  a  copy  of  the 
Chicago  Times  spread  out  before  him.  It  was  opened  to  the 
Help  Wanted  page. 

"Anything  doing?"  asked  Mel. 

"No." 

"Tough?" 

"I  used  to  be  in  business  with  a  friend.  Then  the  creditors 
clamped  down.  My  partner  took  the  last  money  he  had 
and  bought  himself  some  bottles  of  whisky.  He  locked 
himself  in  his  room  and  stayed  drunk  for  four  days."  The 
boy  handed  the  paper  to  Mel  and  walked  away. 

We  checked  up  on  this  "crazy  spending"  and  "pamper- 
ing of  youth"  when  we  looked  up  the  National  Youth 
Administration  office  in  a  tall  building.  More  than  20,000 
high  school  and  college  students  in  Illinois  would  have 


Everything  for  Industry  29 

been  forced  out  of  school  had  it  not  been  for  the  aid  they 
received  from  NYA.  Another  13,000,  training  for  various 
occupations,  worked  and  were  paid  by  the  NYA.  The  NYA 
director  gave  us  a  list  of  projects  to  visit.  We  saw  one — the 
Negro  project  on  South  Wabash  Street. 

Young  Negro  boys  bent  over  lathes  and  planes,  fashion- 
ing tools,  rebuilding  broken  toys.  Girls  were  busy  at  sewing 
machines  and  drawing  boards. 

Was  the  NYA  "pampering"  them?  They  were  all  under 
twenty-five  years  of  age;  they  were  learning  and  wording. 
They  hoped  and  planned  for  a  future.  Old  Major  Skully 
no  longer  had  to  think  about  his  future. 

Some  young  people  thought  about  the  future;  others  were 
too  busy  thinking  about  the  present.  One  of  the  striking 
newspapermen  took  us  over  to  see  Herb  March,  district 
director  of  the  Packinghouse  Workers  Organizing  Com- 
mittee, who  was  just  a  little  bit  over  twenty-five.  We  found 
him  in  his  office,  in  the  heart  of  the  packinghouse  slums. 
Tall,  black-haired,  with  sharp  black  eyes,  he  had  been  shot 
by  thugs  three  days  before,  and  his  arm  was  in  a  sling. 

Chicago — hog  center  of  the  world — frankfurters  and  glue 
and  ham  and  puppy  food.  Workers  stand  in  scum  and  knee- 
high  water  in  foul  little  rooms  and  make  these  things.  The 
stockyards  stank.  We  could  not  breathe.  Under  the  PWOC, 
the  stockyards  had  organized.  Herb  March  led  them.  They 
were  fighting  consumption  and  rheumatism,  injustice  and 
slums. 

"Won't  the  men  who  shot  you  try  to  harm  your  wife  and 
children?"  Helen  looked  very  solemn. 

Herb  March  smiled.  "They'd  better  not,"  said  this  tall, 
bright-eyed  idol  of  the  packinghouse  workers.  "Then  I'll 
get  mad." 

From  the  Hudson  River  to  Lake  Michigan  .  .  .  Every- 


30  The  "Argonauts" 

thing  for  Industry  .  .  .  little  Eddie  Wagner  in  Lancaster 
.  .  .  kids  without  shoes  in  the  quiet  Blue  Ridge  mountain 
towns  .  .  .  blond  Bert  Foster  and  the  Cleveland  automobile 
workers.  .  .  .  "Don'  want  nothin'  except  to  live  decent"  .  .  . 
Carnegie  Steel  .  .  .  the  reporters  on  the  Newspaper  Guild 
picket  line  .  .  .  "You  learn  to  like  a  lot  of  things  when  you 
have  to  go  through  a  strike"  .  .  .  old  Major  Skully  didn't 
need  a  future  .  .  .  the  young  Negro  boys  on  the  NYA 
project  did  .  .  .  Chicago,  hog  center  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
Everything  for  Industry  ? 


Chapter  3  WHERE  IS 
THE  WEST? 


learned  road  etiquette  at  night.  Cars  approaching 
out  of  the  darkness  blinked  their  headlights  and  tooted  a 
friendly  greeting.  Mel  forced  himself  to  stay  awake  by  con- 
centrating on  toots  and  blinks.  Helen,  not  trusting  in  this 
method  alone,  started  to  sing,  and  the  others  joined  in 
raucously. 

East  Side,  West  Side,  all  around  the  town  .  .  . 

"Hey,  we're  not  in  New  York  now!" 

"Of  course  not!  Who  wants  to  learn  a  new  song?" 

"We  do!" 

"Okay,  pay  attention  to  the  words,  not  to  my  mono- 
tone. .  .  . 

"Now  Old  Abe  Lincoln,  a  great  big  giant  of  a  man  was  he, 

(Yassuh!) 
He  was  born  in  an  old  log  cabin  and  he  worked  for  a  livin' 

(Splittin  rails!) 
Now  Abe  he  \rtew  right  from  wrong, 

31 


32  The  "Argonauts" 

For  he  was  honest  as  the  day  is  long, 
And  these  are  the  words  he  said: 

This  country,  with  its  institutions, 

Belongs  to  the  people  who  inhabit  it. 

This  country,  with  its  constitution, 

Belongs  to  those  who  live  in  it. 

Whenever  they  shall  grow  weary 

Of  the  existing  government, 

They  shall  exercise  their  constitutional  rights  of  amending  it, 

Or  their  revolutionary  right  to  dismember  or  overthrow  it!" 

BANG! 

Our  car  wobbled,  and  Mel  stopped  at  the  side  of  the  road. 
"Blow-out,"  he  announced  calmly.  He  changed  the  tire  by 
the  light  of  a  candle. 

In  the  morning,  the  girls  washed  clothes  and  hung  them 
all  over  the  yard  of  the  cabin  camp,  until  the  angry  owner 
came  out  and  lectured  about  "certain  limitations  which  tour- 
ists must  observe." 

"But  we're  not  tourists!" 

The  owner  didn't  care  what  we  were.  So  with  one  valise 
stuffed  full  of  wet  clothes,  we  reached  Springfield.  It  didn't 
look  like  the  West.  Where  were  the  bony  drawling  farmers  ? 
The  boys  on  horseback?  The  West  that  was  Western? 

Just  another  hot,  tired  town.  We  saw  nothing  to  remind 
us  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  who  had  lived  and  worked  here. 
There  was  a  memorial  to  him  on  one  of  the  streets,  and 
his  tomb  was  here  too.  But  we  didn't  want  to  look  at  con- 
crete statues.  A  thin  old  man,  lolling  on  the  step  of  a  grocery 
store,  talked  with  us  reluctantly.  Half  the  miners  in  the 
town  were  unemployed.  No  work  around. 

"We'da  starved  if  it  wasn't  fer  WPA,"  he  said. 


Where  Is  the  Vest?  33 

A  few  miles  out  of  town,  a  sign  informed  us  that  "Abra- 
ham Lincoln  used  to  go  swimming  in  this  lake."  We  asked 
some  picnickers  if  there  was  a  beach  near  by. 

"Sure,"  replied  a  pale,  freckled  youth.  "The  white  beach 
is  down  there" — he  pointed  in  one  direction — "The  beach 
over  there" — he  pointed  the  other  way — "is  for  niggers." 

"Now  Abe  he  fyiew  right  from  wrong, 

For  he  was  honest  as  the  day  is  long  .  .  ."  Mel  sang  softly. 

Had  Springfield  forgotten  Abe  Lincoln? 

A  uniformed  CCC  boy  stood  at  the  roadside.  "Thanks," 
he  said  as  we  opened  our  door  to  him.  "I've  been  waiting 
hours  for  a  ride."  He  was  on  his  way  home  to  St.  Louis,  on 
his  first  leave  since  he  entered  the  camp  three  weeks  ago.  His 
name  was  Tommy. 

"I  signed  up  for  six  months,  and  I'm  going  to  sign  up  for 
eighteen  more  if  I  can,"  Tommy  told  us.  "I  want  to  learn 
to  be  a  mechanic.  They  just  started  to  hold  classes  in  my 
camp.  If  a  fellow  wants  to  learn  a  trade,  he  gets  twenty  boys 
to  sign  up  for  it.  Then  a  teacher  is  sent  in." 

When  his  father  lost  his  job  in  the  meat-packing  yards, 
Tommy  came  to  the  camp.  Most  of  the  boys,  he  said,  came 
for  the  same  reason.  Tommy  earned  thirty  dollars  a  month, 
out  of  which  he  kept  eight  for  himself  and  sent  the  rest  to 
his  family.  Army  officers,  he  said,  directed  the  camp. 

"Do  you  like  the  army  part?"  George  asked. 

"Naw."  He  scratched  his  shoulder.  "I  don't  like  these  uni- 
forms either.  They're  too  itchy." 

He  laughed  self-consciously.  "My,  you  people  ask  a  lot 
of  questions." 

We  left  him  at  the  gateway  to  the  West  for  pioneers,  past 
and  present.  .  .  . 

"Where  industry  gives  way  to  farming,  home  of  the  Gas 


34  The  "Argonauts" 

House  Gang,  neither  East  nor  West,  North  nor  South,  just 
middle — St.  Louis,  here  we  come!" 

"Yes,  here  we  come  for  fifty-five  cents,"  said  George. 
"There's  a  toll  bridge  over  the  Mississippi." 

"Hey!  That  narrow  little  trickle— Old  Man  River  ?  Fifty- 
five  cents  for  what  ?  Just  to  get  into  St.  Louis  ?  Isn't  Missouri 
part  of  the  Union?" 

Up  the  cobblestone  streets  of  St.  Louis,  into  the  main  thor- 
oughfare that  could  pass  easily  for  a  part  of  Broadway,  we 
drove  directly  to  the  Hotel  Jefferson.  We  had  an  important 
date  there — a  regional  conference  of  the  National  Youth  Ad- 
ministration, Aubrey  Williams,  national  administrator. 

We  called  up  Helen  Fuller,  one  of  the  many  NAMES  in 
Lillian's  notebook.  Blonde  and  stocky,  she  came  down  to  the 
lobby  surrounded  by  state  NYA  directors.  She  marveled  at 
our  appearance.  We  didn't  look  as  if  we  were  bumming 
around  the  country,  she  said.  Maybe  we  didn't  look  it,  but 
we  certainly  felt  it. 

She  introduced  us  to  the  directors.  These  were  the  men 
and  women  who  were  paid  by  the  government  to  give  youth 
a  break.  The  break  meant  job  opportunities,  the  "dollar 
signs"  on  the  President's  budget,  the  shoes  and  schoolbooks, 
the  "economy  items"  Congress  and  the  President  talked 
about  in  Washington. 

Dave  Williams  from  Texas  fondled  his  handlebar  mus- 
tache and  sat  cross-legged  on  the  lobby  floor.  "I'm  a  member 
of  the  Republican  Party,"  he  said  in  a  deep  and  sinister 
voice. 

We  didn't  know  whether  we  could  laugh  until  Helen 
Fuller  giggled.  "After  this  NYA  conference  ends,  I'm  go- 
ing to  attend  another  one  in  Salt  Lake  City,"  she  said.  "We're 
preparing  now  to  put  up  a  stiff  battle  for  adequate  NYA 
appropriations  when  Congress  opens." 


Where  Is  the  West?  35 

"I'm  a  Republican,"  Dave  Williams  repeated  and  smirked. 
"You're  letting  the  country  go  to  the  dogs." 

"You  must  come  to  visit  me  at  the  NYA  office  when  you 
reach  Kansas,"  said  tall  and  good-natured  Anne  Laughlin. 
"I  have  so  much  to  show  you.  I'll  take  you  all  to  lunch. 
You  must  come  to  Topeka." 

We  promised  to  come  for  lunch. 

The  lean,  white-suited  king  of  them  all,  Aubrey  Williams, 
sat  in  the  largest  chair  in  the  lobby  and  peered  at  us  through 
thick  glasses  as  we  grouped  about  him.  "Ah,  yes,"  he 
drawled  when  we  told  him  about  our  trip,  "but  it  seems 
you're  going  too  fast,  much  too  fast.  Take  it  more  slowly. 
There's  too  much  to  see  in  this  country."  He  laughed  shortly. 
"What  have  you  found  out  about  youth  so  far?" 

"They  need  jobs.  They  need  help." 

"Ah,  yes,  it's  as  simple  as  all  that."  He  measured  us  with 
his  eyes. 

That  night  star  reporter  Ellwood  Douglas,  another  NAME, 
offered  to  put  up  the  two  girls  for  the  night.  They  squeezed 
into  his  open  roadster  while  the  boys  trailed  behind.  Doug, 
who  was  small  and  dark,  sported  Mexican  sandals  and  a 
wide  silver  bracelet.  He  stopped  before  a  small  white  cottage 
surrounded  by  dark  country.  A  small  young  woman  stood 
in  the  doorway.  "This  is  Jean,  my  wife." 

Jean  displayed  immediate  and  unusual  acumen. 

"I'll  bet  you're  hungry!" 

Doug  laughed  lightly.  "What  do  you  think?" 

With  our  eggs  and  her  ham,  Jean  prepared  supper  as  we 
settled  down  in  the  living  room  to  talk  with  Doug.  Yes, 
his  sandals  came  from  Mexico  and  so  did  his  bracelet.  So 
did  the  furniture,  the  rugs,  the  book-ends,  the  tablecloth. 
He  mixed  a  delicious  and  unique  drink;  the  recipe  was 
Mexican. 


36  The  "Argonauts" 

Doug  wanted  to  go  to  Mexico  some  day  and  stay  there. 

"I  like  the  people.  They're  simple  and  good." 

"But  you're  a  nationally  known  newspaperman!  You 
mean  you  actually  would  prefer  some  tiny  out-of-the-way 
spot  in  Mexico  to  your  work  on  the  paper?"  We  were 
astounded. 

"You  don't  know  Mexico,"  Doug  laughed. 

He  took  out  a  small  pouch  from  the  pocket  of  his  blue 
cotton  shirt  and  quietly  fingered  some  tobacco  into  a  tan 
tissue  cylinder.  We  watched  his  dark  sensitive  face  as  he 
rolled  the  cigarette. 

"Uh  .  .  .  Mexican?" 

"Yes,"  he  laughed,  a  light  musical  laugh.  Some  people 
laugh  mechanically,  a  plain  ha-ha  you  never  notice.  Doug's 
laugh  was  different.  We  could  feel  something  warm  and 
kind  inside  him  when  he  laughed. 

After  we  had  eaten,  Jean  sat  on  the  floor  near  Doug's 
chair  and  played  with  their  large  black  dog.  She  watched 
humorously  when  Joe  dived  for  the  phonograph  and  started 
to  give  a  disk  by  disk  analysis  of  each  symphony. 

We  found  ourselves  talking  about  our  own  lives.  Not 
that  it  was  difficult  to  get  us  to  talk,  but  some  people  are  in- 
terested and  others  are  not.  Doug  and  Jean  were  interested. 
They  wanted  to  know  about  everything  we  had  seen  and 
what  we  had  thought  of  everything  we  had  seen.  We  talked 
— until  the  Mexican  clock  struck  two.  The  boys  left  for  a 
near-by  tourist  camp. 

An  hour  later  the  telephone  rang,  waking  Doug.  "Hello 
.  .  .  this  is  George  calling.  ...  I  lost  the  wallet  with  all 
our  money.  Can  you  look  around?  Maybe  I  left  it  at  your 
house." 

Doug  looked.  No  wallet.  He  sat  up  worrying  about  how 


Where  Is  the  West?  37 

to  get  us  back  to  New  York.  At  five  o'clock,  George  called 
again. 

"Never  mind  .  .  .  don't  bother  looking  for  the  money.  I 
found  it  under  the  seat  of  the  car.  Good  night." 

"Good  morning"  laughed  the  even-tempered  Doug. 
"Come  over  for  breakfast." 

A  rooster  roused  Helen  and  Lillian  under  Mexican 
blankets.  The  boys  trooped  in  to  announce,  "We  spent  the 
night  in  a  castle." 

Doug  laughed  sleepily. 

"It  was  a  castle,"  Joe  insisted.  "Beds  like  feathery  clouds, 
drapes  and  ivory  toilets  ...  a  castle." 

We  said  elaborate  good-bys  after  a  breakfast  of  bacon  and 
eggs.  Doug  and  Jean  went  off,  leaving  us  the  house.  "See 
you  in  San  Francisco,"  said  Doug.  We  promised  to  lock  the 
door  and  call  in  the  dog  before  we  left. 

"We've  got  to  send  half  our  luggage  ahead,"  Mel  began, 
"because  the  springs  of  the  car  are  sinking." 

"You  girls  must  have  thought  you  were  going  to  Europe," 
George  drawled,  his  head  and  legs  draped  over  the  sides  of 
an  armchair. 

We  voted.  Mel  and  George  departed  with  a  hundred 
pounds  of  baggage  to  send  on  to  San  Francisco.  It  was  one 
mile  to  the  city.  Passing  through  the  Negro  quarter,  the  boys 
saw  women  huddled  around  charcoal  stoves  in  front  of  rows 
of  wooden  shacks. 

"I  don't  see  why  they  need  those  stoves  for  cooking.  It's 
hot  enough  to  boil  coffee  on  the  sidewalks."  George  looked 
at  Mel  expecting  some  response.  Mel  said  nothing. 

The  Railway  Express  took  our  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
two  boys  started  back  to  Doug's  house  on  North  Sappington 
Road,  in  Kirkwood.  For  two  miles  they  watched  the  cows, 
chickens  and  corn  until  they  realized  they  were  lost.  That's 


38  The  "Argonauts" 

St.   Louis   for   you;    tall   buildings   and   corn   fields   rub 
shoulders. 


Missouri  was  soft  and  beautiful  at  night.  We  drove  in 
silence,  our  windows  open  to  the  warmth  and  sweetness  of 
the  land.  We  didn't  want  to  talk.  The  boys  decided  the 
night  was  too  good  to  spend  in  a  stuffy  cabin.  They  would 
sleep  outdoors — and  save  money  into  the  bargain.  With 
Helen  and  Lillian  safely  registered  in  a  cabin,  George 
stretched  out  the  small  canvas  covering,  taken  from  the  lug- 
gage rack,  in  a  hay  field  behind  the  camp.  Joe,  remembering 
instructions  in  an  old  Boy  Scout  handbook,  dug  a  small  hole 
in  the  ground  to  fit  his  posterior.  Mel  lay  down  on  the 
canvas  and  watched  the  stars  until  he  fell  asleep. 

The  storm  broke  at  three  in  the  morning,  a  Missouri 
storm,  hard  and  howling.  Lightning  struck  twenty  yards 
away  from  the  boys.  Joe  and  George  grabbed  canvas, 
blankets  and  the  still  sleeping  Mel.  They  cursed  the  rain. 
In  New  York  rain  meant  wet  dark  streets,  hurrying  people, 
galoshes  and  umbrellas.  We  measured  its  importance  only 
by  the  degree  of  discomfort  it  caused.  Then  we  talked  to  a 
Missouri  farmer  about  the  rain.  We  discovered  that  rain 
equaled  air  in  importance  out  here.  Our  cloistered  notions 
of  a  "Western"  West  began  to  fade  slowly. 

"First  rain  we've  had  in  three  months,"  said  the  Missouri 
farmer.  Unsmiling,  he  continued  to  eat  his  lunch  without 
rising  from  the  flat  stone  seat  in  the  field. 

"We  got  wet  last  night,"  said  George.  "We  were  sleeping 
in  the  fields." 

The  farmer  looked  up,  his  dry  expression  unchanged. 
"Had  a  long  drought.  Rain'll  bring  the  corn  along  more 
regular." 


Where  Is  the  West?  39 

"Did  the  drought  hurt  the  crops  much?" 

"Wa-a-al,  that  depends.  Don't  matter  too  much  which 
way  the  crop  goes  any  more.  No  money  in  raisin'  crops." 

"No  money  ? " 

"Farmers  ain't  gettin'  anythin'  for  their  crops.  Cost  a 
dollar  to  raise  a  bushel  of  wheat,  and  we  get  forty-four  cents. 
If  it  wuzn't  for  the  gov'nment  help,  we'd  all  go  hungry."  He 
looked  sharply  at  us  and  returned  to  his  lunch. 

The  Midwestern  farmer,  he  wanted  the  rain.  It  meant 
life  for  his  crops.  We  knew  he  could  not  be  indifferent  to 
this  life,  for  it  was  his  life  too.  Yet  it  didn't  matter  which 
way  the  crop  went.  It  mattered  to  the  farmer  to  see  a 
healthy  crop.  But  it  did  not  matter  which  way  the  crop 
went,  because  there  was  no  money  in  raising  food  any  more. 

At  Jefferson  City,  the  state  capital,  we  stopped  to  feed 
the  car. 

"I'll  go  shopping,"  said  Helen,  "and  we'll  have  a  sand- 
wich lunch." 

The  tall  thin  youth  in  the  Little  Old  Dutch  Grocery  helped 
carry  the  bundles  to  the  car. 

"Must  be  real  nice  traveling,"  he  said  wistfully.  "Here  I 
am  tied  up  fourteen  hours  a  day  in  the  store.  I've  been  work- 
ing for  two  years.  Can't  go  to  school  in  this  town  and  don't 
see  as  I'm  ever  going  to  get  ahead." 

"Don't  you  like  it  here?"  Helen  queried. 

"I  hate  it.  Everything's  so  slow  and  dead.  .  .  ." 

Missouri's  fields  of  corn  changed  from  healthy  green  to 
sickly  yellow  as  we  moved  toward  Kansas.  Stalks  turned 
shriveled  points  earthward.  Dust  slowly  covered  the  car,  in- 
side and  outside.  The  distance  between  Kansas  City,  Mis- 
souri, and  Kansas  City,  Kansas,  was  less  than  ten  miles,  but 
we  began  to  discover  a  world  of  difference  between  the  two 
states. 


40  The  "Argonauts" 

Long  rows  of  market  stalls  near  the  state  border  attracted 
us.  Some  humorless  farmer  and  his  sun-bonneted  wife,  no 
doubt,  would  gladly  talk  to  us.  Instead,  Beulah  and  Doro- 
thy, slim  and  sophisticated,  gladly  talked  to  us.  The  stalls 
were  still  packed  with  produce  and,  as  closing  time  neared, 
the  farmers  eagerly  sold  their  wares  at  any  price.  Helen 
fingered  a  tremendous  cantaloupe  as  we  talked. 

Twenty-year-old  Dorothy  had  been  seeking  work  since  her 
graduation  from  high  school  a  year  before.  "I've  been  trying 
everywhere.  Just  guess  people  don't  need  me." 

"Don't  you  like  the  farm?"  asked  Lillian. 

"No,  I  don't.  It's  too  hard,  and  there's  no  future  in  it. 
But  I  have  to  stay  unless  I  get  a  job." 

Beulah's  flaxen  hair  and  blue  eyes  could  rate  her  a  Briinne- 
hilde  role.  Education,  she  said,  came  first  in  her  family,  and 
she  would  go  to  the  University  of  Kansas  in  three  years, 
when  she  was  nineteen.  She  didn't  intend  to  stay  on  the 
farm  if  she  could  help  it. 

"What  do  you  do  on  the  farm?"  Mel  asked  shyly. 

"I  get  up  at  six  in  the  morning,  make  breakfast  and  milk 
the  cow.  Then  I  have  to  clean  the  vegetables  and  bring 
them  to  the  market.  After  school,  I  help  out  here  until  clos- 
ing time.  We're  just  truck  farmers.  My  father  wants  to 
buy  a  larger  farm,  but  I  don't  know."  She  nodded  doubt- 
fully. "I  don't  know  if  I'll  stay  on  it." 

People  in  the  Midwest,  the  girls  proudly  disclosed,  were 
very  tolerant  and  independent.  Beulah  explained  more  fully. 
"Now  take  Dorothy  and  me.  She's  a  Catholic  and  I'm  a 
Methodist.  We  go  to  different  churches  on  Sunday,  and  then 
we're  together  again  on  Monday.  We're  good  friends." 

For  twenty  cents  we  bought  five  heavy  cantaloupes,  and 
ate  one  for  breakfast  for  four  days.  On  the  fifth  day,  the  last 


Where  Is  the  West?  41 

of  the  stock  had  rotted.  We  wondered  if  all  Kansas  would 
be  like  that,  if  its  richness  and  vastness  faced  decay. 

We  passed  dry,  unyielding  land — the  beginnings  of  decay 
and  death.  No  wonder  Beulah  and  Dorothy  wanted  to  leave 
the  farms.  We  were  not  the  only  five  young  people  in 
America  who  thought  about  the  future.  What  did  Kansas 
have  to  offer?  Dead  land.  Youth  shies  away  from  death; 
we're  too  much  concerned  with  life. 

When  we  parked  before  the  offices  of  the  Lawrence 
World,  the  town's  main  newspaper,  all  of  Lawrence  seemed 
to  cluster  about  us  to  stare  at  the  "New  York  World's  Fair 
1939"  license  plate.  Middle-aged  women  glared  suspiciously 
at  Helen  and  Lillian  in  their  slacks  and  blouses,  at  George 
in  his  loud  orange-striped  trousers  and  at  Mel  and  Joe  in 
their  hobo  costumes. 

Mr.  Murray,  the  World's  managing  editor,  led  us  into  his 
private  office.  Daguerreotypes  and  old  prints  covered  the 
walls.  We  sat  in  antique  chairs  as  Mr.  Murray  removed  a 
large  rifle  from  the  top  of  a  high  desk. 

"This  is  a  'Beecher  Bible/  "  he  explained.  "During  the 
critical  times  before  the  Civil  War,  Reverend  Beecher  sent 
hundreds  of  these  rifles  to  the  Abolitionists  in  Kansas.  They 
came  packed  in  boxes  marked  'Bibles/  That's  how  they 
came  to  be  called  'Beecher  Bibles.'  They're  still  good."  He 
removed  his  glasses  and  squinted  down  the  barrel. 

We  asked  how  the  Midwest  felt  about  war. 

"The  Midwest,"  Mr.  Murray  replied  directly,  "doesn't 
want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  war.  We're  farmers  out 
here  and  still  remember  what  happened  after  the  last  war." 

"What  happened  after  the  last  war?"  Joe  scratched  his 
head. 

"All  the  farmers  bought  and  plowed  sub-marginal  land, 
because  farming  was  profitable  with  war  prices.  They  went 


42  The  "Argonauts" 

into  debt  up  to  their  ears  for  mortgages,  equipment  and 
seed.  After  the  war  ended,  the  European  nations  started  to 
raise  their  own  food,  and  our  farmers  went  broke.  They 
had  only  a  load  of  mortgages  to  show  for  their  trouble." 

He  smiled  at  our  intent  faces. 

"You  have  a  lot  to  learn  about  the  Midwest  and  Kansas," 
he  said. 

3 

"Why,  today's  one  of  our  cooler  days,"  the  Topekan  said 
as  he  briskly  turned  up  his  coat  collar.  The  temperature  read 

o 

104  . 

We  hurried  to  the  offices  of  the  NYA  to  remind  good- 
natured  Anne  Laughlin  of  the  promised  luncheon.  She 
beamed  at  us. 

"Am  I  glad  to  see  you.  Do  sit  down.  Or  would  you  rather 
go  to  lunch  first?" 

"Might  as  well."  George  grinned. 

In  an  air-cooled  cafe,  we  comfortably  packed  away  gobs 
of  chicken  salad  and  glasses  of  cold  milk.  Our  hostess  ram- 
bled on  about  the  NYA  in  Kansas.  Of  the  350,000  youth 
in  the  state,  only  18,000  were  covered  by  NYA.  But  wait 
till  she  showed  us  what  those  18,000  were  doing. 

"Now  come  along  and  first  we'll  see  the  Mayor,"  she  pro- 
posed. 

John  F.  Scott,  Republican  Mayor  of  Topeka,  in  shirt 
sleeves  and  a  Panama  hat,  removed  his  feet  from  the  desk 
as  we  entered.  Tossing  off  a  Coca-Cola,  he  threw  the  empty 
bottle  into  a  corner  to  keep  company  with  half  a  dozen 
others. 

"Youth,  eh?  I  always  like  to  meet  young  people." 

We  shook  hands  and  took  seats  around  his  desk. 


Where  Is  the  West?  43 

"Miss  Laughlin  is  a  great  friend  of  youth."  He  smiled. 
"She  sold  me  on  this  NYA  proposition." 

Miss  Laughlin  laughed  modestly. 

"Of  course,"  the  Mayor  continued,  "first  we  have  to  get 
jobs  for  the  older  folks  so  they  can  support  the  younger  ones." 

The  newspapers  had  headlined  the  pending  cuts  in  WPA. 
What  did  the  Mayor  think  of  them  ?  "It's  a  good  thing,"  he 
declared,  leaning  back  in  his  swivel  chair.  "Now  those  who 
have  been  on  the  rolls  for  eighteen  months  will  be  dropped 
to  make  room  for  the  unemployed.  That'll  give  those  with- 
out work  a  chance." 

"But  how  about  those  who  have  been  dropped?  What 
will  they  do?"  Helen  asked  in  a  puzzled  voice. 

"They'll  have  to  find  private  employment.  They're  prob- 
ably tired  of  living  off  the  government  anyway." 

"Oh." 

Mayor  Scott  did  his  bit  for  youth  by  presenting  us  each 
with  a  courtesy  card  signed  by  him  personally. 

"What  are  they  good  for?"  George  asked  Miss  Laughlin 
as  we  left  City  Hall. 

"You  won't  get  any  parking  tickets  if  you  show  the  card 
to  the  policeman,"  she  replied.  We  were  leaving  Topeka 
that  night. 

Next  stop:  Charley  Sessions,  managing  editor  of  the 
Topeka  Capital,  owned  by  Senator  Arthur  Capper,  Republi- 
can. The  dignity  of  his  white  hair  and  ruddy  face  fitted 
with  the  bulge  around  his  middle.  He  started  by  telling  us 
that  one-fourth  of  the  college  graduates  in  Kansas  had  left 
the  state  in  the  last  ten  years. 

"What  about  the  farmer?"  George  asked.  "We've  heard 
that  young  people  don't  want  to  stay  on  the  farms  because 
there's  no  future  for  them  there." 

"The  farmer  needs  one  thing,"  Sessions  replied.  "He  must 


44  The  "Argonauts" 

get  a  price  equal  to  his  cost  of  production.  That  means 
dollar  wheat.  And  you  can't  have  it  as  long  as  there  are 
gamblers  in  Chicago  determining  in  one  minute  what 
20,000,000  farmers  are  going  to  get  for  their  year-round 
labor.  The  New  Deal  has  failed  to  lift  farm  prices.  The 
government  has  to  control  the  grain  markets  if  the  country 
is  to  get  back  on  its  feet." 

"Does  it  matter  whether  crops  grow  or  not?  Is  there 
overproduction  of  farm  products?" 

"There's  no  overproduction  of  anything  in  this  country. 
I  wish  people  would  get  that  notion  out  of  their  heads.  If 
people  have  purchasing  power,  they  can  buy  those  products." 

"Do  you  think  the  New  Deal  has  done  anything  to  raise 
that  purchasing  power?" 

"Sure  it  has.  The  WPA  and  the  rest  of  the  alphabet  will 
have  to  be  continued  and  perfected  no  matter  which  party 
wins  in  1940." 

Reporters  dashed  about  the  outer  office,  but  we  kept  pop- 
ping questions  at  Sessions.  He  was  against  the  New  Deal, 
but  he  seemed  to  favor  the  New  Deal  program.  We  couldn't 
figure  him  out. 

"How  about  the  NYA?" 

"I'm  in  favor  of  it.  When  kids  don't  work,  you  get  gang- 
sters like  the  Karpis  boys.  Of  all  criminal  offenses  here  last 
year,  52.4  per  cent  were  committed  by  youngsters  under 
twenty-nine.  You  can't  blame  them." 

We  still  couldn't  figure  him  out.  Next  morning,  we  found 
a  front-page  story  in  his  newspaper. 

YOUNGSTERS  FROM  "SIDEWALKS 
OF  NEW  YORK"  HERE  TO  FIND 
OUT  WHAT  WE'RE  THINKING 

Five  budding  journalists — three  boys  and  two  girls — 


Where  Is  the  West?  45 

straight  from  the  "Sidewalks  of  New  York" — reached 
Topeka  yesterday  in  a  swing  through  the  West  to  find 
out  what  ails  us  out  here.  They  all  seem  to  be  New 
Dealers  from  who  laid  the  chunk.  They  are  an  inquisi- 
tive bunch  and  can  ask  as  many  questions  as  the  late 
Arthur  Brisbane  could  in  his  palmy  days.  .  .  . 

"'  .  .  .  from  who  laid  the  chunk'?"  Joe  quoted.  "What 
does  that  mean?" 

Nobody  knew  for  another  ten  thousand  miles.  Then  an 
engineer  in  Houston,  Texas,  explained  it  meant  "from  the 
very  beginning"  or  "of  old  standing."  New  Dealers  from 
the  very  beginning  ?  Not  at  all,  but  we  wouldn't  sue  Charley 
Sessions  for  libel.  We  liked  him  even  if  we  couldn't  under- 
stand him. 

In  Anne  Laughlin's  car  we  sped  to  Atchison  ninety  miles 
away  to  visit  an  NY  A  Residence  Project  for  girls.  "You  will 
be  impressed,"  the  director  warned.  We  were. 

"We're  proud  of  all  this,"  said  Melba,  leading  us  from 
cellar  to  attic.  We  did  everything  ourselves,  papered  the 
walls,  scraped  and  varnished  the  floors,  sewed  the  curtains 
and  made  slip  covers  for  the  furniture.  This  is  our  home." 

We  first  met  Melba  when  she  served  our  dinner,  pre- 
pared by  the  girls  on  the  project.  She  was  very  slim,  and  her 
dark  eyes  laughed  as  she  placed  platters  of  roast  beef  before 
us.  The  plump,  well-mannered  supervisor  of  the  project  set 
a  restrained  tone  at  the  dinner  table  and  most  of  the  girls 
followed.  But  not  Melba — who  came  from  Hiawatha, 
Kansas,  and  whose  grandmother  had  named  her  after  a  box 
of  talcum  powder.  Melba  led  us  out  to  the  front  porch, 
where  she  strummed  on  a  guitar  as  the  girls  sang. 

She  wanted  to  go  to  college.  Sometimes  the  NYA  direc- 
tors choose  one  of  the  girls  on  a  project  and  send  her  to  col- 


46  The  "Argonauts" 

lege.  Melba  hoped  they  would  choose  her.  So  did  we.  .  .  . 
She  had  tried  all  sorts  of  work,  from  waiting  on  tables  to 
teaching  in  a  kindergarten,  but  the  jobs  never  lasted.  Most 
of  the  people  she  knew  in  Hiawatha  were  on  relief. 

"I'm  twenty-one  now,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  how  I'll 
vote.  But  I  know  if  anyone  tried  to  take  any  of  this  away" 
— she  covered  the  residence  home  with  a  wave  of  the  hand 
— "do  you  know  what  would  happen?  There  would  be  a 
revolution.  You  can't  take  these  things  away  from  us!" 

4 

Kansas.  More  than  400  miles  from  east  to  west.  Miles 
and  miles  of  flat  land,  hot  sun,  dust  and  deserted  shacks. 

We  began  to  hate  the  ugly  land,  to  count  the  minutes 
until  we  would  leave  the  state.  Bugs  and  grime  covered  our 
windshield;  only  the  half-circles  covered  by  the  mechanical 
wipers  were  clear.  We  slumped  in  the  corners  of  the  car, 
closed  the  windows  to  keep  out  the  hot  air  and  opened  them 
almost  immediately  because  we  could  hardly  breathe.  We 
passed  rickety  cars  packed  with  human  beings  and  furni- 
ture; whole  fortunes  trailed  behind  in  home-made  carts, 
going  to  the  Coast  with  us.  In  the  early  morning,  we  saw 
families  huddled  at  the  side  of  the  road.  We  didn't  know 
then  that  they  were  the  opening  chapters  in  a  book,  The 
Grapes  of  Wrath.  We  were  to  see  that  book  come  true. 

US  40 — the  road  to  the  great  West.  Again  the  small  towns 
got  in  our  way — Abilene,  Manhattan,  Salina,  Ellsworth, 
Ogallah,  Wakeency,  Collyer.  .  .  . 

Collyer,  a  gas-station  town  forty  miles  from  the  Colorado 
border,  attended  to  our  car  and  its  occupants.  Ted  Lang 
owned  the  station.  Mosquitoes  buzzed  thickly  about  the 
luncheon  counter  and  our  legs. 


Where  Is  the  West?  47 

"Plenty  of  them  around,"  remarked  Mrs.  Lang  in  a  quaint 
German  accent  crossed  with  a  Midwestern  twang.  She  was 
small  and  plump,  and  her  face  shone  with  perspiration. 
"With  all  the  land  burnt  up,  millions  of  these  bugs  come." 

Ted  Lang,  chunky  and  dark,  sat  next  to  us  silently  eating  a 
supper  of  hamburgers. 

"Land  looks  pretty  deserted  around  here,"  Helen  ven- 
tured. 

"Sure,"  he  replied  after  having  cleaned  his  plate  with  a 
chunk  of  white  bread.  "Sure.  Ain't  had  rain  for  nearly  six 
months  now.  Ain't  had  a  good  crop  in  last  seven  years. 
Why  should  people  hang  around  here?  They  can't  make 
any  money  with  what  they're  payin'  for  wheat." 

"Hasn't  the  AAA  helped  the  farmers?" 

"Sure,"  he  replied  as  his  children  gathered  around.  They 
listened  eagerly.  "It's  helped.  But  the  farmers  don't  like  it. 
It's  all  right  for  the  big  boys  who  can  afford  to  let  a  good 
part  of  the  land  lie  fallow.  Them  boys  make  dough  on  it. 
But  the  little  fellows  with  only  a  small  acreage  take  a  beat- 
ing. And  the  big  farmers  are  throwing  tenants  off  the  land 
just  to  leave  it  lie  fallow  and  collect  the  allotment.  There 
must  be  fifty  carloads  of  them  tenants  passing  by  here  each 
day." 

The  small  thin  daughter,  in  a  short  gingham  dress  and 
bare  feet,  stared  at  Lillian's  hair.  She  interrupted  her  father's 
discourse. 

"Such  hair — just  like  doll's  hair,"  she  said.  "How  do  you 
make  it  so  curly?" 

"I  don't,"  Lillian  said.  "It  just  grows  that  way.  I  can't 
help  it." 

The  little  girl  smoothed  her  own  hair.  "Gee,  mine's  so 
straight."  She  pointed  to  Helen  and  Joe. 


48  The  "Argonauts" 

"Are  you  and  him  brother  and  sister?" 

"No,"  Helen  said  kindly. 

"Husband  and  wife?" 

"No." 

"Oh." 

She  lost  interest  and  turned  again  to  her  father. 

"Everything  is  monopoly  today,"  Ted  Lang  continued, 
stroking  his  little  girl's  hair.  "The  railroads,  the  market,  the 
grain  elevators  and  even  the  land.  One  fellow  in  Southern 
Kansas  owns  a  tract  that's  sixty  miles  on  each  side.  One  man 
can't  work  all  that  land,  but  he  collects  the  biggest  allotment 
check  in  the  country." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  What's  everybody  going  to 
do?"  Joe  asked. 

"We  got  to  get  rid  of  those  racketeers  in  Chicago  and 
Kansas  City.  They  gamble  with  our  sweat  on  the  Exchange. 
They  pay  low  prices  for  the  wheat — forty-four  cents.  Then 
they  sell  to  flour  companies  for  much  higher."  Lang  blew 
his  nose  loudly. 

"That's  right,"  Mrs.  Lang  put  in.  "I  buy  a  sack  of  flour  and 
pay  $1.25  for  that  forty-four-cent  wheat.  Then  I  buy  loaves 
of  bread,  and  it  costs  me  six  dollars." 

"And,"  Lang  continued,  "there's  got  to  be  a  way  for  the 
farmers  to  sell  and  make  a  livin'.  The  government  has  to 
give  plenty  more  help." 

While  Ted  Lang  taught  us  something  about  the  Kansas 
farmer,  Mel  inspected  the  tires  outside. 

"How  many  do  you  want?"  drawled  Lang's  dark  and 
angular  son,  propping  a  foot  on  the  running  board.  His 
dusty  sombrero  was  tilted  back  in  approved  Hollywood 
fashion. 

"Fill  it  up.  It'll  take  about  twelve,"  said  Mel. 


Where  Is  the  West?  49 

"Where  you  headed?"  asked  young  Lang,  watching  the 
indicator  click  off  the  gallons. 

"San  Francisco.  Say,  what  do  people  around  here  think  of 
President  Roosevelt?"  Mel  asked. 

"Roosevelt!  That  goddamn  Jew!  He's  no  goddamn  good. 
He's  ruining  the  farmers  out  here.  He  makes  them  plow 
the  crops  under,  and  a  few  miles  away,  in  Wakeeney,  people 
are  starving.  Is  that  right?" 

"I  guess  it's  just  a  way  of  giving  the  farmers  a  better 
price,"  Mel  began  to  explain. 

"What  do  you  mean,  a  better  price!  How  can  there  be  a 
better  price  when  the  Jews  control  everything?  The  Jews 
are  the  international  bankers,  and  they  control  all  the  money 
in  the  world.  What  they  don't  control,  they're  trying  to  get." 

"I  think  Father  Coughlin  says  that,"  Mel  suggested. 

"Sure.  I  listen  to  him  on  the  radio.  I  read  his  paper, 
Justice  or  something.  He  tells  you  how  the  Jews  are  ruining 
this  country." 

"I  don't  know  .  .  ."  Mel  began. 

"Sure,  the  Jews  own  all  the  banks  and  everything.  They 
run  the  unions.  They're  the  Communists  and  they  run  the 
government."  He  pulled  his  sombrero  fiercely  over  his  eye- 
brows. 

"Say,  how  old  are  you?" 

"Sixteen." 

Mel  called  us  from  the  lunch  counter. 

"Good-by,"  said  Mrs.  Lang.  "Sorry  I  had  to  charge  you 
ten  cents  for  the  loaf  of  bread.  It  shouldn't  cost  more  than 
four  cents." 

A  breeze  came  up,  blowing  thick  dust  into  our  car.  Ted 
Lang  held  up  his  hand,  his  head  upturned,  hungrily  seeking 
moisture  in  the  sky.  Then  he  went  back  inside,  shaking  his 
head. 


50  The  "Argonauts" 

5 

After  feverish  Kansas,  Colorado  freshened  us.  The  dif- 
ference became  noticeable  as  we  approached  Denver,  "second 
capital  of  the  United  States."  Following  dry,  powderish  river 
beds,  we  rose  gradually  with  the  land.  We  were  still  look- 
ing for  the  real  West.  Kit  Carson,  named  after  the  famous 
Indian  fighter,  gave  us  some  of  the  things  we  had  expected. 
Here  at  last,  cowboys  in  boots  and  sombreros  lounged  on 
the  street  corners  and  burst  out  of  swinging  doors. 

We  first  spotted  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  Limon,  fifty 
miles  from  Denver.  They  looked  like  clouds,  dark  and  very 
far  away.  We  saw  more  cowboys,  in  high  boots  and  large 
hats,  who  drove  into  town  in  cars,  parking  them  sideways  in 
the  manner  of  a  horse  tied  to  a  hitching  post.  As  Western 
as  the  Lone  Ranger  set  we  would  see  in  Hollywood,  Limon 
held  us,  and  we  stared. 

An  unshaven  youth  in  dusty  clothes  stuck  his  head  into 
our  car.  His  eyes  fastened  on  us  uncertainly. 

"Spare  a  dime  for  a  cup  of  coffee?"  His  eyes  wandered 
to  each  of  us,  awaiting  a  response  which  could  humiliate 
or  help.  A  native  of  Philadelphia,  he  told  us  he  had  been  all 
over  the  country,  looking  for  a  job.  We  gave  him  the  dime, 
some  of  our  food  stock  and  a  couple  of  cigarettes. 

"Wish  you  luck!"  George  called.  The  youth  nodded  and 
walked  away. 

We  felt  embarassed.  We  had  something.  That  boy  had 
nothing.  We  wanted  him  to  know  the  car  really  didn't  be- 
long to  us,  the  valises  contained  old  shirts  and  few  dresses, 
the  money  came  from  people  who  had  tried  to  give  us  a 
break.  We  knew  he  had  thought  us  "tourists." 

To  have  refused  him  the  dime  or  cigarettes  would  have 
been  worse.  But  who  were  we  to  act  like  philanthropists? 


Whore  Is  tbt  West?  51 

Why  should  we  have  been  placed  in  a  position  of  condescen- 
sion? Our  alms  separated  us  from  him,  the  difference  be- 
tween having  something  and  nothing  at  all.  But  we  wished 
he  had  understood. 

"It's  crazy  and  wrong  out  here,"  said  Helen,  her  warm, 
eager  face  turned  questioningly  to  the  others.  "Strong  won- 
derful people  slowly  being  killed  by  this  land.  All  they  want 
is  the  chance  to  work  the  land;  it's  their  life.  But  the  land  and 
its  crazy  system  are  killing  them  .  .  .  maybe  not  physically, 
but  they're  dead  inside.  And  that  boy  from  Philadelphia  is 
dead  inside  too.  It's  wrong." 

It  was  wrong.  The  Missouri  farmer  had  told  us  it  didn't 
matter  if  crops  lived  or  died,  if  food  was  grown  or  not.  We 
had  seen  hungry  people,  young  boys  who  wanted  food  and 
young  girls  who  wanted  jobs.  Charley  Sessions  had  said 
there  was  no  overproduction  of  food;  all  people  needed  was 
purchasing  power.  Ted  Lang  had  shown  us  how  the  small 
farmer  was  being  killed,  driven  off  the  land,  his  means  of 
life  taken  from  him  by  speculators  in  Chicago.  Some  young 
people  were  getting  help,  like  Melba  at  the  NYA.  Others 
were  getting  mean  and  twisted,  like  Ted  Lang's  son.  We 
tried  to  put  these  facts  together,  to  add  them.  We  got  one 
answer — it  was  wrong.  Rain,  the  important  and  life-giving 
element,  should  have  gladdened  the  Missouri  farmer.  The 
young  Philadelphia  boy  and  the  two  girls  at  the  market 
stalls  should  be  able  to  work  and  give  something  worth- 
while to  America.  Farmers  should  be  able  to  grow  and  sell 
food,  and  people  should  have  jobs,  so  they  could  buy  it. 
Otherwise,  it  was  wrong,  tragically  wrong. 

Silently  we  rode  toward  the  mountains.  We  saw  no  farms, 
only  large  ranches  and  straight  lines  of  cattle  wandering 
within  the  fenced-in  ground.  Furrowed  and  brown  like  its 
people,  the  land  stretched  endlessly,  again  arousing  our  eager- 


52  The  "Argonauts" 

ness  for  the  West.  The  Rocky  mountains  stood  clear  and 
wonderfully  high  and  challenging  as  we  drove  into  Denver. 

Lillian  went  into  action. 

"George,  you  go  to  the  Farmers  Union;  Joe  to  the  NYA; 
Mel,  get  hold  of  some  young  people;  Helen,  see  if  you  can 
talk  to  some  of  the  tourists  who  come  here  to  get  healthy; 
I'll  cover  City  Hall  and  the  press." 

"We'll  meet  here,  where  the  car  is  parked,  at  six  o'clock," 
Mel  reminded. 

We  drifted  over  smooth,  clean  Denver.  Helen  found  her 
"tourists" — people  sick  and  thinking  they  were  sick.  She 
found  doctors,  rest  homes,  clinics,  psychiatrists  and  hospitals 
— all  prospering. 

"It's  high  and  dry  here,"  said  a  paunchy,  red-faced  busi- 
nessman, who  hailed  from  Scranton,  Pennsylvania,  "and 
good  for  my  liver." 

Helen  began  to  have  misgivings  and  sought  comfort  at 
a  soda  counter.  "This  city  is  full  of  parasites,"  the  soda 
jerker  told  her.  "We  have  no  in9ustries.  We're  a  distribut- 
ing and  commercial  center  for  Western  markets.  People  live 
off  each  other  and  off  the  tourists  who  come  here." 

Joe  learned  about  the  NYA  from  a  young  director  whose 
name  he  will  never  forget — Amer  Lehman. 

"Congress  simply  must  appropriate  larger  sums  for  NYA. 
Young  people  come  to  us,  seeking  education  and  jobs.  .  .  ." 
The  NYA  director  broke  off  suddenly.  "What's  the  use  of 
talking  about  it?  You're  going  through  the  Rockies  tomor- 
row. If  you  survive" — he  paused  and  grinned — "stop  at 
Grand  Junction.  You'll  see  a  project  out  there  that'll  make 
your  ears  stand  on  end." 

Joe  wrote  down  "See  Grand  Junction  .  .  ."  and  saw  the 
mountains  as  he  walked  out  of  the  building.  He  wandered 
about  the  streets,  searching  for  a  New  York  license  plate;  he 


Where  Is  the  West?  53 

had  forgotten  the  name  of  the  street  where  we  had  parked  the 
car.  Finally,  he  walked  into  the  police  station,  insisting  that 
an  order  go  out  to  squad  cars. 

"They'll  leave  without  me,"  he  explained  excitedly. 
"What'll  I  do  in  Denver  all  alone?" 

The  brass-buttoned  sergeant  leaned  forward,  with  some- 
thing of  a  New  York  cop's  steely  glint  in  his  eye.  "Look, 
sonny.  Try  to  remember  where  you  left  your  friends.  Go 
back  there,  and  you'll  find  them." 

Joe  looked  at  the  officer;  the  glint  did  not  melt.  Joe 
methodically  took  up  the  search  for  our  meeting  place,  street 
by  street. 

George  found  lanky  Bob  Moore,  young  editor  of  the 
Farm  Union's  newspaper.  A  farmer's  son,  Bob  had  left  the 
land  to  attend  college.  Now  he  commuted  from  the  farm  to 
his  Denver  office  daily. 

"You  can't  understand  farmers  unless  you've  been  one  or 
lived  among  them."  He  paced  up  and  down  his  small  of- 
fice, explaining  the  work  of  the  Farm  Union,  which  had  in- 
augurated a  co-operative  system.  "Farmers  can  buy  almost 
anything  through  the  union.  It  saves  them  money.  We're 
trying  now  to  organize  local  selling  and  processing  co-opera- 
tives." 

George  returned  directly  to  the  car,  where  he  found  Mel 
sitting  dejectedly  on  the  running  board.  "Didn't  you  get 
anything?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Mel.  "I  went  over  to  the  Young  Demo- 
crats, but  they  were  too  busy  playing  pool.  They  didn't 
want  to  talk." 

Lillian  and  Helen  approached. 

"What  did  you  find  out?"  asked  Mel. 

Lillian  pursed  her  lips.  "I  spent  two  hours  looking  for  City 
Hall.  This  is  some  town.  Nobody  knew  where  it  was.  Can 


54  The  "Argonauts" 

you  imagine  ?  By  the  time  I  found  it,  the  place  was  deserted. 
Where's  Joe?" 

Joe  ?  We  waited  an  hour  and  left  a  note  on  the  car  door : 
"We're  having  dinner  in  restaurant  around  corner.  Come 
fast  or  starve."  We  were  starting  on  our  desserts  when  Joe 
limped  into  the  restaurant. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  guys  didn't  leave  me  here,"  he  said. 
"I  just  saw  all  of  Denver,  and  I  don't  like  it,  especially  the 
cops!" 

"We  just  had  a  delicious  steak  dinner,"  said  Helen  evenly. 
"Aren't  you  hungry?" 

Joe  hesitated. 

"What's  the  matter?    Are  you  sick?" 

"Naw  .  .  .  only  .  .  ."  he  smiled  foolishly,  "you  know  I 
saw  this  Lehman  fellow  over  at  the  NYA  .  .  ." 

"Yup,"  George  said,  taking  a  large  spoonful  of  ice  cream. 
"What  did  you  find  out  about  NYA?" 

"Listen,"  Joe  sat  down,  his  face  worried.  "Listen,  this  guy 
says  'some  people'  get  out  of  the  Rockies  alive.  He  says  we 
got  to  go  through  narrow  passes,  roads  built  on  tiny  ledges, 
hairpin  curves  .  .  ." 

Mel  laughed.  "Aw,  he  was  trying  to  scare  you.  You're 
not  scared,  are  you?" 

"But  look,"  Joe  cried.  "You  can  see  them  sticking  up  right 
in  front  of  you.  They're  a  thousand  times  higher  than  the 
Empire  State  Building!" 

We  looked  at  the  mountains  and  then  at  Joe.  We  realized 
he  was  scared  stiff. 

"What  did  you  find  out  about  NYA?"  asked  Lillian  im- 
patiently. But  changing  the  subject  did  no  good.  We  silently 
wondered  if  this  Lehman  fellow  knew  what  he  was  talking 
about. 

Joe  started  to  eat  slowly.  "One-fifth  of  young  people  in 


Where  Is  the  West?  55 

Denver  unemployed,"  he  said  absentmindedly.    "Lehman 
said  to  go  see  Grand  Junction  ...  if  we  ever  get  over.  .  .  ." 

Next  morning  we  followed  all  instructions  to  help  us  "get 
over."  We  ate  no  breakfast.  With  gum  in  our  mouths  (it 
helps  your  breathing)  and  cotton  in  our  ears  (it  prevents 
ringing)  we  started  to  climb  the  magnificent  Rockies. 

The  huge  walls  of  rock  separated  us  from  the  West,  but 
they  could  not  keep  us  apart  for  long.  Mel,  his  dark,  sharp 
face  immobile,  would  get  us  through  to  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
The  smooth  road  circled  around  and  through  the  unyield- 
ing stone.  How  did  the  pioneers  climb  over  the  mountains 
when  there  were  no  roads  ?  How  did  they  struggle  through 
with  their  awkward  wagons?  Compared  with  their  cross- 
ing, ours  would  be  a  cinch. 

It  began  to  rain,  and  we  wondered  if  Ted  Lang  felt  it. 
Higher  and  higher,  we  chewed  gum  vigorously,  feeling  the 
power  and  cleanliness  in  the  ragged  forms  above  us.  Within 
the  mountains  we  found  dude  ranches,  health  resorts,  mines 
and  mining  towns.  With  shovels  and  blasts,  a  New  Jersey 
zinc  company  had  torn  a  deep  wound  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  crooked  heights.  Looking  for  zinc  in  the  middle  of  a 
mountain!  It  hurt  to  see  the  wooden  shacks  tilted  perilously 
on  the  slopes,  the  obvious  poverty  of  Climax  and  Leadville — 
human  misery  in  the  midst  of  such  poignant  loveliness. 

A  company  bus,  carrying  a  load  of  miners  to  work,  passed 
us.  Had  the  mills  and  machinery  tightened  their  hold  even 
on  these  strong  crags  and  clifTs? 

In  the  quiet  little  town  of  Silver  Plume  in  the  pouring  rain, 
an  old  fellow  told  us :  "Me  and  my  partner  got  a  gold  mine 
down  a  little  ways.  We're  not  doing  so  well,  but  we  keep 
looking.  That's  what  you  got  to  do  ...  keep  looking." 

Joe,  our  amateur  geologist,  pointed  out  the  folded  strata  of 
rock  and  pedantically  named  the  "scistose  structures."  Dubi- 


56  The  "Argonauts" 

ously,  we  wondered  whether  one  year  of  solid  failure  in 
geology  qualified  him  to  talk  with  such  authority. 

"Paved  road  ends  here,"  the  sign  said.  We  held  our 
breaths,  struggling  up  the  narrow,  muddy  uncabled  road  at 
a  rate  of  eight  miles  per  hour.  Helen  put  out  an  arm  to  feel 
the  rain.  "Your  arm,"  informed  George,  "at  the  present  mo- 
ment is  dangling  thousands  of  feet  above  nothing."  She 
quickly  closed  the  window,  trying  not  to  look  at  the  sheer 
ledge  without  a  stick  of  fence  to  keep  us  from  going  over. 
Higher,  higher,  above  the  rain  clouds,  we  reached  Loveland 
Pass,  altitude  11,992  feet.  We  let  out  our  breaths  and  joy- 
fully took  snapshots.  Helen  found  a  patch  of  snow,  and  we 
threw  snowballs  until  nothing  but  mud  remained. 

In  the  early  evening  we  reached  Glenwood  Springs,  a 
resort  and  health  town  for  "rich  and  poor,"  a  waitress  at  the 
Owl  Cafe  told  us.  She  served  us  quickly  while  her  small 
son  pressed  his  nose  against  the  window  pane  from  outside. 
The  "roast  beef  au  jus"  lifted  us  to  ecstatic  heights.  Before 
us  stood  the  mountains  and  behind  a  singing  cowboy  strum- 
ming a  guitar. 

As  the  sun  set,  we  thought  only  in  terms  of  color.  Purple, 
silver  and  gold — only  the  colors  of  royalty  graced  the  majesty 
of  this  place.  We  tried  not  to  forget. 


We  "got  over" — to  Main  Street,  Grand  Junction.  It  looked 
brand-new.  Clean  concrete  buildings  seemed  to  have  just 
dried.  The  after-dinner  hour  found  boys  and  girls  of  high 
school  age  lounging  in  soda  shops  and  bowling  alleys. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  small  city,  the  NYA  farm  project 
for  boys  lay  dark.  Our  headlights  showed  a  neat  group  of 
wooden  buildings.  We  heard  a  cow  low. 

When  the  tall  blond  teacher  at  the  camp  heard  of  our 


Where  Is  the  West?  57 

trip  over  the  mountains,  he  offered  to  put  up  the  boys  for 
the  night. 

"Where  can  the  girls  stay?" 

"There's  a  hotel  in  town,  pretty  reasonable." 

With  Helen  and  Lillian  safely  bundled  off  to  a  small, 
shiny  hotel,  the  boys  returned  to  the  camp.  The  most  un- 
usual NYA  project  in  the  country,  the  Grand  Junction 
farm  co-operative  not  only  gave  the  youth  work  under  the 
regular  program,  but  also  gave  them  a  land  grant  which 
they  operated  on  a  co-operative  basis.  They  planted  their 
own  crops,  raised  their  own  hogs  and  chickens  and  shared 
the  profits.  The  hard-pressed  Colorado  farmers  on  the 
Western  slope  of  the  Rockies  watched  the  project  skeptically 
at  first,  then  made  friends  with  the  boys. 

"If  they  see  a  bunch  of  kids  can  make  a  farm  pay  by  work- 
ing it  co-operatively,  the  farmers  may  do  the  same  soon,  in- 
stead of  starving  individually,"  the  supervisor  declared. 

The  boys  came  from  all  parts  of  the  country.  A  former 
football  player  at  Columbia  University  had  wandered  to 
Colorado  in  search  of  a  job.  Another  had  come  from  Okla- 
homa. A  third  had  run  away  from  family  poverty  in  Chi- 
cago. Others,  natives  of  Colorado,  had  come  to  the  camp  to 
learn.  They  wanted  to  succeed  where  their  fathers  had  failed 
— they  wanted  to  make  the  farm  pay. 

How  did  they  like  the  project?  Answers  varied.  A  curly- 
headed  lad  looked  indifferently  at  George.  "I  wanted  to  be 
a  mechanic.  But  I  had  to  take  this  because  it  meant  a  job 
and  living  expenses." 

We  remembered  what  Melba  had  said  about  a  "revolu- 
tion," and  we  asked,  "What  would  happen  if  the  government 
cut  NYA?" 

Their  answer  matched  Melba's — there  would  be  trouble. 

Mel,  Joe  and  George  lay  on  hard  cots  next  to  the  boy 


58  The  "Argonauts" 

farmers,  talking  until  early  morning  about  their  project, 
about  life,  and  all  the  things  boys  talk  about.  At  dawn,  they 
watched  the  sun  rise,  filling  the  sky  with  the  royal  colors  and 
shading  the  hills. 

The  treacherous  passes  lay  behind  us.  Now  we  drove 
north,  following  the  mountains  to  our  right,  over  soft  ascents 
and  gentle  dips,  through  the  glorious  sunburned  flatlands. 

Price,  Utah,  surrounded  by  mines,  had  a  population  of 
5,000,  more  than  half  of  whom  worked  in  the  mines.  Late 
in  July,  the  mines  had  closed,  and  almost  800  families  went 
on  relief.  The  unemployed  gathered  before  corner  stores  or 
leaned  against  parked  automobiles.  The  overalled  miners 
conversed  softly  with  men  in  ankle-tight  corduroy  breeches, 
checkered  shirts  and  muddy  boots.  We  bought  some  gaso- 
line, and  George  received  some  silver  dollars  in  change — 
the  trademark  of  the  old  West. 

What's  happening? 

"Ah  dunno,"  an  old  miner  shrugged.  "Maybe  the  gov'n- 
ment'll  do  somethin'.  When  mines  close  down,  we  can't  do 
nothin'.  The  gov'nment  can't  let  folks  starve." 

Had  a  new  language  sprung  up  in  America  as  a  result 
of  these  new  and  terrible  conditions  ?  It  shocked  us  to  hear 
the  same  sing-song  of  despair  from  Ohio  to  Utah.  It  shocked 
us  to  hear  the  same  plea  for  help — "maybe  the  government'll 
do  something" — from  Gary  to  Silver  Plume  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  It  shocked  us  all  the  more  to  see  the  wide  gap 
between  these  people  and  their  government.  The  people 
needed  WPA  and  asked  for  government  help.  In  return,  on 
July  20  we  read  in  the  papers  that  Congress  had  given  them 
cuts,  pink  slips,  unemployment. 

We  reached  Salt  Lake  City  after  six  o'clock  that  night. 
The  great  Temple  and  Tabernacle  of  the  Mormons  had 


Where  Is  the  West?  59 

closed  and  so  we  parked  the  car  and  wandered  about  the 
city. 

"Hey!  Hello!"  Lillian  called  to  a  young  man. 

"Cut  it  out,"  George  admonished.  "We're  on  a  business 
trip!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Lillian  replied  indignantly.  "I 
know  him.  He's  William  Rodgers,  a  newspaperman  from 
Washington!" 

We  slapped  backs,  compared  notes  and  marveled  at  the 
smallness  of  this  world. 

"When  are  you  taking  the  desert?"  Rodgers  asked. 

"Tonight,"  Mel  answered.  "It's  the  best  way  to  avoid  the 
heat." 

"My,  you've  got  stamina!  I'm  too  tired  to  drive  tonight." 
Rodgers  looked  at  us  with  admiration. 

"Well,  see  you  in  San  Francisco  at  the  Guild  Convention!" 

Alone,  we  started  to  cross  the  desert.  The  steady  purr  of 
the  motor  and  the  sound  of  our  car  cutting  the  hot  wind 
marred  the  stillness.  We  spotted  approaching  cars  miles 
away.  The  pin-point  lights  steadily  increased  in  size  until 
they  blazed  into  our  faces  and  lit  up  the  interior  of  our  car. 
We  knew  the  sands  on  either  side  of  the  road  were  white, 
but  we  could  not  see  their  whiteness.  We  ran  down  un- 
lucky jackrabbits.  We  tried  desperately  to  stay  awake. 
Every  few  hours  we  stopped  and  stiff-legged  out  to  an  elabo- 
rate luncheonette-gas  station  and  gulped  hot  black  coffee. 
Mel  refused  the  proprietor's  "Nevadoze"  pills. 

"Good  morning!"  the  attendants  greeted  us  brightly  and 
mechanically  at  each  stop.  "Having  a  nice  trip?" 

When  we  reached  Elko,  Nevada,  the  whole  town  seemed 
to  be  up  and  about  in  spite  of  the  early  darkness.  We  ate 
our  sixth  breakfast  of  the  morning.  Nevada  seemed  to  offer 


60  The  "Argonauts" 

little  except  hills  and  ranches;  no  cities  or  towns,  only  stop- 
ping-off  places  with  slot  machines,  until  Reno. 

"And  this  state  has  two  senators!"  Joe  exclaimed.  "What 
do  they  represent?" 

We  hadn't  slept,  and  we  needed  baths.  Swimming!  But 
the  only  pool  in  Reno  charged  prices  to  meet  the  purse  of  a 
divorcee.  We  hurried  out  of  the  city  anxiously.  Only  two 
days  remained  before  the  opening  of  the  Newspaper  Guild 
Convention. 

The  border  between  Nevada  and  California  was  well 
guarded.  STOP  HERE!  We  stopped.  Uniformed  officials  ex- 
amined our  luggage,  forced  us  to  leave  "all  fruits  and  vege- 
tables in  Nevada,"  and  plastered  a  large  California  Wel- 
comes You  sign  on  our  windshield. 

Motorists  from  different  states  waited  in  line  to  clear  all 
"passport"  difficulties.  Lillian  and  Helen  wandered  over  to 
another  New  York  car.  "We're  from  New  York  too,"  said 
Lillian  to  a  young  boy  in  shirt  sleeves. 

"Brooklyn,"  Helen  added. 

"We've  just  come  from  Syracuse,"  he  declared  politely. 

"Syracuse?  That's  our  home  town!"  Helen  got  excited. 
"Were  you  on  Crawford  Avenue?  That's  where  our  home 
used  to  be." 

"We  don't  live  there,"  the  older  of  the  two  men  declared. 
"We  only  bought  our  car  there.  We  live  in  California." 

The  girls  were  disappointed.  They  wanted  to  know  about 
Crawford  Avenue.  The  younger  man  began  to  remove  the 
New  York  license  plates  from  the  car  and  to  replace  them 
with  California  tags.  Joe  watched  curiously. 

"Isn't  New  York  as  good  as  California?"  he  asked. 

"Maybe,"  the  fellow  replied.  "But  we're  residents  of  Cali- 
fornia. Under  state  regulations,  we  have  to  get  new  licenses." 


Where  Is  the  West?  61 

Mel  came  out  of  the  office  where  he  had  registered  our  en- 
trance into  California. 

"You  didn't  have  to  get  new  license  plates?"  Joe  asked 
warily. 

Mel  lit  a  cigarette.  "No.  Why?" 

"They've  got  some  racket  out  here.  They  make  you  throw 
away  your  plates  and  buy  theirs!" 

"My  friends,"  George  began  to  orate,  "from  the  sun-kissed 
shores  of  California  to  the  rock-bound  coast  of  Maine  there 
are  ...  forty-eight  different  boundary  lines." 

"We'll  take  it  up  with  the  President  when  we  get  to  Wash- 
ington," Helen  said. 

Rich,  heavily  forested  and  "different"— California,  the 
width  of  the  state  to  San  Francisco,  lay  between  us  and  the 
Pacific  Ocean.  A  clean  cabin  smelling  of  pines  and  health,  a 
cold  awakening  swim  in  Lake  Tahoe  .  .  .  California,  the 
WEST. 


Chapter  4  "ROLLER-COASTER 
TOWN" 


^  "San  Francisco,"  a  newspaperman  once  wrote,  "is  a  roller- 
coaster  town." 

A  Cyclone,  Loop-the-Loop  Twister  of  streets,  up  and 
down.  Underground  cables  slowly  pulled  trolley  cars  up  the 
hills.  People  struggled  to  keep  their  balance  on  the  steep 
streets.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  famous  earthquake  had 
folded  the  city  into  horseshoe  curves  and  had  never  straight- 
ened them  out. 

We  entered  San  Francisco  on  the  last  Sunday  in  July  at 
4:15  P.M.  Fairmont  Hotel  (rates — five  dollars  for  a  north 
bedroom) ,  scene  of  the  Newspaper  Guild  Convention,  stood 
on  the  top  of  Nob  Hill— some  people  called  it  "Snob  Hill." 
We  had  covered  3,840  miles,  climbed  12,000  feet  over  the 
Rockies — but  when  Mel  tried  to  send  the  car  up  the  incline 
of  Nob  Hill,  we  stalled  and  slipped  back. 

"I  think  there  are  too  many  people  in  here,"  Mel  hinted. 
We  merely  drew  our  coats  around  us  more  closely;  the 
weather  had  become  amazingly  cool.  Mel  tried  it  again,  this 
time  reaching  halfway  up  the  hill  before  we  started  to  roll 
down. 

62 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  63 

"Okay,"  Joe  conceded  reluctantly.  "We'll  walk  up." 

As  we  searched  for  Hotel  Fairmont,  a  big  fireman,  tipped 
back  in  a  chair  outside  the  station,  hailed  us. 

"Howdy,"  Mel  called  back,  anticipating  a  Western  accent. 

"How're  ya  yerselves?"  the  fireman  roared  back  with  a 
grin.  "How's  New  York?  Coney  Island?  Broadway? 
Good  old  New  York!  My  home  town!" 

In  the  lobby  of  the  Fairmont  Hotel,  some  young  men  wear- 
ing plaid  skirts  surrounded  us.  In  an  accent  we  could  hardly 
imagine  was  Western,  they  eagerly  asked  us  if  we  had  come 
for  "MRA." 

"MRA?"  Lillian  repeated  in  a  puzzled  voice.  "No,  we're 
here  for  ANG.  What's  MRA?"  She  looked  at  their  peculiar 
dress. 

"Moral  Re-Armament,"  one  of  the  skirted  youths  replied 
in  a  high-pitched  voice.  "Love,  Honesty  and  Faith  .  .  .  you 
know?" 

"We're  here  for  a  convention,"  Helen  said  sweetly.  "But 
not  Moral  Re-Armament.  Do  you  know  where  the  Ameri- 
can Newspaper  Guild  headquarters  are?" 

"Oh,  that."  The  kilted  fellow  scowled.  "It's  in  the  back, 
over  there." 

"We'll  come  back  for  Moral  Re-Armament,"  George 
promised  the  crestfallen  group.  Their  faces  brightened.  "As 
soon  as  we  find  the  Newspaper  Guild." 

At  headquarters,  we  spied  a  New  York  newspaperman 
we  knew  and  rushed  over  to  greet  him.  He  looked  at  us  in 
amazement.  "What!  You  got  here?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  Lillian  asked.  "We  were  sent  as 
delegates  by  the  Associate  Membership.  So  we  came." 

"But  we  never  thought  you'd  get  here!  How  long  did  it 
take  you?" 

"Sixteen  days." 


64  The  "Argonauts" 

"Anything  go  wrong?" 

"Nope." 

Still  looking  at  us  skeptically,  he  called  to  one  of  the  flushed 
men  gathering  around  the  "hospitality"  table.  "Hey,  Reed, 
come  over  here!  I  want  you  to  meet  some  associate  mem- 
bers from  New  York." 

"Reed,  these  kids  came  all  the  way  from  New  York  on  a 
hundred  dollars  we  gave  them.  Can  you  imagine?"  He 
beamed  proudly,  as  if  he  deserved  some  of  the  credit  him- 
self. 

We  moved  through  the  hotel  lobby  with  Reed.  The  young 
men  in  kilts  stood  about  a  large  information  booth  marked 
"MRA."  One  of  them  waved  to  us.  "Come  back  and  learn 
about  MRA,"  he  called. 

"They're  crazy,"  observed  Reed  as  we  left  the  hotel. 

"What's  wrong  with  them?"  Helen  asked. 

"Faith  and  Love,"  Reed  muttered.  "Try  eating  it  when 
you're  hungry!" 

"We'll  interview  them  anyway,"  Mel  declared. 

"Sure,  sure,"  Reed  agreed.  "Won't  hurt  to  interview  them. 
Bunch  of  misled  youngsters  and  frustrated  dowagers.  But 
first  we'll  get  some  good  Chinese  food  into  you.  Strengthen 
your  resistance." 

We  started  to  walk  down  Nob  Hill  and,  against  our  will, 
found  our  heads  rushing  away  from  our  bodies. 

Reed  maneuvered  us  through  the  narrow  crowded  streets 
of  Chinatown.  Tourists  packed  the  restaurants  and  brightly- 
lit  gift  shops;  yet  the  neighborhood  seemed  to  belong  to  the 
Chinese.  Placards  in  windows  called  for  aid  to  the  Chinese 
people  in  their  war  of  resistance  against  Japan.  "Don't  Buy 
Japanese  Goods,"  another  sign  said.  Young  Chinese  shook 
collection  boxes  on  street  corners. 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  65 

"Everybody  likes  the  Chinese  people,"  Reed  said  over  and 
over  again.  "They're  fine  people,  fine  people." 

After  we  had  climbed  back  to  the  hotel,  we  were  so  tired 
we  couldn't  protest  when  the  Moral  Re-Armers  pounced 
upon  us.  A  nice  old  lady  flanked  by  the  laddies  began  to 
explain. 

"With  so  much  strife  in  the  world,  we  feel  that  the  only 
cure  is  Moral  Re-Armament.  There's  too  much  politics,  too 
much  economics  beclouding  the  issues  in  the  world  today. 
There's  no  reason  why  Honesty,  Faith  and  Love  shouldn't 
rule  the  world.  Oh,  it's  all  so  terrible,  the  shape  of  the  world." 

"Bad  shape,  all  right,"  Mel  agreed. 

"But  what  can  we  do  about  it,  about  wars  for  instance?" 
asked  Helen. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see  how  MRA  fits  into  that?"  She  beamed. 
"By  Faith,  Honesty  and  Love  we  couldn't  possibly  hate  any- 
one. It's  hate  that  leads  to  war." 

"But  people  are  saying  that  Great  Britain  and  France,  by 
letting  Hitler  have  his  own  way,  are  pushing  us  toward 
war,"  George  said. 

"Oh,  it's  not  so  at  all,"  the  nice  old  lady  replied  with  quiet 
indignation. 

"But  isn't  it  true  that  fascism  conquered  Austria  and 
Czechoslovakia  with  the  aid  of  British  and  French  appease- 
ment?" Joe  asked,  his  round  ruddy  face  screwed  up  bellig- 
erently. 

The  nice  old  lady  became  offended.  "We  have  to  put  our 
own  house  in  order  before  we  can  criticize  the  actions  of 
others." 

"You're  right  about  that,"  Joe  agreed  more  calmly.  "We've 
just  seen  a  lot  of  things  in  the  country  that  ought  to  be  put 
in  order.  People  out  of  work,  farmers  losing  their  land, 
young  people  with  nothing  to  do." 


66  The  "Argonauts" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that  so  much,"  she  countered 
hurriedly.  "We  have  our  own  problems,  and  other  countries 
have  theirs.  We  should  stop  hating  so  many  people  and  start 
loving  them." 

Persistently,  we  asked  more  questions  about  what  we  had 
seen  in  America.  How  did  Moral  Re-Armament  propose  to 
cure  wars,  hunger,  strikes,  unemployment  ?  No  longer  nice, 
the  old  lady  looked  sharply  at  us.  "Faith!  Honesty!  Love!" 
she  snapped,  turned  abruptly  and  began  to  explain  Moral 
Re-Armament  to  a  bald,  tired-looking  man. 

As  we  stood  there,  one  of  the  newspapermen  sauntered 
over  and  looked  mournfully  at  the  old  lady.  "Look,  lady," 
he  began,  "I  make  only  eighteen  dollars  a  week.  I'm  only 
twenty-six,  and  I've  got  to  support  a  wife  and  two  kids.  If  I 
use  Moral  Re- Armament,  how  can  I  get  my  editor  to  give  me 
a  raise?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  to  get  a  raise,"  the  old  lady  smiled 
sweetly,  "but  Moral  Re- Armament  can  teach  you  how  to  be 
happy  on  eighteen  dollars  a  week!" 

"Oh  .  .  ."  said  the  newspaperman  in  a  faint  voice  and 
moved  away. 

We  learned  more  about  MRA  during  the  next  few  days. 
It  seems  that  Stanley  Baldwin,  predecessor  of  Prime  Minister 
Chamberlain,  had  declared  that  what  the  world  needed  to 
counteract  the  gas-mask  spirit  was  "moral  and  spiritual 
re-armament."  That  had  started  it.  Bunny  Austin,  the 
famous  Davis  Cup  Tennis  player  of  England,  picked  up  the 
slogan  and  called  the  youth  of  England  to  the  letters. 

The  newspapermen  did  not  like  MRA.  Aging  women 
sidled  up  to  the  delegates  in  the  ANG  Convention  hall  and 
started  passing  out  literature  and  expounding  the  virtues  of 
Dr.  Buchman,  that  "wonderful  man."  Editor  &  Publisher, 
trade  weekly  of  the  publishers,  had  given  Moral  Re-Arma- 


'Holler-Coaster  Town"  67 

ment  free  half-page  advertisements  for  more  than  ten  weeks. 
The  publishers'  magazine  called  MRA  a  "new  experiment'* 
in  business  management  to  keep  workers  content  and  happy. 
"Editor  &  Publisher  believes  that  Moral  Re-Armament  is 
the  most  constructive  news  of  the  day  and  provides  this 
space  without  charge."  An  excerpt  from  one  of  the  ads  ran 
as  follows  : 

Apprentices  (after  MRA  conversion)  volunteered  to 
work  after  hours  in  restitution  for  time  wasted.  Em- 
ployees stay  late  now  to  rectify  mistakes  without  cost  to 
the  firm.  ...  A  stenographer  offered  to  have  her  salary 
reduced  when  she  thought  the  firm  needed  financial 
help 

Said  big  Hey  wood  Broun  about  MRA :  "It's  the  uncle  of 
fascism." 

Lumbering,  lovable  Heywood  Broun.  Our  first  night  in 
San  Francisco  he  made  us  feel  at  home,  as  if  we  too  had 
something  to  give  the  American  Newspaper  Guild.  He  set 
the  example,  a  big  example.  We  found  a  little  piece  of  Hey- 
wood Broun  in  every  newspaperman  present.  Yet  only  he 
combined  all  the  qualities  we  loved  and  admired  and  tried 
to  take  for  our  own. 

Late  at  night  we  stepped  into  foggy  streets.  Now  we  saw 
the  difference  between  real  fog  and  the  smoke-dust  of  Pitts- 
burgh. We  liked  the  cool  grayness  of  the  night;  it  seemed  to 
belong  there,  to  shut  out  the  rest  of  California  from  the 
"roller-coasters." 

Helen,  Lillian  and  Joe  followed  Reed,  who  jigged  in  high 
spirits  to  his  apartment.  One  double  bed  and  a  parlor  couch 
...  the  latter,  a  little  more  than  five  feet  long.  .  .  .  Joe, 
very  proud  of  his  six-foot  height.  Joe  looked  at  the  under- 
sized couch.  "We're  going  to  take  turns  sleeping  in  the 


68  The  "Argonauts" 

good  bed,"  he  said  firmly.  "But,  Joe  .  .  ."  Helen  consoled. 
"Be  practical.  A  double  bed  .  .  .  two  girls  .  .  ." 

In  another  reporter's  home,  Mel  took  out  a  nickel  and 
twirled  it  into  the  air 

"Heads!"  cried  George. 

Mel  stooped  and  picked  up  the  coin. 

"Tails.  Sorry.  I  get  the  bed." 

He  undressed  quickly  and  fell  into  the  one  narrow  bed  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  George  stepped  into  his  maroon 
pajamas  with  the  gold  braid  and  lay  down  on  a  thin  mat- 
tress spread  on  the  floor. 


Heywood  Broun  opened  his  last  convention  of  the  Ameri- 
can Newspaper  Guild  on  July  31, 1939,  at  ten  o'clock.  We  sat 
down  at  the  rear  of  the  large  ballroom  now  filled  with  chairs 
and  smoke. 

"It  is  ten  o'clock,  and  the  meeting  will  be  in  order," 
drawled  Broun.  "Will  the  delegates  come  in  and  be  seated?" 
His  face  was  serious,  his  graying  curly  hair  neatly  plastered 
back  for  the  first  time  in  months.  Papers  bulged  from  the 
massive  pockets  in  his  wrinkled  suit.  He  grinned  quickly  as 
another  large  delegation  entered  the  hall.  He  hunched  over 
the  rostrum,  his  huge  shoulders  round  from  bending  over 
the  typewriter  and  the  poker  table. 

He  banged  the  gavel. 

"I  will  say  now  that  every  session  will  begin  precisely  at 
the  time  scheduled.  The  Chair  reports  that  he  was  here  pre- 
cisely at  the  point  of  ten,  ahead  of  the  majority  of  delegates. 
The  Chair  will  also  report  it  was  not  too  easy  to  get  here 
precisely  on  the  dot  of  ten,  because  after  going  to  the  San 
Francisco  World's  Fair,  the  first  thing  I  saw  this  morning 
on  the  editorial  page  of  the  Examiner  was  the  life-sized  head 


Holler-Coaster  Town"  69 

of  'Ham'  Fish,  my  old  classmate  in  1910  at  Harvard.  But  in 
all  fairness  to  Mr.  Fish — I  am  not  for  him  politically — I 
don't  think  the  picture  does  him  justice.  I  immediately  called 
up  and  said,  'Bring  me  two  pots  of  coffee.'  " 

We  laughed,  and  the  sixth  annual  convention  of  the  or- 
ganization which  Heywood  Broun  had  helped  to  found  to 
protect  the  interests  of  working  newspapermen,  more  than 
20,000  of  whom  were  members,  began  to  take  up  its  business. 
We  didn't  take  our  eyes  off  him.  He  was  a  great  working 
newspaperman.  Six  years  ago  he  had  written : 

.  .  .  the  fact  that  newspaper  editors  and  owners  are 
genial  folk  should  hardly  stand  in  the  way  of  the  organ- 
ization of  a  newspaper  writers'  union.  There  should  be 
one.  Beginning  at  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Octo- 
ber i,  I  am  going  to  do  the  best  I  can  to  help  in  getting 
one  up.  I  think  I  could  die  happy  on  the  opening  day  of 
the  general  strike  if  I  had  the  privilege  of  watching 
Walter  Lippmann  heave  half  a  brick  through  a  Tribune 
window  at  a  non-union  operative  who  had  been  called  in 
to  write  the  current  "Today  and  Tomorrow"  column  on 
the  gold  standard. 

Seated  inconspicuously  behind  the  regular  delegates,  we 
were  putting  our  stakes  on  that  newspaper  writers'  union.  A 
man  like  Broun  could  not  be  wrong. 

Greetings.  .  .  . 

Harry  Bridges,  director  of  the  CIO  on  the  West  Coast,  a 
name  in  the  morning  headlines,  facing  deportation  charges, 
addressed  the  delegates.  Bridges — leader  of  the  "laboring 
people"  whom  young  Roy  Sjodin  back  in  Cleveland  had 
talked  about.  We  craned  our  necks  to  stare  at  him.  Lanky 
and  tall,  his  sharp  long  nose  was  thrust  forward,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  sense  whether  we  were  with  him. 


70  The  "Argonauts" 

"...  as  far  as  the  individual  issue  of  the  deportation  of 
Bridges  is  concerned,  we  are  not  worried.  We  haven't  built 
a  one-man  labor  movement  around  here,  I  hope,  and  this 
labor  movement  is  going  to  go  on  in  this  city  and  on  this 
Coast." 

The  hall  was  quiet  as  the  low  voice,  tinged  with  a  slight 
British  accent,  continued : 

"The  employer  interests  have  gone  to  untold  lengths,  have 
spent  many  thousands  of  dollars,  have  employed  stool 
pigeons,  convicts  and  what-not,  intimidated  them  and  pres- 
sured them,  with  the  ultimate  aim  of  undermining  and  de- 
stroying our  trade  unions.  .  .  .  We  have  sufficient  testimony 
in  the  record,  regardless  of  how  we  come  out  in  the  case,  to 
the  good  and  to  the  advantage  of  the  labor  movement.  I 
want  you  all  to  know  that." 

From  the  "we"  to  the  "I,"  Bridges  explained  his  case.  The 
"I"  didn't  matter,  but  the  "we"  did.  The  "we"  would  go  on 
in  spite  of  anything  that  happened  to  Bridges  personally. 
We  wondered  about  that  ability  of  a  man  to  submerge  com- 
pletely his  own  personal  interests,  his  own  life  within  a 
group  of  men.  We  wondered  if  we  would  be  able  to  do  the 
same. 

"I  agree  with  everything  Harry  Bridges  said,"  said  Broun, 
"and  I  am  sure  we  all  know  the  trial  of  Bridges  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  so-called  issue.  It  is  a  trial  of  a  man  who  is  on 
the  spot  because  he  is  an  able,  efficient  and  honest  militant 
labor  leader.  ...  I  would  like  to  live  to  see  the  day  when  we 
will  have  a  union  in  newspapers  in  which  we  will  have  com- 
plete organization  up  and  down  the  line,  everybody  in  the 
city  room,  in  the  mechanical  departments,  and  in  the  busi- 
ness office  as  well." 

We  wanted  to  belong  to  such  a  union.  We  wanted  to  be 
"working  newspapermen  and  newspaperwomen"  who  could 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  71 

build  the  ANG  and  fashion  our  lives  after  those  of  its 
leaders. 

The  convention  moved  on  for  four  days,  with  Heywood 
Broun  shambling  through  it,  large  and  genial,  always  the 
first  to  arrive  at  the  sessions  and  the  first  in  the  hearts  of  all 
men  present.  He  always  had  time  to  talk  to  the  delegates 
about  their  troubles.  He  was  "Heywood"  to  everybody. 

Elmer  Andrews,  administrator  of  the  Wages  and  Hours 
division  of  the  Department  of  Labor,  was  slated  to  address 
the  convention. 

"The  short  period  before  a  speaker  goes  on  a  national 
hookup  is  generally  spent  by  the  speaker" — Broun  turned  to 
Andrews,  his  large  kindly  face  wrinkled  in  a  grin  that  en- 
gulfed even  his  nose,  eyes  and  mouth  into  wrinkles — "and  the 
audience  in  silent  prayer,  and  I  suggest  that  for  the  next 
three  minutes." 

"We  have  a  tough  problem.  Mr.  Andrews  has  a  tough 
problem.  One  of  them  concerns  white-collar  workers.  I  have 
never  liked  that  phrase  very  much.  Indeed,  at  times  I  have 
been  moved  to  say,  'When  you  call  us  that,  smile!'  And 
sometimes  when  I  look  at  my  own  shirt,  I  often  burst  out 
laughing." 

Andrews  spoke  about  a  law. 

"They  tell  you  that  the  Wage  and  Hour  law  is  driving 
business  into  bankruptcy  and  throwing  workers  onto  the 
street.  What  are  the  facts?  .  .  .  The  number  of  persons 
employed  in  non-agricultural  industries  in  May  of  this  year 
was  680,000  more  than  were  employed  in  May  of  1938,  when 
there  was  no  Fair  Labor  Standards  Act.  Payrolls  increased 
in  thirty-eight  states.  .  .  ." 

We  thought  of  the  questions  we  had  seen  on  the  faces  of 
the  people  in  Cleveland,  Gary,  Chicago,  Collyer,  Price.  The 


72  The  "Argonauts" 

administrator  was  talking  about  the  answer,  one  small 
answer. 

"...  that  we  may  have  a  more  just  industrial  democracy, 
a  better  fed,  a  better  clothed,  a  better  housed  America,  and 
therefore  a  happier  and  more  peaceful  America.  .  .  ." 

Heywood  had  something  to  say  about  that. 

"Schools  of  journalism  are  good,  pretty  good  or  no  good, 
as  you  choose,  but  we  all  know  very  well  that  men  and 
women  come  into  newspaper  work  with  no  set  prescribed 
training.  I  could  limit  it  to  columnists.  .  .  .  Some  columnists 
can  read  and  write,  and  some  columnists  can  just  write. 

"Also,  your  president  was  at  one  time  a  member  of  the 
Socialist  Party.  I  learned  Karl  Marx  in  one  afternoon,  and 
I  was  told  to  go  out  and  address  audiences  by  saying, 
"'workers  of  hand  and  brain.'  I  was  supposed  to  be,  as  a 
newspaperman,  a  worker  of  brain  addressing  workers  of 
hand.  It  so  happens  that  I  do  not  write  with  a  pencil,  but 
on  the  typewriter,  and  I  write  some  columns  occasionally 
when  I  think  both  the  hand  and  brain  are  functioning,  but 
I  have  written  a  good  many  columns  when  I  knew  nothing 
was  functioning  but  the  hands  on  the  keys  of  the  type- 
writer." 

We  were  learning  fast.  As  the  convention  days  went  by, 
we  arrived  early  in  the  morning  and  retired  early  the  next 
morning.  We  found  Doug,  delegate  from  St.  Louis,  the  star 
reporter  who  wanted  to  live  among  Mexican  peasants.  We 
went  to  town  with  him.  We  never  ate  better  food  or  more 
of  it  than  in  San  Francisco.  In  a  small  Spanish  place,  we  first 
learned  how  to  eat.  Wine  instead  of  water.  Three  entrees 
instead  of  one.  Large  luscious  pears  and  grapes  instead  of 
ice  cream.  The  meal  took  three  hours.  Doug  still  kept  in 
tnind  the  necessity  of  building  our  constitutions  so  that  we 
would  be  strong  enough  to  work  out  plans  for  national 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  73 

organization  of  associate  members  of  the  Guild.  And  work 
them  out  we  did.  We  had  our  special  place  in  the  convention. 

College  journalists  at  school,  we  had  joined  the  Guild 
when  the  associate  membership  was  inaugurated.  The  Guild 
offered  us  the  opportunity  to  learn  about  one  aspect  of  news- 
paper work  not  to  be  found  in  the  classrooms  and  expected 
us  to  support  its  program  of  protection  of  the  rights  of  news- 
paper workers.  The  Guild  had  shortened  hours,  raised 
wages,  created  more  jobs,  offered  newspapermen  security  in 
their  work.  We  followed  the  program,  because  we  knew 
that  the  Guild  eliminated  the  humiliation  that  went  hand  in 
hand  with".  .  .  I'll  work  for  nothing,  just  to  get  experience." 

We  met  other  student  journalists  from  California  uni- 
versities— young  Fred  Vast  and  Bill  Brownell  of  the  Daily 
Bruin  at  Berkeley.  Together  we  planned  a  program.  Tall, 
red-haired  and  sophisticated,  Anna  Goldsborough  of  New 
York  guided  us  as  chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Associate 
Membership.  We  emerged  from  the  convention  as  members 
of  a  national  organizing  committee  for  associate  members 
of  the  Guild.  We  felt  proud  to  have  a  place  in  this  union  of 
newspapermen. 


Helen  Housmer  of  the  Simon  J.  Lubin  Society  addressed 
the  delegates  one  day.  Her  Society  disseminated  information 
about  the  big  farmers. 

"In  California,  they  now  have  some  25,000  small  farmers 
who  are  wedged  in  between  these  great  corporation  farms  of 
California  and  some  200,000  or  so  migratory  landless  workers, 
but  who  have  been  used  by  the  Associated  Farmers  as  a 
rural  front  pointing  toward  an  attack  specifically  on  the 
waterfront  unions  .  .  .  and  more  generally  toward  the  entire 
trade  union  movement  of  the  country." 


74  The  "Argonauts" 

As  Helen  Housmer  concluded,  Heywood  Broun  rose,  his 
large  face  serious. 

"The  Chair  would  like  to  ask  a  question.  The  Associated 
Farmers  so-called  are  actually  not  farmers.  They  are  the 
packers  and  canners  and  large  manufacturers,  and  'farmers' 
is  a  kind  of  phony  word.  Is  that  correct?" 

"That  is  right,"  the  Simon  J.  Lubin  representative  de- 
clared. "They  were  organized,  created  and  financed  by  the 
Southern  Pacific  Railroad,  Standard  Oil,  California  Pack- 
ing Corporation,  Bank  of  America,  Pacific  Telephone  and 
Telegraph,  and  Pacific  Gas  and  Electric.  .  .  .  They  are 
moving  into  the  Western  States  and  getting  duPont  money, 
General  Motors  money,  and  J.  P.  Morgan  money  to  organize 
Associated  Farmers  in  Minnesota  and  Montana  ...  in 
Oregon  they  got  through  the  anti-picketing  initiative." 

She  described  the  Associated  Farmers  as  one  of  the  "most 
virile  anti-labor  forces  in  the  entire  country."  She  told  how 
the  Associated  Farmers  in  the  Imperial  Valley  were  effecting 
a  merger  with  the  Moral  Re-Armament  people.  She  related 
how  a  prominent  leader  of  the  Associated  Farmers  had 
attended  an  MRA  convention,  and  on  his  return  told  the 
members  of  his  group,  "Boys,  the  rough  stuff  is  out.  We 
have  got  every  darned  one  of  them  down  on  their  knees 
praying." 

Committees  reported,  and  the  Chair  thought  the  report 
on  associate  membership  was  "excellent."  The  Chair  had 
a  tough  time  getting  all  the  committees  to  report  on  time. 

"Brother  Decker  and  Brother  Cohen,"  Heywood  sug- 
gested warmly,  "if  you  would  agree  to  serve  as  a  scouting 
committee,  I  think  you  will  find  all  the  committees  some- 
where around  Room  108,  and  come  back  to  report  to  us  how 
soon  they  will  be  ready  to  bring  in  their  material.  I  would 
urge  you  particularly  to  find  the  Resolutions  Committee,  as 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  75 

they  must  have  some  material  we  can  take  up  immediately. 
You  are  the  explorers  going  into  a  trackless  forest — and  bring 
them  back  alive!" 

The  Resolutions  Committee,  having  been  brought  back 
alive,  started  to  report  through  its  chairman,  young  and 
square-jawed  Milton  Kaufman,  secretary  of  the  New  York 
Guild.  Heywood  gave  over  the  chair  to  another  delegate  and 
took  a  place  on  the  floor. 

Now  we  began  to  see  the  program  of  opinion,  the  con- 
structive steps  which  the  Guild  proposed  in  order  to  meet  the 
conditions  which  it  deplored. 

"Re-emphasizes  its  faith  in  the  actual  unity  of  labor.  .  .  . 
Condemns  curtailment  of  WPA.  .  .  .  Unqualified  support 
to  Harry  Bridges.  .  .  .  Preservation  and  extension  of  New 
Deal  advances.  .  .  ." 

We  realized  what  democracy  meant  and  how  it  was  used 
by  the  Guild  in  the  free  discussion  on  these  resolutions. 
Heywood  Broun  rose  from  the  floor  to  speak  on  a  resolution 
to  condemn  Father  Coughlin.  "I  would  move  to  strike  out 
that  part  of  the  resolution  which  asks  the  Catholic  Church 
to  put  discipline  on  Father  Coughlin.  ...  I  feel  that  a  very 
bad  precedent  might  be  created.  If  the  Catholic  Church  is 
going  to  crack  down  on  a  man  whom  I  certainly  regard  as 
reactionary  in  his  labor  and  political  views,  then  you  open 
the  door  to  discipline  on  the  part  of  many  other  Catholic 
clergymen  who  might  be  on  the  other  extreme.  .  .  ." 

Jack  Morris,  a  Chicago  striker  as  big  as  Heywood  and 
twice  as  voluble,  arose. 

"I  must  say  I  believe  Mr.  Broun's  expressions  are  not  based 
upon  realistic  experiences  as  a  Catholic  as  mine  have  been 
over  a  period  of  many  years.  ...  I  have  stood  on  soap  boxes 
and  have  been  followed  by  speakers  who  happened  to  be  of 
Jewish  origin,  speaking  on  much  the  same  subjects  as  I, 


76  The  "Argonauts" 

and  I  have  had  to  repulse  the  attacks  of  red-necked  Irish- 
American  Catholics.  I  happen  to  be  one  of  genealogical 
strain,  of  that  same  group.  Maybe  my  neck  isn't  so  red." 

We  edged  forward  anxiously  following  the  controversy. 

The  night  before,  Morris  had  taken  Fred  Vast,  Bill 
Brownell,  some  other  students  at  the  University  of  Cali- 
fornia and  the  five  of  us  out  for  some  beer.  He  had  pro- 
ceeded to  give  us  some  hints  about  "how  to  be  a  newspaper- 
man." A  stranger  wanted  to  learn  too,  but  his  eavesdropping 
combined  a  nasty  manner  of  letting  us  know  the  Morris  way 
was  the  wrong  way  to  be  a  newspaperman.  Morris  bit  his 
lips  and  ignored  the  kibitizer.  Patiently.  Until  the  fifth 
beer.  Morris  arose,  grabbed  the  stranger  by  the  collar,  lifted 
him  bodily  and  threw  him  out  the  door.  The  stranger  ob- 
jected. Morris  swung  once  and  did  not  miss.  We  ordered  a 
sixth  beer  and  listened  to  the  Morris  way  of  becoming  news- 
papermen. 

Broun  rose  slowly  and  walked  to  the  front  of  the  hall. 
"I  know  Jack  Morris  understands  we  speak  exactly  the  same 
about  Coughlin.  ...  I  do  think  it  is  bad  for  us  to  ask  the 
Catholic  Church  to  take  action  against  Charles  E.  Coughlin." 

Following  Heywood's  suggestion,  the  convention  adopted 
the  resolution  "...  that  the  American  Newspaper  Guild  in 
convention  condemns  Father  Coughlin  as  an  enemy  of 
progressive  unionism,  as  a  harbinger  of  fascism  and  would- 
be  strikebreaker." 

Last  morning.  Reluctantly,  we  took  our  places  in  the  hall. 

"The  Chair  apologizes,"  said  Heywood.  "It  is  three  min- 
utes after  nine." 

Order  of  business — election  of  officers. 

The  delegates  cheered  and  applauded.  Everyone  knew 
Heywood  Broun  would  be  elected  President,  because  every- 
one wanted  him. 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  77 

Next  office,  executive  vice-president.  .  .  .  Milton  Kaufman 
was  elected.  Other  officers  were  elected.  The  losers  con- 
gratulated the  winners  and  everybody  cheered. 

Only  a  few  more  minutes  remained  to  this  union  conven- 
tion. We  didn't  want  it  to  end. 

Carl  Randau,  top-notch  newspaperman,  dignified  and 
President  of  the  New  York  Guild,  asked  for  the  floor. 

"I  want  to  say  as  a  New  Yorker  and  ex-Californian,  I 
think  we  ought  to  have  a  rising  vote  of  thanks  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, with  only  one  qualification,  and  that  is  the  entertain- 
ment here  was  so  extreme  that  if  there  were  one  more  day 
of  it  I  don't  believe  the  chairman  and  some  others,  including 
myself,  could  stand  it." 

Said  Hey  wood  Broun :  "The  Chair  would  like  to  add  two 
sentences  to  what  Carl  Randau  has  said,  that  as  a  citizen  of 
Connecticut  he  thinks  California  has  a  good  climate  and 
Sally  Rand  has  a  good  restaurant." 

The  meeting  was  adjourned. 

4 

But  there  was  one  more  day.  We  walked  into  Joseph 
Henry  Jackson's  office  at  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle  and 
told  him  we  were  writing  a  book. 

"We're  seeing  America.  Can  you  give  us  some  ideas  about 
the  West?" 

In  shirt  sleeves,  he  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head  and 
looked  sharply  at  us.  He  had  ideas.  He  also  had  a  brisk, 
almost  rough  way  of  voicing  them.  We  marked  him  down 
as  a  good  guy. 

"This  your  first  book?" 

We  nodded. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  go  to  town  on  your  own  publicity. 
Publishers  usually  let  a  first  book  stand  on  its  own  merits. 


78  The  "Argonauts" 

.  .  .  Well,  you  can  start  with  San  Francisco."  He  reached 
for  the  phone.  "Hello?  Desk?  Send  down  a  photographer 
and  reporter.  I've  got  a  good  story  down  in  my  office  for  you. 
Five  young  people  from  New  York,  seeing  the  country  and 
writing  a  book.  Okay?  Fine." 

The  photographer  and  reporter  came.  We  smiled  and  took 
a  picture. 

"Sure,"  said  Joe  in  reply  to  the  reporter.  "We  think  'Frisco 
is  the  best  town  we've  hit  so  far." 

The  young  reporter  frowned.  "You  mean  San  Francisco, 
don't  you?" 

Joe's  eyes  widened.  "What's  the  difference?" 

"San  Francisco,  if  you  please,"  the  reporter  said  pleasantly. 

It  was  all  right  with  us.  We  didn't  care  what  people  called 
New  York,  but  why  argue  ? 

"Well,  that's  settled,"  Jackson  said  with  finality.  "Now  you 
want  some  ideas  about  the  West?" 

He  gave  us  ideas  about  Hollywood,  agriculture,  universi- 
ties and  people.  "What  else?" 

"John  Steinbeck,"  said  we.  "How  can  we  get  to  see  him?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  see  him?" 

"We  want  to  talk,  show  him  some  of  the  stuff  we're  writ- 
ing, get  some  help.  .  .  ." 

"Uh-huh." 

"We've  been  hearing  silly  stories  about  him,  that  mobs  of 
ferocious  dogs  keep  off  visitors  and  all  that." 

Jackson  laughed.  "That's  nonsense.  Since  he  wrote 
Grapes  of  Wrath  he's  been  hounded  on  every  side.  The 
Associated  Farmers  out  here  don't  like  to  see  the  truth 
become  so  popular." 

"We  haven't  been  able  to  read  that  book  yet,"  said  Lillian, 
"but  we  will  before  we  see  him." 

"So  you're  set  on  seeing  him?" 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  79 

"That's  the  idea.  He's  the  best  writer  in  the  country. 
We're  just  beginners.  He  can  help  us." 

Again  Jackson  smiled  and  reached  for  the  phone.  "Long 
distance.  .  .  ."  He  got  his  party  and  talked  for  a  while. 
Then  he  hung  up  and  turned  to  us.  "He's  not  at  Los  Gatos 
now.  They  tell  me  he's  in  Hollywood." 

"Swell!  We're  going  to  Hollywood.  JDo  you  think  he'll 
be  there  for  a  couple  of  weeks?" 

"There's  no  telling,  but  I'll  write  ahead  and  tell  him  you're 
coming." 

"Otyyl" 

We  went  directly  to  a  book  shop.  "Got  a  copy  of  Grapes  of 
Wrath?"  We  voted  to  go  without  lunch  for  two  days  to 
make  up  for  the  appropriation  out  of  our  shrinking  treasury. 

5 

And  what  about  other  young  people  in  California?  The 
California  Youth  Legislature  led  them.  State  Director  Clara 
Walldow,  poised  and  self-confident,  told  us  about  it. 

"Year  after  year,  more  young  men  and  women  pour  out 
of  schools.  They  want  jobs,  and  the  good  things  that  come 
with  jobs:  recognition,  recreation,  the  feeling  that  life  is 
worthwhile." 

The  California  Youth  Model  Legislature  was  a  statewide 
organization  of  181  youth  organizations  from  81  California 
communities.  Represented  in  it  were  churches  and  farm 
groups,  students  and  trade  unions,  political  leagues  and 
fraternal  societies. 

"The  special  needs  of  youth  can  and  must  be  met.  .  .  ." 
That  sounded  familiar  to  us.  We  knew  something  of  the 
work  of  the  American  Youth  Congress,  but  now  we  learned 
how  state  organizations  affiliated  with  the  Congress  carried 
out  the  youth  program. 


80  The  "Argonauts" 

The  California  Youth  Commission  bill  had  been  intro- 
duced in  the  state  legislature.  It  provided  for  necessary  re- 
search into  youth  problems — answering  the  needs  of  experts 
for  accurate,  authoritative  information.  It  would  make  for 
the  co-ordination  needed  by  the  various  youth-serving  agen- 
cies of  the  state,  now  separated  and  sometimes  working  at 
cross-purposes. 

The  Apprentice  Training  Bill,  also  sponsored  by  the  Youth 
Legislature,  would  give  young  people  the  opportunity  to 
secure  adequate  training  with  fair  wages  and  working  condi- 
tions. 

Clara  showed  us  a  program  covering  health  protection, 
civil  liberties,  better  housing,  a  program  basing  its  strength 
and  fulfillment  on  organized  labor,  a  program  young  people 
require  if  they  are  to  become  strong,  creative  citizens  in 
America.  The  California  Youth  Legislature  was  going 
strong. 

We  stayed  with  easy-going  Fred  Vast  our  last  few  days  in 
San  Francisco.  Young  Vast,  brilliant  student  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  California,  would  write  big  things  some  day.  All 
he  needed  was  a  break,  and  together  with  us  he  put  his  stock 
in  the  American  Newspaper  Guild  for  that  break.  He  had 
reason  to  believe  in  labor;  his  father  was  a  member  of  the 
Teamsters'  Union. 

"Sure,"  said  Fred's  father,  "I'm  a  member  of  the  A.  F.  of  L., 
and  Fred's  in  the  Guild  CIO.  But  we  work  together.  We 
don't  fight.  We  gain  more  that  way.  We're  like  all  the 
members  of  both  labor  organizations." 

"That's  right,"  Fred  added,  placing  an  arm  about  his 
father.  "They  can't  keep  us  apart,  and  they  won't  be  able 
to  keep  the  other  members  apart  for  long.  We  gain  more 
that  way,"  he  repeated. 


"Roller-Coaster  Town"  81 

Young  Fred  Vast  who  wanted  to  write.  Together,  we  had 
seen  a  union  of  writers  at  work.  Together,  we  looked  to 
that  union  for  the  fulfillment  of  our  future. 

Maybe  this  sounds  like  hero  worship.  It  is.  We  believe 
that  all  people  have  heroes,  but  that  only  young  people  will 
admit  having  them.  Sure,  we're  all  for  heroes,  because  we've 
got  some  genuine  ones  in  the  Newspaper  Guild.  We  believe 
that  most  people  fashion  their  lives  after  those  of  others,  and 
we  intend  to  use  our  heroes  in  the  Guild  as  our  particular 
models. 


Chapter  5  FOLLOWING  LEWIS 
AND  CLARKE 


ilff" We're  going  into  the  wild  woods  of  the  Northwest, 
aren't  we?*1 

Well,  Joe,  George  and  Mel  were  going  to  grow  beards. 
Besides,  it  took  too  much  time  to  shave.  Helen  cajoled  and 
ridiculed,  but  the  beards  grew  and  thickened.  Nobody  else 
in  the  whole  Northwest  seemed  to  have  a  beard,  but  nobody 
in  the  whole  Northwest  seemed  to  mind  the  three  imported 
specimens.  That's  how  people  were  in  Grants  Pass,  Eugene, 
Seattle  and  Yakima,  and  we  liked  them  for  it.  They  didn't 
put  on  airs.  They  were  not  snobs  or  hypocrites. 

Peaches  were  ripening  in  the  orchards  as  we  sped  north- 
ward, up  the  Redwood  Trail.  Apricots,  grapes  and  hops  were 
ready  for  the  picking,  and  the  migrant  workers  in  their 
decrepit  Chevvies  and  open  tin  lizzies  kept  us  company  on 
the  road. 

We  didn't  know  much  about  the  workers  who  followed 
the  crops  up  and  down  the  West  Coast.  We  had  seen  them 

82 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  83 

leaving  their  homes  in  Kansas  and  Colorado.  We  began  to 
see  the  terrible  reality  of  their  lives  as  soon  as  we  left 
San  Francisco. 

We  saw  large  notices  posted  in  general  stores  and  gas 
stations. 


HOP  PICKERS  WANTED 

Men,  women,  and  families  desired 

No  Experience  Necessary 

Good  camps 


U.S.  101,  where  the  redwoods  meet  the  ocean,  and  migra- 
tory workers  roam  the  highway.  The  first  migrant  we  met 
was  answering  the  call  of  the  posted  notices.  He  was  a  small 
fellow.  He  didn't  look  very  menacing,  although  we  had  read 
in  San  Francisco  papers  of  the  menace  of  this  "outside  ele- 
ment in  agriculture  in  California."  He  was  thin  and  he 
looked  tired.  He  was  buying  some  gasoline  when  we  stopped 
at  a  station.  The  attendant  was  arguing  with  him,  and  we 
couldn't  help  listening  while  we  waited  to  have  our  own  tank 
filled. 

"Nineteen  cents  a  gallon.  I  can't  help  what  you  thought. 
Everybody  pays  nineteen,"  the  attendant  said. 

"It's  only  sixteen  back  there.  Sixteen  cents  a  gallon." 

"Nineteen.  Can'tcha  read?  It  says  right  on  the  pump, 
nineteen.  It's  not  my  fault.  I  don't  make  the  prices.  Nine- 
teen." 

The  small  fellow  put  his  head  inside  the  window  of  his 
car,  an  old  make  we  couldn't  recognize.  He  must  have  been 
conferring  with  someone  else.  The  attendant  waved  to  us 
and  said,  "Be  with  ya  in  minute,  bud."  The  little  fellow 


84  The  "Argonauts" 

withdrew  his  head  and  counted  some  money  into  the  hand 
of  the  station  attendant.  Then  he  drove  away.  There  were 
eight  people  in  his  car. 

"Fill  it  up,"  Mel  said,  as  the  attendant  came  over  to  our 
car. 

"Sure  thing.  Boy,  I  wish  everyone  would  say  that.  I  have 
to  spend  hours  with  little  guys  like  that  who  buy  two  or 
three  gallons." 

He  filled  the  tank.  George  paid  him. 

"Where  was  that  other  fellow  going?" 

"North."  He  pointed  to  a  replica  of  the  sign  we  had  seen 
in  a  general  store.  "Pickin*  hops.  The  growers  paste  thou- 
sands of  those  things  all  over.  Then  they  get  twice  as  many 
workers  as  they  need.  That  way  they  cut  pay  and  make  more 
money.  Them  suckers  fall  for  it." 

We  passed  the  little  fellow  about  ten  minutes  later.  He 
was  at  the  wheel,  staring  straight  ahead.  Neither  he  nor  his 
companions  looked  at  us  as  we  drove  by  them.  When  we 
came  into  the  timber  land,  outlying  the  giant  redwood 
forests,  we  saw  the  charred  stumps,  lone  posts  and  sickly 
weeds  where  once  rich  forests  stood.  They  reminded  us  of 
the  migratory  workers  who  were  being  cut  down  and  used 
up,  like  the  trees. 

We  had  another  type  of  company  on  the  road  to  the 
Northwest.  Other  people,  who  had  answered  the  call  of  a 
different  kind  of  notice.  The  Chambers  of  Commerce  and 
travel  agencies  had  sent  out  smooth  circulars  telling  about 
the  wonders  vacationists  might  enjoy  in  the  redwood  coun- 
try. Tanned  couples  in  snappy,  stream-lined  roadsters  bear- 
ing out-of-state  license  plates  sped  past  us,  while  we  sped 
past  the  slowly  moving  stream  of  little  fellows  in  jalopies. 

"URIAH — gateway  to  the  redwoods."  The  gas  stations, 
houses,  cabins  and  souvenirs  became  redwood  gas  stations, 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  85 

redwood  houses,  redwood  cabins  and  redwood  souvenirs. 
We  passed  clearings,  where  trailers  were  parked.  We  drove 
reluctantly  by  a  camp  site,  where  a  young  girl  in  khaki 
breeches  waved  cheerfully,  inviting  us  to  stop. 

We  rode  up  the  "Avenue  of  Giants,"  those  tremendous 
oldsters  that  had  calmly  viewed  the  coming  of  the  first 
pioneers,  and  still  more  stolidly  watched  the  tourists  hurry 
through.  We  passed  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  grand- 
pappy  of  them  all — the  tree  through  which  a  car  could  be 
driven. 

"Let's  go,"  Helen  urged.  "It  won't  take  long.  It's  just  off 
the  road." 

"What  do  you  think  we  are — tourists?"  Mel  asked  scorn- 
fully. We  saw  and  heard  many  admonitions  for  the  care  of 
the  trees.  Roadside  warnings  and  forest  rangers  rebuked 
motorists  who  threw  live  cigarette  butts  out  of  car  windows. 
A  signboard  woodsman  on  the  wall  of  a  general  store  said 
to  a  young  boy,  "These  trees  are  yours.  Take  care  of  them." 
But  careless  motorists  or  campers  had  not  been  the  only  ones 
at  fault. 

Someone  or  something  had  depleted  our  forests,  cutting 
down  the  trees  indiscriminately  and  leaving  ugly  black 
stumps  for  tombstones.  The  lordly  trees  began  to  appear 
against  a  background  of  dark  smokestacks.  The  red  brick 
general  merchandise  store  in  Hopland  was  closed  and 
boarded  up,  but  a  bright  red  A.  &  P.  store  stood  across  the 
street.  The  answer  was  sharply  cut  into  every  scarred  tree 
and  barren  stump. 

"Monopolies,"  Joe  said.  "Remember  the  Midwest  ?  In  the 
heart  of  the  corn  and  wheat  belt,  the  price  of  bread  was  as 
high  as  it  is  out  here.  It's  crazy,  but  people  go  hungry  on 
their  own  farms.  Out  here,  it's  just  as  crazy.  Only  a  few 
people  own  the  land,  the  timberland.  So  they  rush  to  cut 


86  The  "Argonauts" 

down  the  trees  and  make  as  much  money  as  they  can.  It 
makes  me  sick." 

We  were  silent.  Was  the  answer  as  simple  as  all  that? 

The  tourist  traders,  too,  were  making  money  on  the  trees. 
Redwood  cabins  were  twice  as  high-priced  as  ordinary 
cabins.  We  stopped,  argued,  and  bargained  several  times 
before  Helen  finally  placed  her  stamp  of  approval  on  a  place 
of  lodging  for  the  night.  We  rented  one  large  cabin,  with 
two  double  beds  and  a  cot.  A  curtain  divided  the  room.  We 
really  didn't  want  to  stop  driving  at  all  that  night.  The  road 
curved  its  way  through  the  trees,  and  the  man-made  auto- 
mobiles seemed  to  be  tiny  shadows  in  the  reflection  of  their 
own  headlights.  The  trees  loomed  large,  walling  us  in.  We 
saw  more  stars  this  one  night  than  in  all  our  nights  in 
Brooklyn,  with  the  planetarium  and  its  made-to-order  stars 
thrown  in  for  good  measure.  But  danger  lurked  on  the  curv- 
ing roads,  and  we  stopped. 

We  carried  in  our  luggage.  We  didn't  talk.  At  first,  we 
tried  to  kid  each  other  about  the  beauty  of  this  night.  We 
joked  about  Jo,  Bob,  June,  Jerry  .  .  .  and  all  the  others  who 
might  have  been  with  us.  But  the  strain  was  too  much.  We 
gradually  became  quiet,  and  for  the  first  time  on  the  trip  we 
went  about  our  individual  tasks,  without  discussing  each 
move  the  other  made.  The  beds  were  made,  supper  pre- 
pared, dishes  washed,  and  then  we  wandered  out,  one  by 
one,  to  look  at  the  stars  and  feel  our  own  individual 
insignificance. 

"C'mon,  you  guys,"  called  the  ever-practical  Mel.  "We 
have  a  long  day  ahead  of  us  tomorrow.  Let's  get  to  bed." 


The  shore  of  the  Pacific  Ocean  broke  the  line  of  redwoods 
on  the  trail  to  Oregon.  Rough,  black  cliffs  resisted  the  hard 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  87 

waves.  Thin,  gnarled  trees  replaced  the  red  giants.  The 
road,  atop  the  cliffs,  twisted  along  the  shoreline. 

We  spent  the  day  driving  steadily,  wondering  at  the 
beauty  of  this  land.  Our  time-saving  devices  on  the  road 
were  in  singular  contrast  to  all  this  magnificence.  Helen 
made  cheese  sandwiches  in  the  car  while  we  drove,  and  we 
ate  them  and  drank  milk  from  the  community  bottle  with 
our  eyes  turned  out  the  windows.  Mel,  with  one  hand  hold- 
ing the  wheel,  the  other  holding  a  sandwich,  guided  the  car 
around  precarious  curves.  We  were  hungry  for  this  beauty, 
but  nothing  could  daunt  our  more  worldly  appetites.  We 
were  equally  hungry  for  cheese  sandwiches  and  milk. 

Early  in  the  evening  we  crossed  into  the  state  of  Oregon. 
We  searched  out  the  cheapest  tourist  cabins  in  Grants  Pass. 

Thomas  Ellington  Grey,  cabin  proprietor,  nearing  seventy, 
reminded  us  of  a  petrified  redwood.  A  farmer  by  birth,  he 
had  fought  the  earth  and  lost  twice.  The  first  time,  his  defeat 
did  not  break  him.  The  second  time,  he  opened  a  tourist 
camp.  He  peered  at  us  over  his  horn-rimmed  glasses. 

"This  here's  a  hundred  per  cent  American  town.  No  Jews, 
niggers,  Sikhs,  dagos,  or  Filipinos.  Grants  Pass  is  American" 

"How  did  they  vote  here  last  year?" 

"Republican.  Didn't  I  tell  you  there  were  no  Reds  here? 
The  trouble  with  the  rest  of  the  country  is  that  the  Jewish 
bankers  run  it."  He  spat.  "And  those  agitators  back  East. 
D'you  think  we  have  any  more  labor  trouble  around  here? 
Those  racketeers  used  to  send  Jewish  communists  up  to  the 
mills  to  make  the  workers  join  unions."  Mr.  Grey's  voice 
rose  with  the  thermometer  (now  registering  102).  "We 
wouldn't  have  none  of  it,  so  we  ran  them  out  of  town  on  a 
rail." 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  George  said.  "You  just  told  us  about 
the  bankers  being  the  Jews,  and  now  you  say  the  communists 


88  The  "Argonauts" 

are  the  Jews.  But  the  communists  are  always  attacking  the 
bankers.  It  sounds  funny  to  me." 

"Well,"  bulky  Mr.  Grey  declared,  hooking  his  thumbs 
around  his  suspenders,  "well,  that's  simple.  Don't  you  see 
these  Jews  have  an  international  organization  to  wipe  out 
the  white  men  ?  So  they  attack  from  both  sides." 

He  snorted  and  spat  again.  "Young  people  expect  too 
much  today,"  he  continued.  "There's  opportunity  aplenty 
for  them,  but  they  can't  see  it.  Too  many  of  them  want  to  be 
big  before  they  become  big  themselves." 

Two  young  fellows  walked  through  the  room  and  nodded 
sullenly. 

"Those  are  my  sons,"  he  said.  "Both  of  them  were  going 
to  the  University,  studying  law.  But  I  had  to  pull  them  out. 
There's  no  money  in  seventy-five-cent  cabins.  There  ain't  a 
decent  job  left  for  a  young  man  today." 

After  supper,  we  lethargically  waited  for  the  sun  to  dis- 
appear and  the  unbearable  heat  to  become  absorbed  by  the 
night.  Unexpectedly,  George  began  a  report  that  proved  to 
be  the  first  of  a  series  of  all-night  events. 

"We've  got  to  cut  down  on  expenses,"  he  began.  We 
nodded  mechanically  at  the  familiar  theme.  George,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  be  put  off  this  night.  "And  it  might  interest 
you  to  know" — he  paused  effectively,  until  we  all  paid  atten- 
tion— "to  know  that  we've  got  enough  money  left  now  to 
leave  us  stranded  in  Uvalde,  Texas!" 

"Oh,"  Helen  gasped. 

Joe  screwed  up  his  face  and  waved  an  arm  at  Lillian.  "You 
see?  Now  I'll  probably  never  see  my  family  again.  I  haven't 
written  to  them  for  a  whole  week.  You've  got  to  allot  me 
enough  for  an  airmail  letter.  I  insist  on  it." 

"Where's  Uvalde?"  Helen  asked  weakly. 

"It's  'Cactus  Jack'  Garner's  home  town,  right  in  the  middle 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  89 

of  Texas.  Now  do  you  know  why  I  vote  against  buying 
cigarettes?"  said  George. 

Disconsolate,  Joe  reached  for  the  cigarette  roller.  "I'm 
willing  to  smoke  these.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  have  to 
smoke  at  all.  I  only  started  because  you  all  smoked.  But  I've 
got  to  have  a  stamp  for  a  letter  home." 

"Here."  George  gave  him  the  stamp.  "Now  we  don't 
have  any  more  stamps  left." 

"Oh,  stop  worrying."  Lillian's  show  of  confidence  always 
aroused  skepticism,  and  this  note  of  nonchalance  in  the  midst 
of  a  realistic  plight  was  the  call  to  battle.  George  pulled  out 
his  little  brown  book  of  facts  and  figures. 

"Whaddya  mean,  stop  worrying?  We've  spent  over 
twenty  dollars  the  last  two  days.  I'm  the  one  that  has  to  keep 
the  accounts.  I  have  to  worry." 

Lillian  stretched  out  on  the  bed,  reached  for  one  of  the 
cigarettes  Joe  had  made. 

"Ah,  we're  pampered  paupers,"  she  said. 

Tempers  shortened.  Car  fever  all  day,  and  cabin  fever  at 
night  are  common  illnesses  among  fellow-travelers.  The 
fever  reaches  its  pitch  when  five  people  who  have  looked  at 
each  other  for  ten  hours  in  a  crowded  car,  start  looking  at 
each  other  again  in  a  hot  little  cabin  with  flies,  mosquitoes 
and  miscellaneous  bugs  for  company. 

"Yeh,  we're  pampered,  all  right,"  Joe  said,  pacing  up  and 
down,  "and  I  want  to  get  home.  George  is  right  when  he  says 
we  ought  to  save  money." 

"Everytime  we  have  to  eat  lunch,"  George  continued, 
raising  his  voice  as  a  result  of  this  new-found  support,  "Helen 
says,  'We  ought  to  have  a  good,  hot-cooked  meal.'  Every 
time  we  run  out  of  cigarettes,  Lillian  says,  I've  got  to  have  a 
cigarette.'  It  can't  go  on.  It's  got  to  stop." 

"Well  we've  got  to  have  the  right  sort  of  food.   I  don't 


90  The  "Argonauts" 

mind  cooking,  but  we  don't  have  the  facilities  to  cook  a  good 
hot  meal,"  the  Food  and  Lodging  Department  spoke  up  in 
soft  self-defense. 

"But  didn't  you  hear  what  George  said?  We've  just  got 
to  cut  down  on  expenses,"  Mel  offered  from  the  corner. 

"No  more  cigarettes,"  George  said.  Then  he  added, 
hastily,  "Of  course,  that's  only  my  opinion.  Let's  take  a  vote." 

Lillian  puffed  calmly,  deliberately  angering  the  others. 
"Where  is  your  spirit  of  adventure  ?  Suppose  we  do  run  out 
of  money  ?  So  what  ? " 

"Look  at  her  laying  there  .  .  ."  Joe  began. 

"Lying  here,"  Lillian  interrupted.  "Suppose  we  do  run 
out  of  money  ?  Look  at  us.  We  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  our- 
selves. We've  got  a  car,  a  good  car.  We  know  newspaper 
people  in  all  the  large  cities.  Why  can't  we  have  more  adven- 
ture on  this  trip?" 

"Adventure!"  George  was  scornfully  realistic.  "Adven- 
ture is  okay  for  Richard  Harding  Davis.  Not  for  me." 

"Suppose  we  do  run  out  of  money,"  Lillian  persisted. 
"Why  can't  we  go  to  work,  washing  dishes  in  order  to  eat 
from  city  to  city  ?  Look  at  all  the  kids  on  the  road  who  have 
to  live  by  picking  up  work  wherever  they  can.  And  we're 
worrying!  We  can  always  write  a  little  piece  for  a  local 
paper  and  pick  up  enough  money  to  move  on." 

"There  she  goes,  placing  us  on  the  defensive,"  Joe  said 
wildly.  "It's  some  technique.  You're  supposed  to  be  on  the 
defensive." 

"I  want  to  know  one  thing.  We're  spending  too  much 
money.  Are  we  going  to  cut  down,  or  aren't  we?"  George 
sat  down,  exasperated. 

Lillian  sat  up.  "We're  supposed  to  be  writing  a  book.  We 
promised  to  send  rough  drafts  of  the  first  few  chapters  back 
to  the  publisher.  If  the  publisher  likes  them,  we'll  get 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  91 

another  fifty  dollars.  So  let's  finish  them  off  tonight  and  send 
them  East." 

"Suppose  he  doesn't  like  them?" 

"Then  we  don't  get  any  money!" 

"Adventure!"  Joe  mocked.  "How  about  the  adventure?" 

"Let's  get  to  work,"  Helen  laughed,  her  eyes  crinkling  in 
the  corners. 

"We'll  stay  up  all  night,"  Lillian  said. 

"I'll  draw  up  a  financial  report,  showing  how  we  spent  the 
money  and  asking  for  more,"  George  said.  "But  we've  got  to 
cut  down  anyhow." 

"If  we're  going  to  stay  up  all  night,  we'll  need  cigarettes," 
Mel  said.  "I  move  we  appropriate  ten  cents  for  a  pack, 
just  for  tonight." 

George  began  to  object. 

"We've  got  to  stay  awake  to  get  out  the  stuff,"  Lillian 
reminded. 

We  settled  down  to  work.  Night  came,  and  silence  spread 
over  the  tourist  camp.  The  two  typewriters  clattered  to  the 
rhythm  of  perking  coffee.  We  wondered  if  the  steady  beat 
in  the  little  cabin  would  awaken  Thomas  Ellington  Grey. 
We  drank  coffee  and  smoked  the  ten-cent  cigarettes,  as  we 
pounded  out  our  story.  Mel  was  the  first  to  doze  off  after 
his  four-hundred-mile  day. 

George  retired  to  the  next  cabin,  put  his  education  in 
accounting  and  business  to  practical  application,  and  drew 
up  a  financial  report. 

For  the  twenty-five-day  period,  ending  this  night  of 
August  8,  1939  [the  report  began],  despite  penny-pinch- 
ing and  nickel-squeezing  by  the  controller,  and  despite 
acceptance  of  every  offer  for  free  food  and  lodging,  the 
financial  condition  of  the  Argonauts  is  pretty  bad. 


92  The  "Argonauts" 

To  date,  we  have  spent  the  sum  of  $213.87.  .  .  .  The 
average  cost  per  person  for  the  entire  twenty-five  days 
has  been  $42.77.  Broken  down,  this  figure  reveals  that 
each  person  has  spent  $.51  a  day  for  food,  $.26  for  lodg- 
ing, $.56  for  the  car,  and  $.38  for  miscellaneous  items. 
The  group  spent  only  $3.50  for  beer  and  candy,  most  of 
that  sum  being  spent  in  the  process  of  gathering  informa- 
tion. .  .  . 

Excluding  conditioning,  tolls,  parking  fees  and  flat 
tires,  the  car  expenses  amounted  to  only  $43.06  for  3,840 
miles  into  San  Francisco,  an  average  of  1.14  cents  per 
mile.  The  other  items  boosted  the  average  to  1.5  cents 
per  mile. 

While  the  financial  state  of  the  Argonauts  is  bad,  their 
less  mundane  assets  force  me  to  recommend  them  as  a 
good  investment. 

Respectfully  submitted, 

GEORGE  WHITMAN 
Financial  Department. 

More  coffee  and  backaches.  George  and  Helen  soon 
drooped  and  dropped  by  the  wayside.  Joe  and  Lillian  kept 
at  the  keys. 

Dawn  and  yawns.  Joe  and  Lillian  out-boasted  each  other 
about  how  tired  each  was  not.  They  finished  the  copy  and, 
with  a  flourish,  typed  out  envelopes  for  the  material.  Lillian 
woke  Mel  at  seven. 

"Let's  get  an  early  start,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  take  a 
shower." 

She  hurried  off  to  the  shower  room,  and  twenty  minutes 
later  returned  to  find  Joe  wrapped  in  bed  covers,  sound 
asleep.  She  woke  him  with  ruthless  glee.  At  eight  o'clock, 
we  stopped  in  a  "cafe"  for  breakfast. 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  93 

The  waitress  told  us  about  the  "Cavemen,"  a  secret  society 
whose  members  grew  beards  and  went  around  in  bear  skins. 
Each  year  the  Cavemen  had  a  large  feast  o£  raw  meat. 

"Raw  meat?"  George  groaned.  He  decided  to  shave  off 
his  beard. 

The  waitress  nodded  and  continued.  "The  Cavemen  are 
also  the  town's  Chamber  of  Commerce.  They  put  on  their 
skins,  grab  clubs  and  hold  up  railroad  trains.  They  carry  off 
half-nude  young  women  to  the  feast.  They  ride  all  the  union 
agitators  out  of  town  on  a  rail." 

We  left  Grants  Pass  in  a  hurry.  A  gray  mist  settled  over 
the  old  Lewis  and  Clarke  trail.  The  odor  of  burning  wood 
told  us  of  the  near-by  Dutch  Canyon  forest  fire.  Combined 
with  the  heat,  it  made  breathing  hard.  Then  we  came  into 
cleanly  designed  farmland.  Small  plots  of  growing  wheat, 
oats  and  corn  lined  the  highway.  Rainbow  beds  of  flowers 
brightened  the  earth. 

Oregon  had  a  population  of  983,786.  "Enough  to  stick  in 
Flatbush  and  have  room  for  more,"  said  George. 

"It's  crazy,  simply  crazy."  Joe  shook  his  head.  "All  those 
people  crowding  the  tenements  in  New  York,  Chicago  and 
other  cities.  And  all  this  land  going  to  waste." 


Eugene,  Oregon,  was  a  college  town,  unlike  any  other  we 
had  visited.  The  university  was  its  main  support,  but  its 
streets  seemed  to  be  peopled  with  the  western  "cowboys"  of 
the  movies.  We  entered  a  small  lunch  shop  on  a  side  street 
and  sat  down  at  the  counter,  next  to  heavy  men  in  overalls 
and  high  boots.  We  glanced  at  the  menu.  T-bone  steak 
dinner — 25  cents.  Because  we  thought  we  were  dreaming, 
we  asked  the  proprietor  how  he  managed  to  serve  such  large 
dinners  for  such  low  prices. 


94  The  "Argonauts" 

"Competition."  He  smiled  bitterly. 

As  we  strolled  down  the  street  after  lunch,  a  man  with  a 
microphone  was  sounding  out  public  opinion  on  a  corner. 
He  was  selling  the  best  soap  in  all  the  world,  and  because 
people  in  the  street  listened  to  him  tell  about  this  wonderful 
soap,  he  gave  them  the  opportunity  to  say  what  they  thought 
about  a  list  of  questions  in  his  hand. 

We  edged  up  to  the  circle  of  folks  waiting  to  go  on  the 
radio.  Does  Eugene  need  a  public  swimming  pool?  Well, 
sure,  everybody  knows  we  need  a  pool.  Keep  kids  of!  the 
street.  Give  people  work  to  build  it.  It'd  be  a  relief,  too,  on 
darn  hot  days  like  these.  But,  the  announcer  says  playfully, 
taxes  would  have  to  pay  for  it.  Nothing  but  right,  public 
opinion  comes  back  at  him,  them  as  can  pay  for  it  should  pay. 
Rich  folks  should  pay  more  taxes  than  poor  folks  for  the 
swimming  pool. 

A  question  is  put  to  a  small,  dry  man  wearing  a  white  suit. 
Should  Harry  Bridges,  the  CIO  leader,  be  deported?  He's 
not  a  citizen,  you  know.  That  requires  thought. 

"Wa-a-al,  I'll  tell  ya,  mister,"  the  small  man  answers 
slowly,  "lots  of  people  get  excited  about  other  people  they 
call  'furriners'  or  'agitators.'  Now  don't  mistake  me,  mister, 
I'm  not  a  radical.  I  don't  know  whether  Bridges  is  a  com- 
munist or  not,  but  whatever  a  man  thinks,  he's  got  a  right  to 
say  it  in  this  country.  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  make  him 
get  out." 

All  right,  all  right,  sir,  thank  you  very  much,  and  don't 
forget  that  wonder  soap. 

Next  question.  Will  there  be  a  war  ? 

"Yes,"  a  young  woman  with  a  sharply  pointed  nose  says. 
"Yes,  there'll  be  a  war  over  in  Europe,  and  I  hope  we  stay 
out  of  it." 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke 


95 


We  sped  north,  hoping  to  make  Portland  by  nightfall. 
A  worn  and  faded  sign  near  the  roadside  startled  us — BRING 

PROSPERITY    BACK    WITH    THE    TOWNSEND    PLAN.     We    learned 

that  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Townsend  had  passed  out 
of  the  national  picture,  a  new  and  vigorous  old-age-pen- 
sion movement  had  arisen.  That's  the  way  the  things  were. 
Individuals  arose  to  bring  ideas  and  movements  to  the 
people,  but  when  they  no  longer  served  the  needs  of  the 
people,  they  were  forgotten.  New  movements  arose  with 
new  leaders.  Only  the  red  earth  of  the  region,  and  the  tall 
thick  trees,  remained  unchanged.  And  even  these  were  con- 
trolled by  men. 

Out  of  the  tall  trees  and  numerous  gas  stations,  Portland 
came  into  view  on  the  trail  of  huge  Bonneville  power  lines. 
Its  tall  smokestacks  seemed  to  compete  with  the  forest  fires 
raging  about  twenty-five  miles  away.  We  rented  cabins  and 
decided  to  go  swimming  in  the  Columbia  River. 


CAUTION 

Deep  Holes 

Swim  at  Your  Own 


RISK 


We  stopped  the  car  and  asked  a  chubby  blond  kid  on  a 
bicycle  about  the  sign. 

"Naw,  it's  not  dangerous." 

We  prepared  to  drive  on. 

"A  coupla  people  drowned  there  lately,"  the  youngster 
added  as  an  afterthought. 


96  The  "Argonauts" 

We  didn't  care.  We  swam  recklessly  over  the  deep  holes, 
glorying  in  the  coldness  of  the  water.  Our  dispositions  im- 
proved. We  returned  to  the  tourist  camp  to  upset  the  whole 
routine  of  the  other  guests.  We  sang  loudly  in  the  shower 
rooms.  We  appropriated  five  wash  tubs  in  the  laundry  room 
and  soaked  and  scrubbed  socks  and  blouses.  Joe  and  George 
shaved  off  the  uneven  soft  growth  under  their  chins.  Only 
Mel,  who  could  boast  of  a  real  black  bristle,  continued  to 
pose  as  a  wild  he-man.  Helen  opened  six  cans,  and  we  had  a 
feast.  We  emerged  clean  and  shining  in  freshly  pressed 
clothes.  We  were  tired  but  cheerful. 

We  headed  straight  for  the  Oregonian,  Portland  news- 
paper. "Go  to  city  rooms,"  Jay  Franklin  had  advised.  "Visit 
newspapers  for  leads  to  information."  In  the  Oregonian's 
city  room,  Fred  Colvey  rested  his  large  brown-topped  head 
and  forearms  on  his  typewriter. 

"Say,  there's  one  guy  you  ought  to  see,"  he  said.  "He's  an 
Indian,  Chief  Red  Cloud  of  the  Kickawa  tribe.  Came  in  here 
today  and  said  in  three  years  the  30,000,000  Indians  in  North 
America  are  going  to  throw  out  the  white  men.  He  thinks 
Hitler  has  done  a  lot  of  good  by  popularizing  the  swastika 
and  the  upraised  hand.  Right  now  he's  suing  the  govern- 
ment over  some  land  which  he  says  they  confiscated  up  at 
Grand  Coulee.  He  claims  they  violated  the  treaty  of  1850.*' 

Chief  Red  Cloud,  we  learned,  was  E.  A.  Towner,  a  member 
of  the  Oregon  bar  and  a  half-breed  Siletz  who  calls  himself 
"a  genuine  Indian."  According  to  his  legend,  thousands  of 
years  ago  Wantatonka,  the  Great  Spirit,  warned  the  Indians 
against  an  evil  race,  the  "Chulthnaugen"  or  Jews. 

"Some  day,"  according  to  the  Chief's  story,  "there  will  be 
a  great  conflict  of  philosophies  in  this  world.  On  one  side 
will  be  the  Indians  and  Germans,  while  on  the  other  side 
will  be  the  Jews  and  their  friends.  Wantatonka  sent  over  into 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  97 

the  body  of  Der  Fuehrer  the  soul  of  a  great  Indian  medicine 
man.  That  is  why  Adolf  Hitler's  government  is  established 
on  an  Indian  model  and  according  to  Indian  principles." 

"He's  some  character,"  Colvey  said. 

"Do  people  fall  for  that  stuff?" 

"Sometimes,"  the  young  reporter  smiled.  "Towner  goes 
from  reservation  to  reservation,  making  speeches.  But  most 
Indians  don't  think  much  of  him.  The  two  tribal  councils 
in  Oregon,  the  Warm  Springs  and  the  Grande  Ronde-Siletz, 
have  passed  resolutions  lambasting  his  activities." 

"How  do  people  in  the  state  react  to  movements  like 
those?"  we  asked.  Colvey  grinned  again.  "Maybe  you  ought 
to  ask  them,  but  if  you  want  an  objective  newspaperman's 
opinion,  I'll  tell  you  about  the  anti-picketing  law  passed  by 
the  people  in  an  initiative  movement  recently.  You  know 
what  that  is?  Labor  loses  its  right  to  picket.  It's  pretty 
vicious,  and  now  it's  being  copied  in  other  states.  The  CIO 
was  able  to  beat  it  in  Washington  and  California.  But  it 
passed  here." 

4 

"Going  to  Seattle?"  we  had  been  asked. 

"Uh-huh." 

"Look  up  Howard  Costigan.  He's  the  Executive  Secretary 
of  the  Washington  Commonwealth  Federation.  Don't  miss 
him." 

Costigan  and  the  city  of  Seattle — a  real  he-man  leader  of 
the  great  Northwest,  and  a  city  of  the  pioneers  remote  from 
Eastern  cosmopolitanism.  Our  imaginations  worked  over- 
time. 

Seattle  had  chain  stores,  tall  buildings  and  telephone 
booths!  We  scoffed  at  our  own  naivete  and  resigned  our- 


98  The  "Argonauts" 

selves  to  the  fact  that  all  American  cities  look  alike.  We 
called  Howard  Costigan. 

"C'mon  over,"  he  said.  "No,  wait  a  minute,  you'd  better 
meet  me  at  the  broadcasting  studio.  I  go  on  the  air  at  4 145." 

We  shook  hands  at  4:42  (Helen  had  phoned  relatives  in 
the  interim  and  made  arrangements  for  dinner),  and  sat 
down  in  the  studio  to  listen  to  the  broadcast.  A  Western 
double  for  Orson  Welles,  large  and  talkative,  he  seemed  to 
look  straight  through  us  with  his  sharp  little  eyes.  Then  he 
turned  to  watch  the  large  clock.  He  had  another  minute 
before  going  on  the  air. 

We  listened  to  the  broadcast  and  thereafter  listened  for 
four  straight  days — and  nights!  We  learned  about  the  Wash- 
ington Commonwealth  Federation,  and  as  Howard  Cos- 
tigan, its  Executive  Secretary,  talked  about  it,  we  forgot  to 
keep  track  of  time. 

We  sat  around  the  microphone  as  he  began  to  broadcast. 

".  .  .  Without  any  conceivable  justification,  and  with 
alarming  danger  to  the  life  of  democracy  itself,  America's 
privileged  families  and  their  Congressional  henchmen  wiped 
out  the  three-billion-dollar  program  of  highways,  hospitals 
and  housing  which  would  have  stimulated  production  and 
provided,  directly  and  indirectly,  employment  for  at  least 
two  million  breadwinners." 

We  told  Costigan  we  were  from  the  East. 

"We're  trying  to  win  the  West  back  for  the  Westerners," 
he  said. 

Maybe  he  thought  we  were  Wall  Street  emissaries.  So  we 
told  him  about  buying  our  slinky  car  on  the  installment  plan, 
cooking  cereal  on  our  portable  gasoline  stove,  doling  out 
cigarettes,  and  not  having  any  jobs.  He  took  the  steely  look 
reserved  for  Associated  Farmers  and  the  Congressmen  who 
had  voted  the  cuts  in  WPA  out  of  his  eye.  He  talked.  He 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  99 

made  us  open  our  mouths  and  keep  silent.  Have  you  ever 
read  Thomas  Wolfe?  That  was  Costigan — with  one  im- 
portant difference.  The  flow  of  powerful,  colorful,  streaming 
language  had  political  direction  and  purpose — the  achieve- 
ment of  security,  i.e.,  "shoes  and  sheets  and  shirts,"  for  the 
people.  "Democracy  must  feed  the  people's  stomachs,  before 
fascism  empties  their  heads,"  he  said. 

So  he  was  a  colorful,  effective  "people's  politician."  What 
were  we  getting  so  excited  about  ?  He  was  not  the  only  one. 
No,  but  there  was  only  one  Washington  Commonwealth 
Federation.  Every  word  in  the  preamble  to  its  platform 
meant  something  to  us. 

"The  people  of  the  United  States  have  a  proud  heritage 
of  democracy  and  an  undying  hope  for  social  justice  and 
economic  well-being.  Today,  powerful  and  sinister  forces 
living  by  special  privilege  threaten  this  American 
heritage.  .  .  ." 

The  program:  Social  Security.  Keeping  America  out  of 
war.  Public  ownership  of  natural  resources  and  public  utili- 
ties. Civil  rights  for  all  social,  racial,  religious  and  economic 
groups.  Union  standards  of  wages  for  labor.  Guarantees  to 
the  farmer.  Public  housing.  Public  health  protection  and 
free  medical  services.  Protection  of  the  consumer  from 
monopoly  prices.  More  adequate  educational  opportunities. 
Opportunities  for  youth.  Taxation  according  to  the  ability 
to  pay. 

Radical?  Impossible?  Foreign?  Well, Howard Costigan's 
father  had  the  first  drugstore  in  the  city  of  Seattle.  His 
grandfather  founded  the  first  shingle  mill.  So  they  can't 
tell  him  to  take  the  platform  and  go  back  where  he  came 
from.  If  they  do  tell  him  that,  Howard  Costigan  takes  that 
platform  to  the  people  of  the  Northwest.  It  is  theirs.  We 
saw  the  people  who  work  day  and  night  to  make  the  WCF 


100  The  "Argonauts" 

even  stronger  and  larger  than  it  is.  We  talked  to  the  lumber 
workers,  young  folks,  old  folks,  housewives,  the  unemployed, 
and  the  college  professors.  They  want  that  platform. 

After  the  radio  broadcast,  we  went  over  to  the  WCF 
offices  with  Costigan.  We  trailed  after  him,  down  a  narrow 
corridor.  As  we  entered  Costigan's  office,  a  slim,  blonde  girl 
handed  us  a  paper  bag  filled  with  buttons.  "Defend  Harry 
Bridges"  buttons,  she  explained.  "Here,  take  them,  I'm  going 
out  now.  Sell  them  to  your  friends.  Return  the  money  here. 
G'by."  We  said  thanks  and,  holding  the  buttons  uncer- 
tainly, settled  ourselves  on  the  desk  and  chairs  in  the  crowded 
office. 

"Some  young  folks  from  New  York.  They're  writing  a 
book,"  Costigan  explained  to  a  slim  man  wearing  a  checkered 
sweater  and  smoking  a  pipe.  "This  is  Terry  Pettus,  the 
editor  of  the  New  Dealer'' 

"Howdyado.  Glad  to  know  all  of  you."  Pettus  shook 
hands  and  grinned  without  removing  his  pipe. 

"Writers,  huh?  Do  a  story  for  our  next  issue?" 

"Sure." 

"Tell  about  your  impressions  of  the  Northwest.  Can't  pay 
you,"  he  warned.  "I'll  give  you  a  subscription  to  the  New 
Dealer  instead.  No  money,  you  know." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  to  know?"  Costigan  looked 
quickly  at  each  of  us.  "I've  got  a  meeting  in  a  few  minutes. 
We'll  start  now  and  make  an  appointment  to  see  each  other 
again." 

We  started.  We  wanted  to  know  what  the  WCF  was 
doing.  Why  was  it  organized?  Who  belonged?  How  did 
you  join?  Why  was  it  so  hot  in  Seattle?  Were  young 
people  and  students  in  the  WCF  ? 

What  was  the  Washington  Commonwealth  Federation 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  101 

doing?  He  answered  that  by  telling  us  about  what  it  had 
done  already — its  record.  They  had  rallied  all  the  people  in 
the  state  to  beat  back  the  anti-picketing  law.  The  WCF  was 
one  effective  medium  through  which  250,000  members  and 
thousands  of  other  followers  combated  reaction  in  all  guises. 
They  prepared  for  elections  (and  he  meant  prepared) 
through  efficient  pre-primary  activity,  in  order  to  win 
Democratic  Party  nominations  for  progressives.  Real  labor 
unity  had  been  established  in  Seattle,  because  the  rank-and- 
file  union  members  who  belonged  to  the  WCF  or  supported 
its  program  were  strong  enough  to  come  together  despite 
the  efforts  of  some  leaders  to  keep  them  apart. 

The  WCF  represented  the  members  of  affiliated  trade 
unions,  political  and  peace  groups,  old-age-pension  unions, 
Workers'  Alliance  and  farm  organizations,  and  it  enabled 
these  people  to  make  themselves  heard  on  Election  Day  par- 
ticularly, and  all  year  round  generally.  Not  only  members 
of  organizations  belonged  to  the  WCF.  Individual  member- 
ships were  available,  too,  but  it  didn't  take  long  for  a  WCF 
member  to  find  himself  an  organization.  The  WCF  is  life 
itself  in  Washington.  We  were  to  hear  much  of  it. 

5 

Twelve  years  before,  in  Syracuse,  Uncle  Gabe  got  a  notion 
he  wanted  to  live  where  the  air  was  clear,  and  he  upped  and 
sold  his  coal  company.  Lillian  and  Helen  had  not  seen  him 
since. 

"Too  many  people  around  here,"  he  had  claimed,  and 
that  was  all.  Aunt  Bertha  and  the  numerous  cousins  had 
objected.  They  liked  Syracuse. 

"You  don't  have  to  come  with  me,"  he  told  them. 

He  packed  his  own  belongings  and  settled  in  Seattle.  Aunt 


102  The  "Argonauts" 

Bertha  and  some  of  the  cousins  followed.  There  Lillian  and 
Helen  found  them,  in  the  backyard  of  their  small  house, 
waiting  for  the  five  Argonauts  to  come  and  eat  a  kettle-full 
of  lamb  chops.  Aunt  Bertha  bustled  about,  trying  to  make 
us  eat  more  than  we  wanted  to  eat.  Uncle  Gabe  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  long  table  outdoors  ("It's  too  hot  to  eat  in  the 
stuffy  dining  room"),  puffed  on  his  pipe  and  looked  us  over 
carefully.  He  was  seventy  years  old  and  bright  as  ever. 
Cousin  Ray,  the  youngest  and  a  senior  at  the  University  of 
Washington,  sat  on  the  side  lines,  somewhat  hostile  to  the 
five  "smart-alecks"  who  acted  as  if  they  owned  the  country. 

"So  you're  writing  a  book,"  Uncle  Gabe  began.  "What's 
it  going  to  say?" 

"Let  them  eat.  They  haven't  eaten  since  they  left  home. 
Talk  later."  Aunt  Bertha  was  an  understanding,  practical 
and  firm  woman. 

We  finished  the  lamb  chops  and  started  on  succulent  slices 
of  watermelon. 

"What  kind  of  book  are  you  writing?"  Uncle  Gabe  again 
ventured. 

"Gabe,  wait.  They're  starved.  Can't  you  see?  Save  the 
talk  for  after  dinner.  The  poor  things,  they're  starved." 
Aunt  Bertha  had  enjoyed  a  reputation  in  Syracuse  for  being 
the  best  cook  and  dinner-party-giver  in  the  city. 

Uncle  Gabe  long  ago  had  learned  how  to  be  a  patient  man. 
He  waited.  Coffee  and  cake  were  served. 

"All  right,  now  tell  me.  .  .  ." 

"Gabe." 

"They're  only  drinking  cofTee!  Let  them  tell  me  about 
the  book.  How  often  do  I  have  the  chance  to  talk  to  five 
authors?  They're  writing  a  book!" 

"Book  or  no  book.  They've  got  to  eat  first.  Even  if  you're 
writing  a  book,  you've  got  to  eat." 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  103 

We  ate.  Finally,  we  told  Uncle  Gabe  we  were  writing  a 
book  about  America. 

"What  are  you  saying  about  America?" 

"Oh,  everything  .  .  ."  we  answered  with  the  recently 
acquired  vagueness  of  authors  reluctant  to  give  details  of 
their  own  work. 

"What's  everything?"  Uncle  Gabe  persisted. 

"Everything  we  see,  hear,  do,  and  feel  about  the  country. 
Everything  that's  important  to  us." 

"All  right.  Be  honest  in  what  you  say.  That's  all  that 
matters." 

That's  all  that  mattered  in  Uncle  Gabe's  life.  He  had 
devoted  most  of  his  seventy  years  to  studying  and  reading 
and  discussing — in  an  effort  to  "be  honest."  He  called  him- 
self a  "socialist,"  but  he  was  not  a  member  of  any  political 
party.  He  had  read  Karl  Marx  in  the  original  German  in  his 
native  country,  and  he  had  come  to  Syracuse  to  shock  people 
with  the  idea  that  a  man  should  receive  the  full  value  of  his 
labor  on  pay  day.  He  relied  on  argument  to  bring  out  the 
truth,  and  then  he  expected  all  men  to  "be  honest"  and 
do  the  right  thing.  His  idealism  made  us  feel  uncomforta- 
ble, and  we  could  not  help  comparing  him  with  a  practical 
realist  like  Howard  Costigan. 

"I'm  willing  to  learn,"  he  told  us,  when  the  arguments 
started.  "Prove  that  I'm  wrong."  He  took  the  pipe  out  of 
his  mouth  and  pointed  it  at  us.  "But  there's  only  one  thing  I 
ask.  Stick  to  facts,  that's  all." 

We  debated  with  him  for  almost  a  week.  Ray  sat  by  and 
listened,  saying  little.  Uncle  Gabe  came  to  the  union  meet- 
ings and  picnics  we  attended,  hiding  in  out-of-the-way 
corners,  until  we  were  ready  to  go  home.  Then  he  would 
tell  us  what  he  thought. 


104  The  "Argonauts" 

"So  they  want  security.  Suppose  they  get  their  pensions. 
What  will  it  mean?  No,  you  have  to  change  everything, 
the  whole  system,  not  one  or  two  or  ten  little  things." 

One  night  Mike  was  with  us.  Mike,  a  longshoreman, 
had  been  a  "Wobbly" — a  member  of  the  Industrial  Work- 
ers of  the  World.  He  had  worked  in  every  large  harbor  in 
the  United  States,  and  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  refuse  to 
cross  a  picket  line  at  the  harbor  where  a  Japanese  ship  lay 
waiting  to  be  loaded  with  scrap  iron.  The  picket  line  had 
been  called  by  the  American  League  for  Peace  and  Democ- 
racy. Hundreds  of  longshoremen  refused  to  load  the  ship 
because,  as  union  members,  they  "could  not  cross  a  picket 
line." 

Mike  and  Uncle  Gabe  did  battle  while  we  refereed.  We 
had  learned  something  about  the  IWW — the  "Wobblies" — 
in  our  American  history  classes;  not  much,  but  something. 
We  had  never  met  one  until  now.  We  had  memorized  the 
following:  "The  IWW  had  been  militant  and  revolu- 
tionary but  anarchistic  and  ineffective."  We  wondered 
about  ex- Wobbly  Mike. 

"You  have  to  change  the  whole  system."  Uncle  Gabe  sat 
back  stoically,  smoking  his  pipe.  "You  can't  put  a  little 
patch  here  and  there  on  the  capitalist  system." 

"Why  don't  you  come  down  to  a  meeting  of  my  union 
and  tell  that  to  the  boys?"  Mike  proposed  softly. 

"Because  I'm  retired.  I  don't  make  speeches  any  more." 
Uncle  Gabe  spoke  heavily,  in  a  deep  accent.  "If  I  made 
speeches,  I'd  educate  the  people  for  socialism.  You're 
wrong.  Either  you  must  have  capitalism  or  socialism. 
There's  no  in-between." 

"Ain't  longshoremen  good  enough  for  socialism?"  Mike 
grinned.  Then  his  tanned  face  grew  serious  and  he  scratched 
his  head. 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  105 

"Maybe  I  agree  with  you.  Socialism  is  a  good  thing.  But 
how  are  you  going  to  get  it?" 

"I  believe  that  you  can  explain  to  the  people  what  social- 
ism means.  That's  enough.  They'll  see  that  it's  right.  That's 
all  you  have  to  do." 

Mike  lit  a  cigarette.  We  waited  silently  for  him  to  an- 
swer. 

"Tell  that  to  my  boys.  You  know  what  they'll  say?" 

"No." 

"They'll  say  you're  nuts.  You  can't  come  to  a  union 
meeting  and  start  talking  fancy  language.  The  boys  aren't 
interested  in  mere  words.  Sure  they  want  to  learn,  but 
they're  fighting  like  the  devil  for  higher  wages,  for  labor 
unity,  for  protection  of  the  right  to  strike.  They're  fighting 
to  keep  out  of  war." 

Uncle  Gabe  was  oflended.  He  had  read  Goethe,  Heine, 
Engels,  Marx  and  Schopenhauer.  All  his  life  he  had 
searched  for  the  truth. 

"All  right,  what  do  you  have  to  do  then?"  he  asked. 

"Get  the  people  organized,  the  workers  in  the  trade 
unions,  the  young  ones  in  youth  organizations,  the  old  in 
old-age-pension  unions,  the  little  businessmen  against  the 
big  monopolies.  Get  them  organized  and  fighting.  Get 
them  working  with  each  other  in  political  federations  like 
the  Washington  Commonwealth  Federation.  You  can't 
talk  so  much  in  days  like  these.  You've  got  to  do  more." 

Uncle  Gabe  smiled.  "Maybe  I'm  too  old.  I'm  an  old  man, 
living  with  books  too  much.  Maybe  talking  is  easier  than 
fighting." 

We  didn't  know  what  to  say.  Helen  finally  suggested 
that  we  go  home  and  get  some  sleep. 


106  The  "Argonauts" 


THEY   COVER  THE    UNITED   STATES    J 
CITY    EDITOR,    STAFF    TAKE    TO    ROAD 

Back  Seat  of  Car  Editorial  Room 
For  5  Writing  Book 

"  'But/  observed  one  of  the  group,  'the  chapter  dealing 
with  the  Northwest  will  be  the  meatiest  of  them  all.  .  .  .' " 

Slim  Lynch,  one  of  the  Seattle  Newspaper  Guild  dele- 
gates to  the  Convention,  took  our  picture  for  this  Post- 
Intelligencer  story.  A  Guild  member  wrote  the  article.  Bob 
Camozzi,  ANG  officer,  in  whose  house  we  slept  one  night, 
supervised  the  circulation  of  the  paper — with  that  story  in 
it.  We  had  still  another  reason  for  our  great  interest  in  the 
Seattle  Post-Intelligencer.  That  reason  was  Anna  Roosevelt 
Boettiger,  tall  blonde  associate  editor.  We  trooped  into  her 
tiny  office.  She  greatly  resembled  her  mother,  the  First 
Lady  of  the  Land.  All  the  Newspaper  Guild  members  on 
her  own  paper  and  union  men  throughout  the  city  stood  by 
her.  We  understood  why  when  she  began  to  speak. 

"It's  the  hardest  thing  for  people  in  the  East  to  realize 
that  we  in  the  West  don't  vote  for  a  political  party.  The 
people  out  here  have  never  been  interested  in  the  name  of  a 
party.  It's  the  issues  that  count." 

We  asked  about  those  issues. 

"The  Wages  and  Hours  law  is  bogging  down,"  she  said, 
"because  there  is  no  one  to  enforce  it.  The  same  is  true  of 
WPA.  The  Washington  Commonwealth  Federation  has 
done  one  of  the  few  good  organizational  political  jobs  in 
seeing  that  these  issues  are  not  dissipated." 

Unionism  ? 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  107 

"I  believe  one  hundred  per  cent  in  organization.  The 
Guild  is  preventing  a  lot  of  sweating  and,  with  proper  ad- 
justment, will  certainly  improve  reporting  standards.  How- 
ever, there  is  still  much  to  be  done  among  other  workers. 
Take  the  cannery  workers,  for  instance;  95  per  cent  of 
mothers  working  in  the  canneries  are  separated  from  their 
husbands  or  have  fatherless  children.  The  children  are 
tied  to  a  post  until  the  mothers  get  home  from  work. 
Something  must  be  done  for  these  people,  not  only  to  bet- 
ter their  working  conditions,  but  to  prevent  juvenile  delin- 
quency. We  must  build  more  playgrounds  and  nurseries." 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "Seattle  could  be  a  very  lively  city. 
But  you  have  a  bunch  of  reactionaries — people  who  made 
millions  in  lumber  three  generations  ago — now  sitting 
around  in  their  clubs,  saying,  'You  can't  do  anything  about 
the  country.  It's  going  to  the  dogs.  Wait  until  the  Repub- 
licans come  into  power.' " 

After  we  had  returned  to  New  York  City,  we  received 
a  letter  from  Anna  Roosevelt  Boettiger.  "...  I  am  glad 
that  you  have  chosen  'peace  and  the  opportunity  to  live 
decently  and  happily'  as  the  theme  for  your  book,  and  am 
particularly  delighted  that  after  seeing  so  much  of  this 
country  and  so  many  of  its  people  you  seem  to  have  such  a 
strong  feeling  of  optimism  and  the  worth whileness  of  work- 
ing for  these  things.  I  hope  your  book  will  have  a  wide 
circulation,  particularly  among  young  people,  as  there  are 
so  many  today  who  have  been  discouraged,  and  who,  in 
order  to  succeed  in  the  long  run,  must  keep  an  optimistic 
vision  for  the  future  in  front  of  them." 

Mrs.  Boettiger  was  one  good  cause  for  our  optimism.  The 
student  body  at  the  University  of  Washington  was  another. 

Cousin  Ray,  who  worked  for  the  campus  newspaper,  told 
us  the  students  were  preparing  now  to  work  against  the 


108  The  "Argonauts" 

involvement  of  our  country  in  war.  "They  start  early  here," 
he  said.  "They  don't  take  any  chances." 

He  showed  us  a  copy  of  the  University  of  Washington 
Daily.  An  advertisement  announced  the  revival  of  the 
moving  picture  All  Quiet  on  the  Western  Front. 

War  Clouds  Gather 

Nations  Prepare 
How  Do  YOU  Feel? 

Do  you  know  what  war  is  REALLY  like? 
— war    stripped    of    its    glamour — war 
bared  as  the  wrecker  of  humanity.   .   .   . 

We  went  over  to  the  campus  to  talk  to  the  students. 

Visitors  to  New  York  City  stand  beneath  the  Empire 
State  building,  craning  their  necks  and  whistling  to  show 
their  wonder.  We  merely  planted  ourselves  in  the  center  of 
the  University  of  Washington  and  compared  it  with  the 
concrete  campuses  from  which  we  had  come. 

The  washrooms  in  any  college  are  better  than  railroad 
smokers,  if  you  want  to  hear  what  people  think  about 
politics,  or  almost  anything.  The  women's  rest  room  at  the 
University  of  Washington  was  not  unlike  that  of  Hunter 
College.  The  girls  powdered  their  noses,  applied  lipstick  care- 
fully, and  confided  I-don't-know-why-I-go-out-with-him- 
any  way  -  he's  -  no  -  fun  -  always  -  wants  -  to  -  sit  -  around  -  and-talk. 
Through  the  mirrors,  they  told  Helen  and  Lillian  what 
they  thought  about  this  country. 

The  University  offered  us  a  good  cross-section  of  opinion. 
Students  there,  we  learned,  came  older.  Sometimes  they 
attended  for  six  and  eight  years  before  they  got  their  de- 
grees. The  majority  worked  and  went  to  school  at  the  same 
time.  Many  of  the  students  belonged  to  trade  unions,  and 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  109 

about  7,000  out  of  the  11,000  enrolled  were  voters.  And  the 
trustees  were  worried  about  them. 

They  were  still  talking  about  Professor  Laski,  an  English 
economist,  whom  the  trustees  invited  to  give  a  series  of 
lectures.  Thousands  came  to  hear  him,  and  thousands  were 
turned  away  from  the  crowded  auditorium.  Laski  talked 
about  the  wrong  kind  of  economics,  the  Marxist  kind.  The 
trustees  received  complaints  from  local  businessmen.  So 
the  trustees  decided  to  bring  another  lecturer  to  the  Univer- 
sity who  might  make  them  forget  what  Laski  had  told 
them.  They  invited  Vilhjalmur  Stefansson,  one  of  the 
world's  leading  Arctic  explorers.  The  guest  devoted  most 
of  his  lecture  to  lauding  the  Soviet  Union  for  its  scientific 
work  in  the  polar  regions.  The  Board  of  Trustees  held  a 
conference  and  decided  to  try  again.  This  time  they  in- 
vited a  Frenchman  to  talk  about  art.  Art,  after  all,  was  a 
rather  ethereal  subject.  But  the  Frenchman  spent  his  time 
analyzing  art  as  a  social  medium  for  the  transmission  of 
great  ideas,  political  as  well  as  aesthetic. 

The  student  body  knew  how  to  deal  with  pro-war  groups, 
according  to  Bill  "Cossy"  Costello,  a  friend  of  Cousin  Ray's. 
A  super  "pay-tree-ot,"  he  told  us,  had  organized  a  militaristic 
youth  group  on  the  campus  called  the  "American  Drums." 
The  drums  were  too  weak  to  stand  the  hammering  of  ridi- 
cule and  opposition  of  the  student  body.  A  counter-organi- 
zation was  immediately  established,  calling  itself  "America's 
Bugles"  with  Archangel  Gabriel  as  National  Commander. 
The  anti-war  students  rented  the  Music  Hall  and  were  go- 
ing to  put  on  a  play — "America's  Drums  Roll  On."  The 
movement  of  ridicule  swept  through  the  school.  Students 
would  sidle  mysteriously  up  to  one  another  and  hiss  dra- 
matically: "Get  the  word  from  Gabriel;  then  we  march." 
The  American  Drums  were  dead  in  no  time. 


110  The  "Argonauts" 

Industry  still  had  to  be  built  up  in  the  Northwest.  Cossy 
told  us  that  was  the  first  thing  he  had  learned  in  his  eco- 
nomics course.  Fishing,  lumber,  mining  and  shipping  were 
not  enough.  Through  the  Washington  Commonwealth 
Federation,  Cossy  and  other  young  people  asked  that  the 
government  take  over  public  utilities  and  railroads,  that  the 
government  sponsor  Western  industry.  They  didn't  want 
their  cow — whose  head  was  feeding  in  the  pastures  of  the 
Northwest— to  be  milked  by  Wall  Street  in  the  East.  More- 
over, they  asked  for  a  greater  voice  in  government,  for  the 
right  to  vote  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  They  asked  that  the 
government  open  land  to  them  on  the  old  homestead  basis. 
The  WCF  had  succeeded  in  electing  a  number  of  young 
state  legislators,  and  the  trade  unions  were  led  and  sup- 
ported by  young  men. 

Herbert  Hoover  once  told  youth  something  like  this: 
There  is  plenty  of  opportunity  here;  look  at  all  the  men 
who  have  jobs.  When  they  die,  you  young  people  will  take 
their  places. 

President  Roosevelt  once  told  the  people: 

What  do  the  people  of  America  want  more  than  any- 
thing else  ?  In  my  mind  two  things :  Work,  work,  with 
all  the  moral  and  spiritual  values  that  go  with  work, 
a  reasonable  measure  of  security — security  for  them- 
selves and  for  their  wives  and  children.  Work  and 
security — these  are  more  than  words.  They  are  the  spir- 
itual values,  the  true  goal  toward  which  our  efforts  of 
reconstruction  should  lead. 

But  we  found  the  words  of  both  men  equally  helpful  to 
the  young  people  in  need  of  jobs.  The  "employment  agency" 
at  the  University  can't  fool  them.  We  talked  with  Norman 
Hillis,  in  charge  of  the  office.  Wearing  clothes  of  about 


Polio  wing  Lewis  and  Clarke  111 

four  different  colors,  he  tossed  back  his  near-shaven  head 
and  expounded:  "Why  we  don't  have  enough  fellows  to 
fill  the  jobs.  Don't  look  now,  but  in  the  next  room  an 
employer  is  interviewing  four  undergraduates  for  jobs  for 
next  spring." 

He  was  obsessed  with  a  pioneering  spirit.  "Anyone  can 
get  a  job,  or  better  yet,  start  his  own  business  here.  All  you 
need  is  a  little  bit  of  the  pioneering  spirit,  five  dollars,  and 
you  can  have  a  diaper  service  going  full  blast.  Kind  of 
messy,  but  it's  a  business,  and  you're  a  capitalist.  Two 
seniors  started  one  last  fall  and  now  are  making  $350  a  week 
out  of  it.  Of  the  students  here,  70  per  cent  are  working  their 
way  through,  and  practically  all  the  graduates  have  jobs. 
Anyone  who  really  wants  one,  can  have  it.  Journalism  is 
about  the  only  field  that's  overcrowded." 

After  leaving  Mr.  Hillis,  we  spoke  to  several  of  the  boys 
in  the  anteroom.  George  asked  them  about  possibilities  in 
the  diaper  business. 

"It  stinks.  No  jobs,  unless  you  want  to  work  for  ten 
bucks  a  week,  and  at  anything  but  what  you're  interested 
in.  Half  the  last  class  is  still  walking  around." 

Maybe  we  were  becoming  prejudiced.  But  we  were  learn- 
ing new  things  every  day — things  that  made  us  wonder  about 
right  and  wrong,  things  like  the  "Filipino  problem." 

How  did  they  live — these  little  people,  whose  skin  color- 
ing differed  from  ours  and  who  spoke  a  different  language  ? 
They  were  accepted  only  in  the  worst  boarding  houses  and 
flops.  They  were  isolated  from  white  workers,  and  because 
of  the  scarcity  of  Filipino  women  in  these  states,  many  of 
them  were  driven  to  drugs  and  drinking.  White  women 
who  ventured  to  speak  with  the  Filipinos  were  frightened 
with  horror  stories  about  rape,  seduction  and  violence. 

We  learned  that  the  Filipinos  had  been  intimidated  by 


112  The  "Argonauts" 

the  owners  of  the  canneries,  that  they  had  been  forced  to 
work  under  unbearable  conditions  for  little  pay.  Then  they 
organized  a  union.  A  labor  leader  told  us: 

"Today,  organized  into  the  UCAPAWA  [United  Can- 
nery, Agricultural,  Packing  and  Allied  Workers  of  Amer- 
ica], the  Filipino  cannery  labor  in  the  Northwest  has 
become  an  integral  part  of  American  organized  labor,  has 
greatly  raised  the  standard  of  living,  helped  considerably  in 
preventing  the  employment  of  scabs,  enemies  of  organized 
labor,  and  out  of  all  this  there  has  arisen  a  new  problem." 

A  Filipino  worker  sitting  in  a  small  diner  at  the  wharves 
told  us  about  this  new  problem: 

"We  organized  the  union  and  took  the  white  workers 
into  our  union,  into  our  CIO.  Now  the  cannery  owners 
are  encouraging  the  white  workers  in  a  campaign  to  deport 
us.  They  say  we  take  away  their  jobs.  We  organized  the 
union,"  the  Filipino  repeated.  "They  murdered  our  leaders 
and  beat  us,  but  we  organized.  Now  they  want  to  make  us 
get  out." 

Proof  that  the  Filipinos  were  not  seriously  competing 
with  American  labor  was  that  the  CIO  unions  along  the 
Pacific  Coast  were  aggressively  organizing  Filipino  work- 
ers. The  CIO  insisted  on  the  unity  of  all  workers,  regardless 
of  race,  creed  or  color. 

We  were  prejudiced  against  race  prejudice.  People  who 
brought  up  questions  like  the  shape  of  a  man's  nose  or  the 
inflection  in  his  voice  usually  turned  out  to  oppose  the 
thing  the  man  really  stood  for.  We  walked  along  the 
wharves,  and  we  saw  white,  brown  and  black  men  working 
together.  They  were  organized  in  a  strong  union.  People 
who  would  divide  them  against  each  other  would  be  able 
to  lower  wages  and  make  bigger  profits. 
The  friction  was  sharp  in  Seattle,  and  the  people  on  both 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  113 

sides  of  the  fence  were  organized.  On  the  one  side,  the 
Washington  Commonwealth  Federation  and  all  the  organ- 
izations and  unions  affiliated  with  it.  On  the  other  side,  the 
big  farmers  and  landowners,  canners  and  processors. 

7 

We  drove  north  on  the  weekend  to  see  the  land  and 
Grand  Coulee  Dam.  Cousin  Ray,  who  came  with  us,  owned 
a  Ford,  vintage  1928,  and  when  he  took  over  the  wheel  of 
our  car,  he  drummed  up  the  speedometer  to  80  m.p.h.  Mel, 
in  the  back  seat  for  the  first  time  since  we  left  home,  went 
to  sleep.  Going  north,  the  land  and  skies  changed.  We 
passed  forests,  still  untouched  except  for  the  ravages  of 
fires.  We  saw  wigwam-shaped  stacks  of  wheat  and  red 
rectangles  of  hay  stacked  in  the  fields.  Coming  into  the 
mountain  areas,  we  saw  strings  of  little  blue-green  lakes  sur- 
rounded by  walls  of  rock.  We  wondered  how  the  land  got 
this  way. 

"Glacier,"  Joe  informed.  Glacier?  Was  that  all?  We 
had  to  laugh.  Man  spends  thousands  of  days,  millions  of 
pounds  of  energy,  and  hundreds  of  years  of  study  to  learn 
how  to  create  or  buy  beauty.  Why  don't  they  take  a  good 
look  at  America?  Beauty  is  free.  You  don't  have  to  pay 
for  the  glacier  that  swept  over  the  land  so  long  ago. 

Soap  Lake  was  one  of  the  glacier's  freaks.  "A  place  to 
get  healthy  from"  by  plastering  the  coal-black  mud  found 
at  the  river  bottom  all  over  your  body.  Fat  people  sat  around 
covered  with  the  gooey  stuff.  A  girl  with  bright  red  hair 
walked  past  our  parked  car.  She  told  us  if  you  dry  your 
hair  in  the  sun  after  getting  Soap  Lake  water  over  it,  it  (the 
hair)  turns  red.  Ray  decided  to  try  it.  He  waded  out  ankle 
deep,  and  scooped  up  water  on  his  hair.  He  returned  tri- 
umphantly. 


114  The  "Argonauts" 

"Take  a  good  look,"  he  advised.  "This  is  the  last  time 
you'll  see  me  in  my  natural,  black  curly  locks." 

Two  hours  later,  washing  for  lunch,  he  wet  his  hair, 
and  had  a  mass  of  suds  instead  of  red  curls.  A  glacier  cer- 
tainly could  do  some  wonderful  things. 

But  we  found  man-made  science  and  engineering  even 
more  thrilling.  High  up  in  northeastern  Washington,  men 
were  building  a  source  of  strength  and  power  to  aid  the 
farmers.  Where  glaciers  gnashed  into  the  mountains  and 
left  valleys  for  cavities,  where  the  sun  beat  down  on  almost 
arid  land,  men  were  building  something  big  and  magnif- 
icent. They  were  doing  the  work  of  another  glacier,  chang- 
ing the  face  of  the  earth  for  hundreds  of  miles  around. 
Built  and  controlled  by  men,  Grand  Coulee  was  the  biggest 
engineering  feat  in  the  world.  When  it  is  completed,  it  will 
bring  irrigation  to  1,200,000  acres  of  land,  and  small  but 
workable  land  holdings  to  thousands  of  families. 

In  the  Bureau  of  Reclamation  office,  we  looked  out  the 
window.  The  Columbia  River  hurtled  over  the  yet-unfin- 
ished spillways.  Four  hundred  million  dollars  was  being 
spent  on  that  river,  to  divert  it  from  its  present  course. 
Thousands  of  years  ago,  the  glacier  did  all  that  work  for 
nothing.  But  men  couldn't  control  a  glacier,  nor  could  a 
glacier  bring  water  power  for  irrigation  and  electricity  for 
factories  and  lights. 

We  sat  in  one  of  the  little  vistas  and  watched  Grand 
Coulee  at  work.  Tons  of  cement,  steel  trestles,  whistling 
and  hammering  machines,  men  in  protective  helmets.  In 
loo-degree  heat,  the  tiny  figures  crawled  up  and  down  the 
concrete  walls.  Beyond  the  huge  structure,  the  desert  land 
stretched  for  miles.  Could  that  be  a  Dust  Bowl  jalopy  in 
the  distance?  Forty  thousand  families,  landless,  dust-driven, 
American  stock  looking  for  homes  and  a  decent  life.  Maybe 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  115 

it  was  a  dream — the  American  dream  of  home,  security  and 
peace. 

We  headed  back  toward  Seattle,  impressed  with  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  dam,  but  wondering  why  people  couldn't 
have  their  lives  molded  to  the  same  scientific  perfection  as 
the  project  itself.  This  time  we  took  a  different  road,  one 
that  took  us  into  Yakima,  stronghold  of  the  Associated 
Farmers  in  the  large  apple  and  pear  district.  In  the  center 
square  of  the  city  stood  a  stockade — "America's  first  con- 
centration camp,"  it  was  called.  There  migratory  workers 
and  transients  had  been  held  as  "vagrants,"  and  forced  to 
work  in  the  fields  at  miserable  wages.  Yakima's  chief  of 
police  was  a  member  of  the  Silver  Shirts,  a  fascist  organi- 
zation. 

We  stopped  at  cabins  outside  the  city.  There  were  a 
number  of  young  fellows  at  the  place,  almost  all  of  them 
under  twenty-one.  They  rented  the  cabins  by  the  week. 
Three  from  Atlantic,  Iowa,  had  traveled  1,800  miles  out  to 
the  West  "looking  for  adventure  and  a  job"  in  an  old  Ford 
that  couldn't  be  expected  to  go  much  farther.  They  had 
got  jobs  in  the  Sears-Roebuck  store  and  were  about  to  be 
laid  off. 

Another  boy  had  run  away  from  a  CCC  camp  near  the 
Canadian  border.  He  had  seen  a  nineteen-year-old  fellow 
blow  himself  to  bits  with  dynamite.  It  had  been  an  acci- 
dent. The  dead  boy's  arm  had  been  found  three  days  later. 
The  officers  had  joked  about  it,  asked  the  boys  whether  they 
wanted  it  in  their  soup  that  night  for  supper.  The  com- 
manding officer  was  a  pervert;  if  you  didn't  act  nice  to  him, 
you  were  kicked  around.  The  boy  gave  us  the  story  in  bits. 
He  didn't  seem  to  want  to  talk  about  it. 

"We'll  have  four  Washington  tax  tokens  and  a  week's 


116  The  "Argonauts" 

salary,"  one  of  them,  a  blond-haired  youth  named  Ross,  re- 
marked. "Then  we'll  try  to  make  California  and  get  jobs 
in  the  fields.  I  don't  know  how  we'll  live.  I  suppose  the 
only  time  we'll  get  jobs  is  when  the  guys  holding  them  die 
off." 

We  sat  on  the  front  porch  of  the  boys'  cabin  early  Sunday 
morning,  before  departing  for  Seattle.  The  five  Argonauts, 
Cousin  Ray,  and  the  three  fellows,  all  of  us  from  different 
parts  of  America.  Ross  told  us  his  grandfather  had  made 
quite  a  stake  in  Iowa,  which  his  father  had  followed  up 
with  success.  Then  came  the  1929  crash  and  the  drought. 
The  crash  took  the  family's  money,  and  the  drought  took 
the  good  topsoil  off  their  land. 

"You  can't  get  anything  to  do  in  the  whole  state  of  Iowa. 
I  tried.  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  University  and  study  civil 
engineering.  Guess  I'll  never  get  the  chance  now." 

Ross's  friend  spoke  up.  He  had  black  hair  and  a  sharp 
jaw.  "Sure,  you'll  get  a  chance.  A  lot  of  people  will  be 
killed  off  soon.  Those  bastards  will  get  us  into  a  war,  and 
the  suckers  will  have  to  fight  it  for  them.  You'll  get  a 
chance  if  you  don't  get  killed  off  first." 

Ross  nodded  at  his  friend's  remarks.  "It's  past  me.  Either 
we  starve  or  get  killed.  That's  a  crazy  reason  to  be  born 
in  the  first  place." 

We  showed  them  a  pamphlet  we  had  picked  up  in  Seat- 
tle, called  "After  Graduation— WHAT?  ...  A  Job?"  pub- 
lished by  the  International  Longshoremen's  and  Warehouse- 
men's Union. 

"The  unions  are  to  blame!"  shout  the  open-shop  em- 
ployers! Blaming  the  other  fellow  has  always  been  an 
easy  thing  to  do.  But  what  are  the  facts  ?  A  young  man 
gets  out  of  school  and  goes  to  the  factory  for  a  job;  the 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  1 17 

big-hearted  employer  tells  him  he'd  "like"  to  give  him  a 

job   ...  BUT 

The  unions  have  monopoly  on  jobs,  etc.  .  .  .  thus  try- 
ing to  turn  youth  against  unionism. 

Are  there  jobs?  YES,  plenty.  There's  much  to  be 
done  to  make  this  country  of  ours  an  even  better  place 
to  live  in.  Homes  have  to  be  built,  slums  cleared 
away.  .  .  . 

Arrayed  against  the  youth,  the  entire  people  and  the 
trade  unions,  stand  the  open-shop,  monopolistic  inter- 
ests. To  defend  themselves,  the  people,  the  trade  unions 
and  America's  younger  generation  must  stick  together. 

There's  a  big  job  before  us.  It's  a  great  job.  It  requires 
that  good  old  pioneer  spirit  of  boldness  and  courage. 
The  young  people  of  America  have  the  stuff  that  it 
takes.  The  International  Longshoremen's  and  Ware- 
housemen's Union  extends  its  hand  of  friendship  to  the 
graduating  class  of  1939  and  to  the  younger  genera- 
tion of  America.  Let's  pull  together! 

We  wondered  just  how  closely  the  Silver  Shirts  worked 
with  the  big  farmers  and  owners  of  canneries  in  Yakima 
Valley.  Both  tried  to  keep  the  agricultural  workers  from 
exercising  their  right  to  vote.  After  the  fruit-picking  season 
ended,  these  workers  spilled  over  into  the  Puget  Sound 
area  for  clam  digging.  The  unions  were  working  hard  try- 
ing to  organize  them.  The  Silver  Shirts  and  the  Associated 
Farmers  were  working  hard  trying  to  keep  them  separated. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  we  stopped  at  Glenwood 
Park,  a  few  miles  out  of  Seattle,  for  the  Workers'  Alliance 
picnic.  For  five  consecutive  hours,  we  had  been  drinking  in 
the  beauty  of  the  state.  Mount  Rainier,  topped  with  snow, 
rose  up  to  meet  us  as  we  traveled  down  the  valley,  past 


118  The  "Argonauts" 

countless  orchards  laden  with  pears  and  apples.  The  sun 
was  bright  and  hot.  The  unemployed,  the  aged,  the  youth 
and  the  leaders  of  the  Washington  Commonwealth  Fed- 
eration were  having  fun  when  we  reached  the  picnic. 

We  drank  root  beer  and  ate  popcorn.  We  pounded  nails 
into  hard  lumber  and  pushed  each  other  to  the  sky  in 
swings.  We  put  nickels  on  roulette  wheels,  but  didn't  win 
any  of  the  prize  books.  We  watched  the  baseball  game, 
and  applauded  a  skinny,  red-haired  lad  who  won  the  po- 
tato sack  race.  We  had  fun  and  gathered  with  the  others 
to  hear  the  speakers.  These  people  seemed  to  enjoy  com- 
bining their  fun  with  learning.  Learning  to  them  was 
important  fun. 

There  were  many  speakers.  Bob  Camozzi  of  the  News- 
paper Guild.  William  Pennock,  twenty-four-year-old  leader 
of  the  Old  Age  Pension  Union,  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa  and  mem- 
ber of  the  state  legislature.  Terry  Pettus,  editor  of  the  New 
Dealer.  The  chairman  of  the  Harry  Bridges  Defense  Com- 
mittee. 

Howard  Costigan  drove  his  points  home  so  that  we  re- 
membered them.  He  talked,  and  it  was  not  his  voice  alone 
we  heard.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  migratory  workers,  the 
trade  union  members,  the  Filipinos,  the  youth,  the  students, 
the  unemployed,  the  small  and  landless  farmers,  the  people 
on  relief  and  the  people  without  homes  or  food. 

He  invited  us  to  his  house  that  night.  Terry  Pettus  and 
his  wife  were  there.  Costigan  talked  and  occasionally,  for 
confirmation  of  some  of  his  statements,  threw  out  questions 
to  invisible  Mrs.  Costigan  in  the  next  room.  Presently,  she 
emerged  with  some  knitting,  a  charming,  blonde  Mrs. 
Costigan. 

The  Yakima  Chamber  of  Commerce,  newspaper  owners, 
railroads,  and  big  utilities  and  banks  stood  behind  the  Asso- 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  1 19 

elated  Farmers  here.  They  were  afraid  the  migratory 
workers  would  become  organized,  so  they  kept  the  work- 
ers in  filthy  labor  camps.  Among  the  migratory  workers 
were  children  three  years  old  who  hadn't  had  a  bath  since 
birth.  We  listened  until  the  grayness  through  the  windows 
told  us  it  was  morning. 

The  night  before  we  left  Seattle,  we  attended  a  meeting 
of  the  Seattle  Newspaper  Guild  (wherefrom  we  emerged 
with  another  ten  dollars  for  our  treasury).  Ray  had  been 
with  us.  By  this  time  he  had  warmed  up  considerably  and 
was  all  set  to  organize  associate  members  of  the  Guild  at 
the  University.  After  the  meeting,  we  adjourned  with 
Costigan  to  a  nearby  restaurant.  Hamburgers,  spliced  with 
onions,  warmed  us  to  the  combat,  and  we  talked  bacl^  to 
Howard  Costigan.  Politics,  economics,  philosophy,  lead- 
ers. .  .  . 

"A  leader,"  he  said,  "can  never  rise  above  the  masses,  if 
he  is  to  be  their  leader.  He  is  a  product  of  the  masses  of 
people,  and  he  must  constantly  identify  himself  with  their 
problems,  their  way  of  living,  their  aims." 

Howard  Costigan  is  that  kind  of  leader. 

8 

On  our  way  south  to  Portland  again,  we  stayed  long 
enough  to  get  haircuts.  In  the  beauty  parlor  Lillian  had 
first  turn.  "Just  a  neat  trim."  Helen  talked,  not  passing  up 
any  opportunity  to  find  out  what  Portland  people  were  like. 
The  beauty  expert  was  a  young  girl,  interested  in  entering 
the  University  in  the  fall,  and  joining  a  sorority,  and  work- 
ing her  way  through  by  cutting  hair.  That  was  very  inter- 
esting, and  Helen  talked  some  more.  The  girl  snipped  away 
at  Lillian's  hair.  Helen  talked.  Lillian  listened  and  forgot 


120  The  "Argonauts" 

to  watch  the  mirror.  The  talk  faded  out,  and  Lillian  looked 
in  the  mirror. 

"Migosh,  I'm  clipped.  Where's  my  hair?" 

The  young  beauty  expert  seemed  a  little  frightened.  "It's 
nice  that  way,  even  all  the  way  around." 

"Yes,  even.  One  inch  long  all  the  way  around." 

Helen  decided  not  to  have  her  hair  cut.  Sadly,  we  left 
Portland,  with  more  than  one  grudge.  We  turned  off  the 
main  highway  and  took  a  side  road  toward  Stayton,  center 
of  the  bean  area.  We  saw  squalid  migrant  camps  along  the 
roadside — human  beings  bunched  together  in  groups  of 
eight  and  ten.  These  were  the  living  quarters  of  the  fam- 
ilies who  picked  the  crops  so  that  the  Associated  Farmers 
could  make  a  sizable  profit.  Men  lose  their  morale  when 
they  live  amid  filth,  cold  and  hunger.  They  don't  think 
about  unions  then. 

In  the  midst  of  the  orchards  and  camps,  a  long  gray 
building  appeared.  The  clatter  of  machines  and  clank  of 
tin  cans  jarred  the  stillness  of  the  night.  This  was  the  Stay- 
ton  Co-operative  Cannery.  It  was  almost  midnight;  we 
wondered  at  the  activity  and  the  lights  in  the  plant. 

Once  inside  the  cannery,  we  were  amazed.  Standing  at 
a  conveyor  belt,  young  girls  and  boys  worked  quickly. 
Their  hands  moved  rapidly,  stuffing  stringbeans  into  shin- 
ing cans.  Brawny  arms  heaved  sack  after  sack  of  beans  into 
the  cutters.  This  cannery  turned  out  more  than  200,000 
cans  a  week.  Energy,  given  to  the  world  by  hungry  peo- 
ple. Picked  by  hungry  migrants,  heaved  into  the  cutters 
by  sons  of  farmers  who  wanted  to  work  the  land,  sorted  by 
thin-waisted  young  girls,  washed  under  steaming  water 
by  kids  who  wished  they  might  go  to  college. 

A  foreman  led  us  around  the  cannery — informing  us  that 
the  workers  were  content  and  happy. 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  121 

A  tall,  cherubic-looking  youth  at  a  hand  crane  swung 
hundreds  of  cans  at  a  time  into  the  pressure  cooker.  They 
were  placed  in  a  huge  kettle,  where  steam  cooked  the  beans. 
Mel  and  Helen  wandered  ofl  with  the  foreman,  and  the 
others  stayed  behind  to  talk  to  Lee. 

No,  he  didn't  work  all  year  around.  He  was  a  radio 
technician,  and  worked  at  this  only  three  months  out  of 
the  year.  He  had  gone  to  college,  but  had  to  quit  and  go 
to  work.  It  wasn't  any  fun  working  long  hours,  but  a 
fellow's  family  had  to  eat.  Conditions?  Did  we  mean  the 
wages  ? 

"They're  not  good.  But  something  is  better  than  starv- 
ing." 

The  steam  in  the  cannery  seemed  to  be  toasting  every 
human  being  in  the  place.  Lee  didn't  mind  it.  He  wiped 
his  forehead  with  his  sleeve,  and  hoisted  the  cooked  string- 
beans  out  of  the  kettle  and  over  to  the  cooler.  We  rejoined 
the  others  in  the  stock  room,  where  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  cans,  big  ones  for  the  restaurants  and  littles  ones  for  the 
homes,  seemed  ready  to  tumble  down  on  us.  A  solitary 
lamp  illuminated  the  whole  room  brilliantly,  light  reflect- 
ing from  the  shiny  metal  surfaces. 

"Don't  sneeze,"  Joe  warned. 

Lee  must  have  seen  us  go  over  to  the  foreman.  With  a 
nervous  smile,  he  motioned  us  to  come  over.  "Listen.  Don't 
pay  any  attention  to  what  I  said.  The  wages  here  are  pretty 
good,  and  it's  not  bad  working  here." 

He  watched  as  we  departed. 

In  Stayton,  we  learned  that  the  Associated  Farmers  had 
driven  every  union  organizer  out  of  town.  The  cannery 
had  been  unionized  once,  but  the  owners  succeeded  in 
breaking  the  union  and  firing  all  workers  who  had  joined. 
They  didn't  like  unions.  No  wonder  Lee  was  worried. 


122  The  "Argonauts" 

We  pushed  on  to  Eugene  that  same  night.  At  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  we  found  a  tourist  camp  and  woke 
the  owner. 

"Gee!  You  guys  from  Noo  Yawk?"  In  unmistakable 
accents  that  spelled  home,  the  voice  came  from  the  dark- 
ness behind  our  car.  Mel  went  to  investigate  and  returned 
almost  immediately  with  the  owner  of  the  voice.  He  was 
about  thirteen  years  old,  dressed  shabbily,  with  a  roll  of 
canvas  strapped  over  his  torn  sweater. 

"I'm  from  Noo  Yawk  too.  Gee!   I  saw  your  license." 

He  turned  to  Mel. 

"I  was  gonna  stretch  my  canvas  out  under  that  tree  over 
there.  D'ya  think  it'll  be  okay?" 

"Sure,"  Mel  said.  "Sure,  it'll  be  okay." 

"Gee,  tanks.  You  guys  are  okay.  I'll  be  right  behind 
your  cabin  dere.  If  anybody  tries  to  bodder  ya,  I'll  let  ya 
know." 

"Okay."  We  invited  him  to  breakfast  with  us. 

The  next  morning  he  woke  us  by  rapping  loudly. 

"You  guys  gonna  eat  breakfast?  It's  kinda  late." 

We  took  the  hint  and  dressed  quickly.  Helen  put  coffee 
on  to  boil  and  investigated  our  food  stock.  We  decided  to 
eat  a  big  breakfast.  Cereal,  eggs,  bread  and  jam,  coffee. 

"Nobody  else  likes  cereal,"  Joe  announced  to  the  new- 
comer. "But  I  do.  How  about  you?" 

"Soitenly.  I  like  anyting." 

He  ate  ravenously.  His  name  was  Bob  Stone.  He  had 
left  New  York  two  weeks  ago  and  hitch-hiked  across  the 
northern  part  of  the  country.  His  parents  were  dead  and 
he  was  on  his  way  to  live  with  his  uncle  in  Stockton, 
California. 

"Gee,  you  guys  goin'  all  da  way  to  'Frisco?  Gee,  I  wisht 
I  could  go  wid  yez." 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  123 

We  felt  awfully  uncomfortable.  We  wished  he  could  go 
with  us  too,  but  we  had  decided  not  to  take  any  more 
hitch-hikers  because  the  springs  were  not  holding  up  under 
the  present  load.  We  didn't  say  anything. 

"Where  do  youse  live  in  Noo  Yawk?  D'ya  know  where 
Bank  Street  is?  Dat's  where  I  lived." 

"Sure,  I  know,"  Joe  said.  "I  live  in  Brooklyn.  We  all 
live  in  Brooklyn,  except  George.  He  lives  in  the  Bronx." 

"Da  Bronx?  I  know  where  dat  is.  Gee,  you  guys  are 
poifect.  You're  real  guys.  Lotsa  people  are  afraid  to  take 
strangers  wid  'em.  Dey  lock  da  doors  of  deir  cars." 

"We're  not  afraid  of  anybody  from  Bank  Street,"  Helen 
declared.  "We  like  people  who  come  from  Greenwich 
Village." 

"Gee,  you're  okay,"  Bob  said.  He  was  a  real  diplomat. 
He  helped  with  the  dishes.  Then  he  spread  his  canvas  out 
in  front  of  our  cabin  and  began  to  roll  his  belongings  into 
a  neat  bundle. 

"He  doesn't  weigh  much  .  .  ."  Helen  began. 

We  looked  at  each  other.  We  voted.  Mel  went  outside 
to  tell  him  he  could  come  with  us. 

"Gee,  dat's  swell.  You  guys  are  okay.  Lotsa  people  are 
afraid  to  take  ya  wid  'em.  Rides  is  hard  to  get." 

With  Bob  squeezed  into  the  back  seat,  and  the  three 
boys  in  the  front  (we  always  put  the  heaviest  ones  in  the 
front),  we  turned  the  car  toward  San  Francisco.  Bob  took 
no  time  at  all  in  adjusting  himself  to  our  collective  life. 
We  bought  a  pack  of  cigarettes,  and  doled  out  our  quotas 
of  four  for  each  of  us. 

"Gee,  what  I  would  give  for  a  smoke,"  Bob  sighed. 

We  fell  all  over  each  other  in  offering  him  a  cigarette. 

"Gee,  you  guys  are  okay,"  he  said.  He  had  five  cigarettes, 


124  The  "Argonauts" 

one  from  each  of  us.  The  rest  of  us  had  three  apiece.  We 
changed  our  quota  system  right  there,  dividing  by  six,  in- 
stead of  five. 

"Won't  you  be  lonesome?"  Lillian  asked.  "Away  from 
all  your  friends?" 

"A  little."  He  inhaled  like  a  veteran.  "I  belonged  to  the 
Bank  Street  Club.  We  had  a  lotta  fun." 

He  was  a  Catholic,  he  told  us.  Every  Sunday  he  went  to 
mass.  He  went  to  church  coming  across  the  country  too. 

"De  Faders  gave  me  a  good  meal,"  he  explained. 

For  more  than  600  miles  he  stayed  with  us.  He  sang,  and 
we  taught  him  some  new  songs. 

Hello  Joe.  Whaddya  fyiow?  .  .  .  Well  awright,  well 
awright.  .  .  . 

We  taught  him — 

Now  old  Abe  Lincoln,  a  great  big  giant  of  a  man  was  he, 

(Yas  Suh!) 
He  lived  in  an  old  log  cabin  and  he  worked  for  a  livin'.  .  .  . 

We  rode  steadily,  stopping  only  for  lunch.  Lunch? 

"Gee,  I'm  hungry.  You  guys  are  swell  taking  me  all  dis 
way  wid  yez." 

We  all  had  lunch  and  drove  south. 

"Stop  at  the  next  registered  gas  station,  Mel,  will  you?" 
Helen  asked. 

"All  right,  but  no  more  stops.  We've  got  to  make  time." 

"Gee,"  Bob  sympathized,  with  due  regard  for  majority 
opinion,  "you  guys  would  have  a  lotta  fun  widout  da  goils." 
He  smiled  engagingly  at  Helen.  "Goils  always  waste  time." 

Yreka.  The  border  between  Oregon  and  California.  The 
vigilant  guards  again  searched  our  car  for  vegetables,  fruits 


Following  Lewis  and  Clarke  125 

or  plants.  Bugs  and  termites  must  be  kept  out  of  California. 
More  delays,  before  we  finally  crossed  the  border. 

Bob  was  craning  his  neck.  We  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing. 

"I'm  gettin'  a  good  look  at  California.  Gee,  it's  beautiful. 
I  ain't  sorry  I  left  Noo  Yawk." 


Chapter  6  MAGIC  LAND 


ij^The  Chamber  of  Commerce  man  gave  us  a  brochure 
when  we  were  still  300  miles  away  from  Los  Angeles  and 
Hollywood. 

The  invitation  to  visit  Los  Angeles  County  is  sincere 
in  every  respect,  but  it  must  be  taken  into  consideration 
that  those  who  have  only  the  migration  spirit,  involving 
employment  here,  should  be  aware  of  the  fact  that  Los 
Angeles  County  is  no  place  for  the  mere  job  hunter, 
and  the  California  law  definitely  denies  relief  to  persons 
until  they  have  resided  in  the  State  three  years  without 
public  assistance. 

Well. 

We  looked  forward  to  this  "magic  land"  anyhow. 
".  .  .  the  red  tiled  roof  .  .  .  the  overhanging  balcony  .  .  . 
the  stately  missions  of  the  Padres  ...  the  music  of  the 
Hacienda  life  .  .  .  the  moving  picture  capital,  HOLLY- 
WOOD .  .  ." 

126 


Magic  Land  127 

But  a  little  scared  about  that  "migration  spirit"  warning, 
we  came  into  Carmel,  north  of  the  magic  land. 

It  was  midnight.  We  wanted  some  advance  hints  about 
Hollywood  before  the  state  immigration  officers  could  nab 
us. 

NAMES.  .  .  . 

Donald  Ogden  Stewart,  humorist 
Chairman,  League  of  American  Writers 
Hollywood  scenario  writer 
Husband  of  Ella  Winter 
The  Getaway 
Friend  of  Publisher 
maybe  a  bed 

We  had  picked  up  a  notion  somewhere  that  Carmel  was 
a  sort  of  Greenwich  Village  of  the  West  Coast,  and  we 
supposed  everybody  stayed  up  all  night.  Instead,  every- 
body seemed  to  have  gone  to  bed,  everybody  except  an  old 
policeman  and  a  clerk  at  the  soda  fountain. 

"Donald  Ogden  Stewart  goes  to  sleep  very  early,"  said 
the  soda  clerk,  who  wanted  to  close  up  shop.  "You'd  better 
not  wake  him  up." 

We  wondered  how  he  knew  when  Mr.  Stewart  went  to 
sleep.  We  appealed  to  the  old  policeman.  He  looked  sus- 
piciously at  Lillian's  close-cropped  head,  souvenir  of  Port- 
land. 

"That's  right.  You'd  better  not  wake  him."  The  old 
policeman  nodded  solemnly. 

«Uh  .  .  .  how " 

"Don't  know  where  you're  going  to  sleep  tonight,"  said 
the  soda  clerk.  "There's  a  golf  tournament  in  town,  and 
the  hotels  are  full  up." 


128  The  "Argonauts" 

"They  can  sleep  on  the  beach,"  said  the  old  policeman. 
"It's  very  nice  sleeping  on  the  sand." 

"How  do  you  get  there?"  asked  Mel. 

"Just  go  three  blocks  to  your  right,  drive  straight  for  half 
a  mile,  turn  left,  go  down  a  hill,  turn  right  and  there  you 
are." 

When  we  reached  the  "go  down  a  hill"  part,  we  thought 
we  heard  the  ocean,  but  we  could  not  see  it  in  the  dark. 
It  was  a  bad  night  for  us.  The  girls  slept  in  the  car — Helen 
in  the  back  seat,  breathing  in  the  dust  accumulated  in  Kan- 
sas and  the  Great  Salt  Lake  Desert;  Lillian  curled  around 
the  steering  wheel,  worrying  about  rum  runners  and  Ernest 
Hemingway  characters.  The  boys  slept  on  the  beach,  won- 
dering why  the  sand  was  so  hard  and  scanty. 

Dawn.  We  were  parked  in  front  of  a  cellar  that  was  in 
process  of  being  built.  The  "beach"  was  a  pile  of  gravel. 
We  couldn't  see  any  ocean  around. 

In  town  we  had  breakfast  and  set  out  to  find  Donald 
Ogden  Stewart,  humorist.  The  "Getaway"  had  been  Lin- 
coln Steflens's  house.  Covered  with  vines  and  surrounded 
by  shrubbery,  it  looked  like  a  house  people  used  and  liked. 
Feeling  seedy  and  not  too  clean,  we  pulled  down  the  large 
brass  knocker. 

When  the  door  was  opened,  a  large  cat  came  out,  gave 
us  the  once-over  and  sniffed,  then  walked  out  to  the  garden, 
ignoring  us  completely.  We  stared  at  the  cat  and  turned  to 
meet  Donald  Ogden  Stewart.  He  didn't  look  like  a  humor- 
ist; he  looked  like  the  mild-mannered  grocer  back  in  Brook- 
lyn. We  restrained  the  impulse  to  ask  him  how  the  soda 
clerk  and  policeman  knew  when  he  went  to  sleep,  and 
followed  him  into  a  large  living  room  lined  with  books. 

Lincoln  Steflfens  had  lived  and  worked  here.    A  table 


Magic  Land  129 

piled  with  magazines,  violin  cases  and  music  stands,  Mex- 
ican rugs  and  Donald  Ogden  Stewart  gave  the  room  an 
air  of  comfort  and  home.  We  learned  that  writers  came 
there  to  write — and  wrote.  It  was  a  good  place.  We  wished 
we  might  stay  there  and  finish  our  own  book.  The  room 
seemed  to  be  shut  off  from  the  outside  world,  but  we  could 
sense  activity  in  that  room,  activity  of  people  who  were  not 
watching  the  world  go  by  without  taking  an  unforgettable 
place  in  it. 

Ella  Winter  and  young  Pete  Steffens  entered  from  an 
errand.  Both  were  dressed  in  corduroy  slacks.  Both  were 
dark  and  lithe.  Ella  Winter  and  Stewart  started  to  tell  us 
about  Hollywood. 

The  movies — they  were  owned  by  the  Chase  National 
and  other  Eastern  banks.  We  would  find  that  Hollywood 
differed  greatly  from  our  preconceived  ideas.  The  progres- 
sive movement  in  Hollywood  had  helped  elect  Culbert  L. 
Olson  governor.  The  Screen  Writers  Guild  had  grown 
with  the  advent  of  the  Wagner  Act.  Harry  Chandler, 
owner  of  a  million  acres  of  land  in  California  and  pub- 
lisher of  the  Los  Angeles  Times,  dominated  the  county. 
Moving  picture  actors  were  people  who  worked  long  and 
difficult  hours  for  the  producers,  and  they  had  organized 
into  a  union. 

We  mulled  over  these  facts  as  we  left  Carmel,  our  tired- 
ness forgotten  in  the  eager  anticipation  of  Hollywood,  the 
magic  land,  where  we  would  find  something  exciting  and 
different.  Los  Angeles  didn't  count;  it  was  Hollywood  that 
drew  us. 

Down  the  Salinas  Valley.  Crops  here  seemed  rich  and 
abundant.  Railroad  tracks  ran  through  the  fields,  dividing 
the  lettuce  from  the  wheat.  We  were  still  to  learn  about 


130  The  "Argonauts" 

the  lettuce  strike  in  this  Valley  three  years  before,  when 
the  migratory  workers  rose  up  and  defied  the  big  farmers. 
Seed  companies  dotted  the  way — Ferry  Morse  Seed  Co., 
Eckhart  Seed  Co.  Huge  trucks  packed  with  lettuce  passed 
us.  The  great  utilities  came  into  view — the  Soledad  Pacific 
Gas  and  Electric,  the  Salinas  Land  Co. 

Everything  impressed  upon  us  the  tremendous  power  of 
this  land.  Irrigation  and  hard  labor  had  turned  out  all  this 
richness  from  a  dry  desert.  But  we  passed  a  fifty-mile 
stretch  of  land  lying  unused  and  wasted — San  Simeon, 
ranch  of  William  Randolph  Hearst. 

At  San  Luis  Obispo  we  hit  the  jagged  coast  line  and  fol- 
lowed the  Pacific  Ocean  south.  Thousands  of  migratory 
birds  swarmed  above  the  water's  edge,  searching  a  spot  of 
land  on  which  to  light.  We  were  to  see  migratory  human 
beings  swarming  over  the  valleys  of  this  beautiful  state, 
also  seeking  a  spot  of  land  where  they  might  stay  for  a 
brief  period. 

At  noon,  we  stopped  for  a  lunch  of  cheese  sandwiches  and 
milk.  Joe  was  nineteen  years  old  that  day.  Lillian  and 
George  disappeared  while  the  others  ate.  They  reappeared 
to  present  Joe  with  a  birthday  present — a  large  box  of 
animal  crackers.  Joe  faithfully  counted  the  crackers  and 
divided  them  into  five  equal  portions.  A  caged  bear  near 
our  table  stared  at  him. 

The  sky  darkened  as  we  yearned  toward  the  movie  city. 
"Speed  Limit — 40  m.p.h.,"  the  signs  said,  but  we  paid  no 
heed.  A  fork  in  the  road  halted  us;  one  route  would  take 
us  directly  into  Los  Angeles,  where  relatives  awaited  us, 
the  other  would  lead  us  to  the  city  by  a  roundabout  route 
through  Hollywood.  We  followed  the  arrow  pointing  to 
Hollywood. 

Hollywood  Boulevard.   Neon  signs  asked  us  to  "Come 


Magic  Land  131 

and  Live  among  the  Stars!"  Whiteness  splashed  with  gaudi- 
ness.  "Build  Today  for  Tomorrow."  Red-tiled  roofs.  "Visit 
the  home  of  your  favorite  actor  and  actress."  GLAMOUR. 
Our  expectations  were  realized. 

George  poked  his  head  out  the  window  when  we  stopped 
for  a  red  light. 

"Hey,"  he  called  to  the  occupant  of  an  adjoining  car, 
"are  you  a  movie  star?" 

"Nah,"  the  young  man  replied.  "I'm  from  New  York!" 

He  couldn't  squelch  our  enthusiasm.  Nothing  could — 
not  even  Los  Angeles  proper,  just  ordinary  and  spread 
over  many  miles  of  confusing  streets. 

The  girls'  Aunt  Polly,  who  lived  on  the  most  confusing 
street  of  all,  greeted  us  with  a  batch  of  mail  and  five  short 
hugs.  Aunt  Polly,  restrained  and  sensitive,  stood  by  pa- 
tiently as  we  tore  open  the  letters. 

One  letter  was  missing.  Back  in  Oregon,  we  had  pounded 
out  our  story  and  sent  it  East.  No  letter  from  our  publisher. 
Had  we  flopped?  How  would  we  get  home? 

"There's  a  telegram,  too,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  as  we  looked 
at  each  other  silently. 

"A  telegram?"  Lillian  repeated. 

"Yes,  it's  been  here  for  more  than  a  week."  She  looked 
closely  at  Lillian.  "What  happened  to  your  hair?" 

"Never  mind  my  hair!   Where's  the  telegram?" 

We  had  not  flopped: 

YOU  HAVE  VERY  ROUGH  DIAMOND  BUT  MATERIAL  HAS 
GOOD  BRISK  STYLE  ON  THE  WHOLE  STOP  YOUR  FINANCIAL 
STATEMENT  TOUCHED  MY  POCKETBOOK  FOR  ANOTHER  FIFTY 
IF  YOU  WILL  SEND  MAILING  ADDRESS  STOP  HEARTY  CON- 
GRATULATIONS TO  THE  ARGONAUTS 

LOUIS  P.  BIRK 


132  The  "Argonauts" 

We  don't  quite  remember  what  we  did  for  the  next  hour. 
We  were  in  a  near  coma  when  Aunt  Polly  fed  us  and 
distributed  us  into  five  beds. 

We  declared  a  holiday  next  morning  and  investigated 
Santa  Monica  beach,  where  we  discovered  that  the  Pacific 
Ocean  tasted  better  than  the  Atlantic.  We  attended  a 
rodeo,  something  we  had  missed  on  the  Western  plains  and 
in  New  York's  Madison  Square  Garden.  Cowboys,  In- 
dians and  buckin'  broncos — the  WESTERN  West  was  in 
Hollywood! 


But  glamorous  Hollywood  lay  locked  behind  doors. 

With  sixteen-year-old  Cousin  Maxie  in  tow,  we  chased 
ghosts  through  Hollywood  drives  and  boulevards.  Phone 
books  did  not  list  the  key  numbers.  We  had  all  the  wrong 
addresses  in  the  NAMES  book.  John  Steinbeck  had  gone 
back  to  his  ranch  300  miles  away.  Moving  picture  studios 
and  their  stars  were  behind  mysterious  bars  and  walls. 

"It's  useless,"  said  Cousin  Maxie,  his  large  eyes  pleading 
with  us  to  be  sensible.  "Nobody  gets  to  see  the  stars." 

"Nobody,  eh?"  grunted  huge  Phil  Connelly  of  the  News- 
paper Guild  and  secretary  of  the  Los  Angeles  CIO,  when 
we  came  to  him  for  help.  "And  you  want  to  be  reporters!" 
He  scowled,  made  some  telephone  calls,  gave  us  some  names 
and  addresses.  "Now  go  away,  I've  got  the  CIO  to  worry 
about  here." 

We  went  away.  We  called  the  right  telephone  numbers 
and  found  the  key  persons  who  could  take  us  behind  the 
high  walls  for  a  look  at  the  glamour.  We  saw  tall  dark 
Harold  Salemson,  correspondent  for  newspapers  in  France. 
The  Hollywood  Tribune  sent  the  business-like  and  mother- 
ly Olive  Lynn  to  interview  us,  which  she  did  and  there- 


Magic  Land  133 

after  adopted  us  for  our  stay  in  movieland.  We  sought 
out  motion  picture  organizations  and  the  Will  Hays  office. 

Harold  Salemson  had  more  of  the  right  telephone  num- 
bers and  gave  us  his  idea  of  Hollywood  between  calls. 

"It's  a  phony  town  in  spite  of  some  nice  people,  and 
the  nice  people  don't  last  very  long." 

Harold's  mother  taught  the  French  stars  to  speak  English 
so  that  they  might  become  Hollywood  stars.  Danielle 
Darrieux  had  learned  the  language  in  six  weeks.  We 
ought  not  to  think,  said  Harold,  that  all  moving  picture 
actors  were  morons.  "But  you'll  see  for  yourselves." 

We  started  to  see  with  Republic  Studios.  They  warned 
us  that  visitors  were  a  nuisance.  Don't  interrupt  scenes. 
Don't  trip  over  wires.  Don't  talk.  Respectfully,  we  entered 
a  barnlike  building.  Huge-eyed  cameras  and  hot  lights 
were  trained  on  a  musty  set  with  worn  red  plush  furniture. 
Jacqueline  Wells,  heroine  in  the  WESTERN  West  serials,  was 
suffering  in  Kansas  Terrors.  The  day  before  she  had  been 
suffering  in  Texas  Terrors. 

First  a  woman  in  a  mannish  suit  walked  on  the  set  and 
carefully  combed  Jacqueline's  hair.  A  short  dumpy  man 
turned  a  chair  half  an  inch  around  and  walked  off.  Actors 
and  actresses  waited  anxiously. 

"Roll  'em!" 

The  cameraman,  chewing  gum  with  an  absent-minded 
and  bored  look,  pushed  the  huge  camera  closer. 

Silence.  Jacqueline  sat  at  a  small  table  and  showed  how 
she  was  suffering. 

"Cut!" 

The  actors  began  to  learn  new  lines,  the  mannish  woman 
again  fussed  with  their  hair,  the  short  dumpy  man  again 
walked  on  the  set  and  moved  the  chair  another  half-inch. 
Every  minute  detail  would  have  to  be  perfected  before 


134  The  "Argonauts" 

another  scene  was  taken.  We  could  talk  now.  "Let's  go," 
said  Mel. 

We  wandered  over  to  another  large  barn — The  Arizona 
Kid  starring  Roy  Rogers  and  Sally  March.  The  director  in 
blue  slacks  was  explaining  to  Roy  how  to  be  a  real 
Westerner.  They  wouldn't  shoot  the  scene  for  another  half- 
hour,  until  all  the  players  learned  how  to  be  real  Westerners. 

In  the  outer  office,  a  boy  in  torn  trousers  licked  an  ice 
cream  pop.  He  looked  like  William  Lundigan.  Lillian 
stared.  The  boy  saw  Lillian,  started,  dropped  the  ice  cream 
pop. 

"Well,  hello!" 

He  was  Bobby  Lundigan,  brother  of  the  star  and  Lillian's 
former  classmate  in  Syracuse. 

"Well,  well,  well.  Remember  those  days  at  Nottingham 
High  School?  Remember  the  fat  principal  with  his  little 
megaphone?" 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Bobby  accusingly.  "Remember  that 
Latin  test?  You  got  a  95  or  something.  And  I  got  a  10.  I 
never  forgave  you  for  that.  .  .  ." 

"Honest,  I  couldn't  help  it,"  Lillian  apologized.  "I  didn't 
know  any  better.  What  are  you  doing  in  Hollywood?" 

"Looking  for  a  job.  The  family  came  out  here  after  Bill, 
our  pride  and  joy,  became  a  success." 

"How's  Syracuse?" 

"Still  smug.  Still  Republican.   But  I'm  an  exception." 

Lillian  grinned.   "So  am  I." 

Lillian  and  Bobby  shook  hands  on  it,  and  made  arrange- 
ments to  meet  later.  We  headed  for  the  next  studio— RKO. 
Olive  Lynn  called  a  secretary  and  told  her  we  were  writers. 

"Are  they  communists  or  fascists?"  the  secretary  wanted 
to  know. 

"They're  journalists,"  said  Olive. 


Magic  Land  135 

Nick  Ermolieff,  publicity  man,  greeted  us.  He  was  young 
and  spoke  with  a  Russian  accent.  His  father,  Olive  in- 
formed us,  was  one  of  the  most  famous  moving  picture 
producers  in  Paris.  Nick  didn't  like  Hollywood. 

"The  people  are  so  blase  here,"  he  said.  "They  have  no 
interest  in  real  art,  real  music.  They  are  narrow,  and  they 
live  by  the  caste  system." 

"What's  that?" 

"Everybody  is  in  a  different  caste.  Directors,  actors, 
writers — they  have  their  snobbish  groups.  If  a  recognized 
genius  makes  one  mistake,  he  becomes  a  social  outcast.  He 
no  longer  is  given  a  conspicuous  table  in  the  restaurants  or 
a  second-row  seat  at  the  fights." 

"Don't  you  like  Hollywood?" 

"Well,"  said  Nick,  "it's  a  fine  place  to  live.  There's  the 
desert  on  one  side  of  you" — he  gestured  with  his  arms — "and 
the  ocean  on  the  other.  There's  mountains  up,  and  Mexico 
down." 

He  led  us  into  a  barn  marked  Number  4.  A  murderer  was 
planning  a  murder.  But  he  kept  forgetting  his  lines  and 
apologizing  to  the  other  members  of  the  cast,  so  that  he 
looked  like  a  very  meek  murderer.  Make-up  men  mopped 
actors'  brows,  and  the  villain's  mustache  was  waxed  more 
firmly  as  he  promised  not  to  forget  this  time.  Lillian  Bond 
adjusted  her  girdle  and  waited. 

Roll  'em  and  cut.  Repetition  of  minute  scenes.  Memorize 
a  line,  wait  half  an  hour,  and  say  it.  We  were  beginning  to 
find  the  glamour  a  bore.  Hours  had  to  be  spent  on  putting 
every  eyelash  in  place,  in  getting  the  exact  position  to  the 
fraction  of  an  inch  for  the  actors.  The  barns  might  have  been 
factories  and  all  the  painted  actresses  as  alike  as  factory  com- 
modities. On  the  sets,  the  actresses  seemed  to  be  all  make-up, 


136  The  "Argonauts" 

perfectly  painted  lips,  hair  dyed  the  best  photogenic  shade, 
long  false  eyelashes. 

Nick  brought  over  Lillian  Bond,  the  English  star. 

"Oh,  you  are  seeing  your  country,"  she  said.  "How  in-ter- 
est-ing.  How  I  would  love  to  go  with  you!  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  country?"  asked  Helen. 

"I  like  A-mer-i-ca,"  she  said  slowly.  "How  I  would  like  to 
see  your  South.  It  is  so  glam-o-rous.  You  are  such  a  col-or- 
ful  country  .  .  .  your  dark  mammies  in  bandannas  singing 
in  the  fields  as  they  pick  your  cotton  and  everybody  so-o-o 
happy.  Oh,  I  like  A-mer-i-ca.  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Olive  Lynn  as  we  walked  on,  "most  of  the 
foreign  actors  think  America  is  really  like  that.  They  know 
America  only  from  the  way  it  is  portrayed  on  the  screen.  You 
can't  blame  them." 

Nick  introduced  us  to  a  new  star — Linda  Hayes,  who  had 
landed  in  the  movies  via  the  Gateway  to  Hollywood  pro- 
gram, run  by  Jesse  Lasky.  She  was  young  and  new,  but 
poised  and  prepared  for  all  questions. 

"If  you  want  to  act  more  than  you  want  to  eat,  try  the  mov- 
ing pictures — but  not  unless."  She  spoke  evenly  and  quickly. 

We  had  no  ambitions. 

Another  Lasky  find,  Kathryn  Adams,  rushed  past  us  with 
a  vague  and  bewildered  expression. 

"Hollywood  struck,"  Nick  explained. 

We  didn't  want  to  give  up;  we  tried  another  studio — Uni- 
versal. It  looked  the  same  as  the  others.  Large  buildings, 
busy  people  and  important-looking  directors.  We  told  the 
publicity  man  we  wanted  to  meet  Deanna  Durbin.  We  had 
seen  her  pictures  and  liked  them.  We  had  admired  her  for 
her  natural  charm  and  wholesomeness. 

The  publicity  man  took  us  to  the  set  of  First  Love,  and  we 
met  the  young  girl  who  had  been  termed  "America's  Kid 


Magic  Land  137 

Sister."   At  seventeen,  Deanna  had  the  sophistication  and 
features  of  the  twenty-five-year-old  standard  movie  queen. 

"How  do  you  do,"  she  said  quietly  and  politely  and  waited 
for  us  to  ask  questions.  We  suddenly  felt  embarrassed,  as  if 
we  were  at  some  sort  of  freak  show,  out  slumming  for  a 
stare  at  a  person  who  had  no  right  to  keep  her  life  from  the 
public's  gaze. 

She  stood  in  the  bright  sun  dressed  all  in  blue.  Tired  lines 
had  formed  around  her  eyes.  Heavy  screen  make-up  had 
caked  on  her  face  and  soaked  into  her  pores.  She  gave  us 
no  false  and  mechanical  publicity  smile.  She  silently  waited 
for  us  to  ask  questions. 

"You  have  to  grow  up  fast  here,"  Deanna  replied  to  our 
question,  "because  you  are  treated  like  an  adult  and  you  have 
to  work  like  an  adult." 

Deanna  spent  eight  hours  on  the  set.  Before  that,  she  had 
to  be  dressed,  combed,  made  up.  In  the  evenings,  she  studied 
her  parts.  She  was  a  Universal  "success."  She  had  lifted  the 
studio  out  of  the  "red"  and  now  the  studio  was  rushing  her 
through  life  to  keep  the  books  in  the  "black." 

We  visited  other  barns.  On  a  set  hotter  than  the  others,  a 
camera  stand-in  stood  wearily  as  lights  were  focused  on  the 
jungle  scene.  We  watched  from  behind  the  cameras.  A  man 
in  overalls  sprinkled  water  on  the  fake  foliage,  making 
"dew."  Helen  sank  into  a  chair  labeled  "Joan  Bennett." 
When  everything  was  arranged,  we  asked  the  publicity  man 
if  we  might  interview  the  stand-in. 

"What  for?"  He  looked  surprised.  "She's  only  a  dummy. 
All  she  does  is  stand  like  this."  He  opened  his  mouth  and 
flopped  his  arms  foolishly. 

When  the  cameras,  lights  and  props  were  finally  ready, 
pretty  Joan  Bennett  and  her  leading  man  walked  toward  the 
camera  from  the  jungle.  Cut  and  retake.  Again  they  walked 


138  The  "Argonauts" 

toward  the  camera.  No  good.  Again,  until  the  director  was 
satisfied.  The  picture,  Green  Hell,  opened  in  New  York 
several  months  after  we  had  returned  home.  The  papers 
gave  it  one  star. 

We  could  not  understand  this  waste  of  money,  time  and 
actors'  talents.  Back  home  we  never  attended  pictures  like 
Green  Hell  or  Texas  Terrors.  We  were  becoming  impa- 
tient. We  visited  the  Walt  Disney  studio  and  saw  how 
Mickey  Mouse  was  put  together — tediously  and  meticulously. 
Walt  himself  was  the  voice  of  Mickey  Mouse.  Donald 
Duck's  voice  was  a  cowboy  on  a  nearby  ranch.  A  guide 
showed  us  rooms  where  each  movement  Mickey  made  was 
drawn  separately.  Hundreds  of  girls  were  employed  to  do 
the  "in-betweening,"  the  coloring,  and  a  few  specialists 
were  hired  to  do  the  animating.  Sometimes  the  girls'  eyes 
gave  out,  said  our  guide,  and  that  was  a  shame. 

We  were  beginning  to  wonder  whether  the  glamour  was 
worth  the  tedious  work,  the  callousness,  the  caste  system. 
Then  we  saw  a  good  actor  at  work  in  the  movies. 

Paul  Muni  never  allowed  outsiders  to  watch  him  at  work. 
But  we  hid  behind  a  screen  on  the  Warner  Brothers  set  and 
watched  the  prison  scene  from  We  Are  Not  Alone.  A  stand- 
in  took  Muni's  place  on  a  narrow  cot  in  the  prison  cell, 
under  hot  lights  and  the  careful  direction  of  the  cameraman. 
A  secretary  made  notes  of  the  actors'  positions  and  dress. 
Two  men  adjusted  the  microphones.  Silence. 

Muni  entered  quietly  and  took  his  position.  He  began 
to  speak.  Under  props  and  lights,  before  directors  and 
make-up  artists,  he  was  not  Paul  Muni.  He  was  a  con- 
demned doctor,  unjustly  sentenced  to  die.  Dazed,  he  tried 
to  explain  to  the  preacher.  .  .  . 

"Cut!" 

Muni  walked  off  the  set. 


Magic  Land  139 

Shocked,  we  realized  we  had  been  watching  intensely.  We 
wanted  to  see  the  whole  picture.  We  tiptoed  out  of  the 
barn.  It  was  worth  all  the  heartache  and  waste,  if  great  actors 
could  make  great  pictures.  But  was  it  necessary?  Could 
Hollywood  produce  worthwhile  movies  without  the  callous- 
ness and  waste  ? 

We  learned  how  movies  were  put  together.  A  confusion 
of  sound.  Talking  backwards,  music  played  backwards, 
shrieks  and  squeaks.  We  visited  the  film  editor,  who  could 
make  or  break  a  picture,  according  to  Warren  Low.  A  film 
editor  himself  and  Olive  Lynn's  ex-husband,  Low  looked 
like  Jack  (he-man)  Holt.  He  was  editing  Paul  Muni's  pic- 
ture. We  peeked  into  the  miniature  projection  and  cutting 
machine. 

Low  ran  the  scenes  backwards  and  forwards,  making  a 
whole  picture.  He  was  preparing  two  endings  for  We  Are 
Not  Alone — a  happy  ending  for  the  small  towns,  a  sad  end- 
ing for  the  big  cities. 

As  we  took  leave  of  the  Warner  lot,  Leo  Gorcey,  Dead 
End  Kid,  ran  by  in  his  uniform  from  On  Dress  Parade.  He 
looked  like  a  heavy-set  man.  We  couldn't  talk  to  him.  He 
had  not  been  prepared  by  a  publicity  man. 


We  had  seen  the  studios  and  the  stars  at  work.  We  had 
a  lot  of  questions  to  ask  about  them.  So  we  tossed  more 
nickels  into  the  telephone  slots,  pulled  wires  and  rang  bells. 
We  would  see  the  Hollywood  people  on  their  home  ground 
without  benefit  of  publicity  men.  We  would  ask  those  ques- 
tions. 

We  used  to  listen  to  Fred  Allen's  radio  program.  There 
was  a  comedian  on  it  with  a  grisly  voice  who  got  a  big 
hand  every  time  he  made  his  entrance.  Our  friends  in  high 


140  The  "Argonauts" 

school  would  walk  around  with  a  bullfrog  in  their  throats 
imitating  the  voice  with  "All-o,  Joe."  The  voice  and  its 
owner  became  a  national  institution,  and  then  the  movies 
discovered  him. 

We  found  Lionel  Stander  high  up  in  Hollywood  Hills 
in  a  house  jutting  out  of  the  side  of  a  mountain.  He  was 
lying  on  a  couch,  eating  an  apple  and  reading  a  newspaper. 

"All-o,"  he  said,  removed  his  glasses  and  put  on  his  shoes 
reluctantly. 

"Don't  make  a  point  of  it,  but  I  used  to  write  stories  my- 
self, sensational  sex  stories  for  the  New  Yor^  Journal,"  he 
told  us.  "Every  day,  a  new  sex  angle.  That  was  me." 

He  smiled.  All  we  saw  when  he  smiled  were  two  beady 
slits  instead  of  eyes,  set  deep  in  a  shining  surface.  He 
looked  larger,  broader  and  saner  than  he  did  on  the  screen. 

We  came  at  half  past  eleven  that  night,  and  by  two-thirty 
we  had  helped  smoke  all  his  cigarettes  and  had  eaten  all  his 
candy.  Mrs.  Stander  came  bounding  in  from  the  hills  with 
a  giant  Russian  wolfhound.  Slim  and  blonde,  one  of  the 
few  really  beautiful  women  we  had  seen  in  Hollywood,  she 
sat  on  the  floor  near  the  fireplace  stroking  the  dog  and  lis- 
tening to  Lionel. 

We  began  to  ask  our  questions. 

"No,  there's  not  much  romance  to  movie  making.  They 
turn  out  pictures  like  factory  work.  In  Europe,  they're  more 
honest  about  it.  Here  we  call  them  studios.  There  they  call 
them  cinema  factories." 

"How  about  the  wild  night  life  of  the  stars?" 

"It's  the  bunk,"  Lionel  waved  his  hand  and  made  a 
Stander-ish  wry  face.  "The  actors  get  so  tired  working  all 
day  and  sometimes  at  night,  all  they  can  do  is  go  to  sleep. 
Their  juice  gets  dried  up  under  those  hot  lights.  Don't  be- 
lieve those  silly  stories  in  the  fan  magazines." 


Magic  Land  141 

We  asked  him  why  the  screen  companies  made  pictures 
like  Green  Hell,  why  they  wasted  so  much  money,  why  they 
treated  stand-ins  and  obscure  artists  so  callously,  why  there 
was  a  caste  system  in  Hollywood.  He  gave  us  reasons  for  his 
answers  and  explained  them  carefully.  We  might  have  been 
listening  to  a  lecture  by  one  of  the  more  intelligent  college 
professors. 

The  moving  pictures  were  changing,  slowly,  but  they  were 
changing,  he  told  us.  People  demanded  better  films;  pro- 
ducers were  not  in  the  business  for  love;  they  wanted  to 
make  money.  And  if  the  public  refused  to  go  to  see  the  cheap 
stories,  the  producers  had  to  give  them  more  intelligent 
stories.  So  moving  pictures  were  changing. 

And  workers  in  Hollywood  had  organized  in  order  to 
protect  their  rights.  Movies  were  like  any  other  industry. 
If  the  stars  and  extras  and  stand-ins  did  not  organize  to  pro- 
tect themselves,  they  would  suffer  from  long  hours  and  bad 
treatment,  like  any  other  workers. 

Motion  picture  actors  were  like  other  people;  they  took 
sides  on  controversial  questions  and  fought  for  those  things 
they  believed  right.  The  Motion  Picture  Democratic  Com- 
mittee had  been  instrumental  in  electing  Governor  Olson 
over  Merriam,  the  Republican.  The  Motion  Picture  Artists 
Committee  had  raised  funds  to  help  China  and  the  Spanish 
Loyalists. 

Helen  and  Lillian  had  bumped  into  Mischa  Auer  at  the 
Universal  studio.  He  proudly  showed  them  his  long  slinky 
car  with  all  its  peculiar  gadgets  and  asked  the  two  girls  to 
go  for  a  ride,  to  try  it  out,  such  a  wonderful  car,  assembled 
mostly  by  himself. 

"Ah,  youth!  Youth!"  he  said,  rolling  his  large  soulful 
eyes  and  looking  down  at  the  girls.  "Such  enterprise!"  He 


142  The  "Argonauts" 

wore  a  cream-colored  slack  suit,  white  gloves  and  white 
sandals. 

Lillian  and  Helen  told  him  more  about  our  trip.  He 
snapped  his  fingers.  "You  must  come  to  my  house  and 
sweem  in  my  sweeming  pool." 

"May  we  bring  our  friends?"  Helen  asked. 

"Friends?  You  mean  there  are  more  of  you  doing  this 
waa-anderful  thing?" 

"Three  more." 

"Ah,  youth.  Such  enterprise."  He  shook  his  head  affirma- 
tively. "Hokay.  Bring  them  all  along." 

So  we  swam  in  Mischa  Auer's  pool,  behind  his  home  in 
Beverly  Hills.  We  met  his  plump,  good-natured  wife,  and 
she  poured  cold  glasses  of  beer  for  us.  We  sat  around  the 
pool  in  our  suits,  talking  and  listening  to  the  radio. 

A  large  color  picture  of  former  Tsar  Nicholas  had  greeted 
us  when  we  entered  his  library,  and  Mischa  talked  with  a 
heavy  Russian  accent. 

"Sure  I'm  a  Russian,"  he  told  us.  "But  I  beat  it  when  the 
Revolution  broke  out." 

His  grandfather,  Leopold  Auer,  the  great  violin  teacher, 
had  taught  him  how  to  play.  But  he  had  preferred  a  career 
of  acting. 

"You  need  plenty  of  pull  to  get  into  the  motion  pictures. 
You  need  someone  on  the  inside  to  give  you  a  break.  That's 
how  I  got  in." 

Mischa's  little  boy  started  to  throw  his  father's  tennis 
rackets  into  the  water.  Mischa  ran  after  him,  threatening 
a  spanking. 

"He's  always  breaking  things,"  Mischa  complained  when 
he  had  returned  to  us.  He  sighed.  "Ah,  sometimes  I  feel 
like  going  back  to  the  good  old  days  in  the  Catskills.  Stock 
acting  in  the  Borscht  circuit — those  were  the  days.  I  was 


Magic  Land  143 

nineteen  then,  got  good  money  and  worked  as  a  social  direc- 
tor. You  know,  a  little  acting  and  a  lot  of  necking." 

The  telephone  beside  the  pool  rang.  Mischa  answered  in 
a  stream  of  Russian.  "Da.  Da.  (Yes.  Yes.)  Stoi.  (Hold  it.) 
Da.  Da.  Okey-dokey." 

He  hung  up.  "That  was  a  Russian  friend  of  mine.  I'm 
trying  to  help  him  get  a  job.  Yes,  you  need  pull  to  get  into 
the  movies.  And  you  can't  get  yourself  mixed  up  in  politi- 
cal questions.  I'm  an  actor.  An  actor  is  a  bad  politician, 
and  a  politician  is  a  bad  actor." 

Staccato  reports  fired  out  of  the  radio  about  an  impending 
war  in  Europe  as  the  sun  went  down,  and  we  went  inside 
to  dress. 

4 

We  climbed  a  curved  road  high  into  Hollywood  Hills. 
Gale  Sondergaard  and  Herbert  Biberman  were  hidden  up 
there.  A  tarantula  big  as  a  tennis  ball  crawled  slowly  up- 
hill next  to  our  car.  Slightly  ashen  at  the  sight  of  a  tarantula 
amid  the  modern  luxurious  homes,  we  rang  the  Bibermans' 
doorbell.  A  maid  who  looked  like  Clara  Bow  admitted  us. 
Herbert,  swarthy  and  charming,  mixed  cocktails  as  Gale 
extended  a  beautiful  hand  and  seated  us  on  fleecy  couches. 
Paintings  of  Gale  and  of  a  large  fierce  tiger  hung  on  the 
walls.  From  the  garden  beyond  the  French  doors  we  could 
see  all  Los  Angeles. 

Herbert  Biberman,  former  director  of  the  Theatre  Guild  in 
New  York,  was  one  of  the  best  known  and  least  publicized 
men  in  Hollywood.  He  was  directing  the  Motion  Picture 
Guild's  production  of  School  for  Barbarians  by  Erika  Mann. 
Together  with  his  actress  wife,  he  explained  in  more  detail 
what  Lionel  Stander  had  told  us  about  the  change  in  motion 
pictures. 


144  The  "Argonauts" 

"Hollywood  used  to  be  compared  with  the  glamour  girl 
of  the  twenties — beautiful  but  dumb.  Productions  were  stu- 
pendous. .  .  ." 

Yes,  but  they  didn't  mean  anything  to  Eddie  Wagner  in 
Lancaster,  to  the  steel  workers  in  Gary,  to  the  Missouri 
farmer  or  to  Mike,  the  longshoreman.  When  would  the 
studios  pay  some  heed  to  what  these  people  wanted? 

"Hollywood,"  Biberman  replied  directly  and  quickly,  "is 
not  any  different  from  any  other  community,  except  that 
people  here  project  themselves  upon  the  rest  of  the  world. 
They  have  a  tremendous  responsibility  to  the  millions  of 
people  in  the  country.  The  pictures  and  the  actors  set  the 
styles,  change  customs  of  living,  propagate  ideas  and  affect 
political  trends." 

"But  do  the  pictures  initiate  these  ideas,  or  do  they  reflect 
the  ideas  of  the  people?"  Helen  asked. 

"They  have  to  reflect  them,"  said  Gale  Sondergaard,  and 
smiled,  unlike  the  smile  of  Sondergaard  on  the  screen.  "The 
picture  industry  is  a  business.  They  can't  and  don't  make 
pictures  if  the  pictures  don't  make  money.  And  the  pictures 
won't  make  money  unless  people  go  to  them.  People  want 
to  see  pictures  that  develop,  express  and  extend  their  own 
ideas." 

"And  how  are  the  producers  supposed  to  know  what  ideas 
the  public  wants?"  George  crossed  his  legs  and  looked 
steadily  at  Biberman  and  his  wife. 

"What  the  people  want  is  reflected  always  by  what  they 
do.  The  growth  of  unions,  for  instance,  is  having  a  tremen- 
dous effect  on  the  movies.  It's  good  business,  today  at  least, 
to  make  progressive  pictures.  That's  why  we've  had  pictures 
like  Juarez." 

That  afternoon  we  began  to  understand  the  forces  at  work 
behind  the  scenes  in  Hollywood.  We  learned  why  the  high- 


Magic  Land  145 

est-paid  workers  in  the  world  belonged  to  unions  and  walked 
on  picket  lines.  There  was  no  house  behind  the  porch  on  the 
studio  lot,  no  prison  beyond  the  cell,  but  there  was  a  power- 
ful voice  behind  all  the  glamour.  There  were  thinking 
people  under  the  make-up. 

We  went  to  dinner  in  style  at  the  Westwood  Restaurant 
with  George's  famous  Cousin  Nicky,  a  studio  executive.  The 
waiter  told  George  he  was  sitting  in  the  same  chair  Shirley 
Temple  used  every  Thursday  night  when  the  Temple  cook 
was  off.  George  looked  pleased.  We  stared  unimpressed  at 
the  footprints  of  Joan  Crawford  and  Wallace  Beery  and 
Jack  Benny  in  the  cement  outside  the  lavish  Grauman's 
Chinese  Theatre.  They  looked  like  ordinary  footprints  to 
us. 

Olive  Lynn  took  us  to  Ray  Bourbon's  night  club.  "You'll 
see  the  decadent  side  of  Hollywood,"  she  warned.  "Some  of 
the  moving  picture  people  and  tired  businessmen  go  there 
for  higher  excitement.  They  want  anything  that  offers  diver- 
sion. That's  why  fortune  tellers,  swamis  and  Aimees  pros- 
per here." 

"Aimees?" 

She  laughed.  "Aimee  Semple  McPherson,  the  evangelist." 

A  shriveled,  middle-aged  woman  led  us  to  a  table  at  the 
side  of  the  smoky  room.  A  low  ceiling,  risque  paintings  and 
odd  red  ornaments  provided  atmosphere.  Red  was  the  pre- 
dominant color;  even  the  pianist's  nose  was  the  color  of 
red  pepper. 

"Everybody  here  knows  what  everybody  else  is  thinking. 
If  they  don't,  they  suspect  it."  Ray  Bourbon,  fat  and  oily, 
with  a  black  mustache,  opened  the  program  in  a  high- 
pitched  voice.  Then  he  removed  his  false  teeth. 

"See?  Now  I  can  kiss  like  Gable!"  He  laughed  shrilly. 

Well-dressed  and  well-fed  men  and  women  sat  around  us. 


146  The  "Argonauts" 

A  gray-haired,  attractive  woman,  very  drunk,  burst  into 
song,  wildly  and  in  a  deep  voice. 

Said  Ray  Bourbon,  "Did  you  cut  your  finger  nails,  or 
have  you  been  looking  at  those  concrete  statues  in  the  park 
again?" 

The  lights  were  dimmed,  and  a  strip  teaser  came  on. 
"Don't  I  look  like  an  advertisement  for  Super-Suds?"  she 
asked  when  she  had  completed  her  act.  Ray  Bourbon  ap- 
plauded uninterestedly.  He  sang,  mimicked  and  gratui- 
tously patted  the  pianist's  head.  Young  men  in  the  audience 
waved  at  him. 

In  the  washroom,  a  Negro  girl  handed  Helen  a  towel.  She 
pointed  to  a  small  sign  above  the  sink :  "Tips  Are  My  Only 
Salary." 

"Wrong?"  she  answered  Helen's  question.  "Sure  it's 
wrong.  I  pay  for  the  laundry  and  the  towels.  Get  no  money 
at  all  from  the  management.  But  I  can't  find  any  other  job. 
I'm  putting  two  brothers  through  school;  one  wants  to  be  a 
lawyer.  Maybe  he'll  do  better  than  me." 

Hundreds  of  people  came  to  Hollywood  to  find  success. 
Pretty  girls  saved  their  money  in  Waynesboro,  Cleveland, 
Kansas  City  and  Grants  Pass.  They  came  to  Hollywood  and 
worked  as  waitresses  in  the  drive-in  hamburger  stands — for 
tips.  The  young  Negro  girl  at  Ray  Bourbon's  didn't  want  to 
be  in  the  movies.  But  she  worked — for  tips. 

Mara  Alexander,  an  extra,  worked  in  pictures,  for  wages, 
not  tips,  but  jobs  were  scarce.  She  didn't  want  to  be  a  star. 

"Why  should  I?"  she  demanded.  "The  more  money  you 
make,  the  more  you  are  compelled  to  spend.  It's  all  a  big 
show.  You  only  get  to  the  top  through  favors.  And  then, 
it's  not  acting  you  do — it's  hack  work." 

Behind  the  scenes,  we  took  a  look  at  the  unions  and  or- 
ganizations of  moviedom. 


Magic  Land  147 

"Hollywood  is  an  industry,"  said  tall,  lean  Jeff  Kibre, 
leader  of  the  technical  workers  of  the  screen  and  fighter  for 
unity  among  the  various  unions,  "an  industry  where  motion 
picture  plants  employ  from  twenty  to  thirty  different  crafts." 

Eight  years  before,  Jeff  Kibre  had  written  a  daily  column 
entitled  "Jabs"  for  the  newspaper  at  the  University  of  Cali- 
fornia at  Los  Angeles.  Now  he  was  directing  his  jabs  against 
"the  racketeers  within  the  International  Alliance  of  Theat- 
rical Stage  Employees  [spelled  IATSE,  pronounced  "yaht- 
see"]  and  against  the  producers  who  try  to  knife  it." 

The  rank  and  file  union  members  were  fighting  for  a 
clean  union,  and  Jeff  Kibre  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  that 
fight  against  racketeers.  Kibre  opposed  Willie  Bioff,  ac- 
cused of  accepting  $100,000  as  a  bribe  from  Joseph  Schenck, 
producer,  in  June  1937.  Make-up  artists,  extras,  prop 
men,  carpenters,  cameramen  and  stars — all  wanted  a 
clean  union  that  would  protect  their  rights.  They  didn't 
want  racketeers  who  would  work  hand  in  hand  with  the 
producers  against  those  rights.  They  didn't  want  intimida- 
tion of  screen  workers  who  spoke  up  for  those  rights.  In  the 
fall  of  1937,  Francis  Black,  a  Warner  Brothers  writer,  had 
protested  against  paying  a  2  per  cent  assessment  to  the 
racketeers  and  had  insisted  upon  a  formal  protest.  Next  day 
he  was  fired  at  the  request  of  IATSE  officials.  Kibre  told 
us  stories  of  physical  violence  and  gunmen  threatening 
others  who  protested. 

We  met  other  leaders  behind  the  scenes.  Marcelene  Peter- 
son, tall  and  blonde,  was  the  executive  secretary  of  the  Mo- 
tion Picture  Artists  Committee.  She  had  worked  for  one 
of  the  studios  as  a  writer.  The  Committee  had  enlisted  the 
support  of  the  stars  for  Loyalist  Spain,  and  now  continued 
to  raise  money  for  refugees  from  Franco  in  French  concen- 
tration camps.  Her  spare  time,  when  there  was  any  of  it, 


148  The  "Argonauts" 

was  devoted  to  writing  a  book  called  From  Gish  to  Garbo, 
the  story  of  monopolies  in  the  moving  picture  industry. 

Blonde  Betty  Anderson,  whom  Walter  Wanger  had  called 
"the  most  beautiful  Hollywood  extra,"  had  been  saved  from 
the  movies  because  her  teeth  were  uneven.  She  became  the 
executive  secretary  of  the  Motion  Picture  Democratic  Com- 
mittee when  she  was  twenty-two  years  old.  Actor  Maurice 
Murphy,  twenty-five  years  old,  who  had  just  completed 
Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois,  had  been  one  of  the  original  sponsors 
of  the  Committee.  Helen  went  to  interview  him,  and  he 
took  her  to  a  quiet  spot  for  cocktails,  where  he  explained 
that  the  Committee  worked  to  popularize  better  housing 
efforts  through  radio,  the  screen  and  the  stage.  Maurice  had 
worked  in  filling  stations  and  had  dug  ditches.  Now  he  was 
busy  "uniting  all  organized  labor,  the  Catholic  Church  and 
even  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  behind  New  Deal  meas- 
ures." 

Ray  Spencer  managed  the  Hollywood  Theatre  Alliance, 
an  organization  to  establish  "a  permanent,  non-profit  and 
professional  theater."  He  told  us  the  Alliance  intended  to 
produce  stage  shows  "to  further  the  principles  of  democracy 
and  to  illuminate  the  times  in  which  we  live." 

Slim  and  sophisticated  Sonia  Dall  talked  with  us  about 
her  League  for  Democratic  Action.  Artists,  she  said,  didn't 
want  to  separate  the  make-believe  life  from  the  real.  Melvyn 
Douglas,  Miriam  Hopkins,  Harpo  Marx,  Gale  Sondergaard. 
Sylvia  Sidney,  Walter  Wanger,  Fredric  March,  Herbert 
Biberman,  Gloria  Stuart  and  many,  many  others  .  .  .  "they 
know  what  war  and  fascism  do  to  art." 

The  Screen  Actors  Guild,  the  Associated  Film  Audiences, 
the  League  of  Women  Shoppers  ...  we  found  the  real  and 
the  meaningful  behind  the  paint  and  powder. 


Magic  Land  149 

5 

"Hollywood  is  only  a  part  of  Los  Angeles,"  complained 
Aunt  Polly.  "Every  night  you  come  home  and  talk  about 
Hollywood.  Why  don't  you  find  out  something  about  Los 
Angeles?" 

We  didn't  care  about  Los  Angeles.  But  when  we  did  find 
out  something  about  the  big  city,  we  were  surprised. 

Los  Angeles  was  old. 

Olvera  Street,  the  first  main  thoroughfare,  had  become  a 
"tourist"  street.  The  visitors  came  to  look  at  the  Mexicans 
selling  hot  chili  and  pig  banks  on  the  narrow  street.  They 
stared  at  the  Avila  Adobe,  oldest  building  in  the  city,  which 
Don  Francisco  Avila  had  built  in  1818.  Mexicans  made  their 
living  here. 

Main  Street  remined  us  of  New  York's  Bowery.  You 
could  see  three  and  sometimes  four  Wild  West  movies  here 
for  only  a  nickel.  Stores  advertised  suits  of  clothes,  slightly 
used,  for  only  two  dollars.  Unshaven  men  in  torn  clothing 
wandered  up  and  down,  and  tourists  came  to  look. 

Things  were  cheap,  but  Los  Angeles  didn't  seem  like  a 
bargain  to  us.  We  saw  many  signs  all  over  the  city. 

Freedom  for  Workers 
Prosperity  for  Business 

DEMAND 

Peace  in  Industry 

Southern  Californians,  Inc. 

We  visited  the  Southern  Californians.  We  learned  they 
supported  the  Associated  Farmers,  were  opposed  to  the 
Wagner  Labor  Relations  Act,  put  pressure  on  the  state 
legislature  to  pass  the  anti-picketing  measure — an  organiza- 


150  The  "Argonauts" 

tion  of  big  business.   Los  Angeles  was  a  big-business  city. 

Mel  insisted  on  taking  a  vacation  here.  He  had  lost  ten 
pounds  already  and  he  needed  a  rest.  He  was  the  only  one 
who  could  drive.  So  we  spent  hours  traveling  about  the  city 
on  crowded  and  badly  ventilated  trolley  cars. 

We  waited  for  a  car  one  day.  A  thin  woman  approached 
and  asked  the  time. 

"Do  you  live  here?"  she  asked  when  we  had  given  her  the 
information. 

"No." 

"I  thought  not.  You  look  happy,"  she  said. 

We  laughed  uncomfortably.  "Don't  you  like  it  here?" 

"Like  it?  I  hate  it.  I  came  out  here  eleven  years  ago  for 
a  visit  and  got  sick.  I've  been  sick  ever  since.  No,  don't  be 
nice,"  she  added  when  we  sympathized;  "it's  too  unusual 
out  here.  Los  Angeles  people  are  selfish  and  mean." 

"Yes,  Los  Angeles  is  a  great  city,"  said  Lee  Shippey,  Los 
Angeles  Times  columnist.  "We  have  great  department 
stores  and  factories.  Our  Wall  Street  is  famous  for  its  flowers 
instead  of  its  finance." 

We  saw  the  flowers,  the  finance  and  the  factories.  The 
aircraft  factories  were  the  biggest  industries — airplanes  are 
important  for  wars. 

"I've  seen  ads  in  the  science  magazines,"  said  Mel,  "telling 
about  men  needed  in  the  airplane  industry,  and  offering  jobs 
after  they  have  completed  their  schooling." 

A  long  line  of  men  waited  outside  the  aircraft  factory  in 
Los  Angeles.  The  guard  would  not  admit  us.  "Sorry,  no 
visitors." 

"There  are  about  100,000  unemployed  men  walking  the 
streets  today  who  have  worked  in  the  aircraft  factories,"  said 
Johnny  Orr,  organizer  of  the  aircraft  division  of  the  United 
Automobile  Workers  of  America. 


Magic  Land  151 

We  told  him  about  the  long  line  of  men  outside  the 
factory. 

"Sure,"  he  said.  "War  orders  are  picking  up." 

He  explained  how  the  aircraft  companies  operated.  "They 
want  to  keep  a  large  surplus  of  labor  on  hand  in  order  to 
keep  wages  low.  They  don't  have  to  pay  the  minimum  wage 
to  apprentices.  So  they  advertise  in  magazines,  offering  jobs 
to  thousands  of  young  kids.  They  get  these  boys  from  all 
over  the  country  and  train  them  in  their  schools." 

We  talked  to  Roy,  a  young  aircraft  worker,  outside  the 
plant  during  lunch  hour.  Roy  had  gone  through  high  school 
in  Asheville,  North  Carolina. 

"So  I  came  out  here,"  said  Roy,  "and  paid  a  hundred  dol- 
lars for  the  course.  All  I  learned  I  could  teach  you  in  three 
days.  They  got  me  a  job  in  the  plants.  I  get  eighteen  dol- 
lars a  week.  There's  no  way  I  can  get  anything  better  or 
work  myself  up.  All  I  can  do  is  quit." 

Hollywood,  only  a  part  of  Los  Angeles.  Yet  in  both  Holly- 
wood and  Los  Angeles,  we  began  to  see  the  same  picture  of 
people  as  in  the  Northwest,  the  Midwest,  the  industrial  East. 
People  wanted  jobs.  They  needed  security.  They  attempted 
to  build  that  security  through  unions  and  societies  where 
they  might  work  together  for  their  needs. 

People  had  to  live  together;  that  was  society.  People  were 
the  same  physically,  and  they  had  the  same  needs.  Whether 
they  worked  to  entertain  and  amuse  and  teach,  or  whether 
they  worked  to  feed  and  clothe,  they  still  faced  the  same 
needs. 

We  returned  to  Hollywood.  The  ever  patient  and  hos- 
pitable Olive  Lynn  took  us  to  a  gathering  at  playwright 
Albert  Bein's  cozy  little  house  in  Hollywood  Hills.  Bein 
called  Hollywood  "a  melting  pot  of  hick  kids  trying  to  be 
cosmopolitan."  Mary  Bein,  dark  and  witty,  brought  out  cold 


152  The  "Argonauts" 

beer  and  California  fruit.  We  sat  on  the  floor  of  the  small 
living  room,  listening  to  Albert  tell  stories  about  his  life. 
He  had  run  away  from  home  when  he  was  thirteen,  had 
traveled  on  freights  around  the  country,  had  lost  a  leg  under 
a  railroad  train,  had  done  time  in  a  reformatory.  We  had 
seen  some  of  these  stories  in  his  plays  on  Broadway,  in  Lil' 
Olf  Boy  and  Let  Freedom  Ring,  and  in  Boy  Slaves  on  the 
screen. 

We  listened,  and  gradually,  as  Albert  talked  quietly, 
others  began  to  tell  about  their  own  lives. 

Marshall  Ho'o,  a  Chinese  boy  in  green  slacks  and  a  polo 
shirt,  was  only  twenty-two,  but  his  responsibilities  as  head 
of  the  Federation  of  Chinese  Youth  Clubs  had  cut  deep 
creases  in  his  forehead.  There  were  40,000  Chinese  in  Cali- 
fornia. 

"Our  parents  and  grandparents  came  over  in  the  last  cen- 
tury to  work  on  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  and  in  the  fields. 
But  we,  their  children,  grew  up  with  Americans.  We're  as 
much  a  part  of  America  as  anyone  else. 

"I  am  more  Chinese  than  my  parents,  however.  Some- 
times the  young  Chinese  fight  to  drive  off  the  influence  of 
their  ancient  land,  but  I  like  to  build  it  up  and  direct  it. 

"I  am  able  to  integrate  my  activities  and  my  personal  life, 
because  I  think  I  have  a  better  understanding  of  both  Chinese 
and  American  culture.  I  follow  two  simple  rules :  one,  I  take 
each  day  as  I  see  it,  guided  by  my  own  convictions;  and,  two, 
I  strive  to  better  myself  and  the  lot  of  my  people.  I  know 
I  can't  do  one  without  the  other,  so  I  must  do  both  at  the 
same  time." 

Marshall  worked  in  a  butcher  shop  in  Santa  Monica  with 
fifteen  other  boys.  Conditions  were  unsanitary,  and  about 
ten  of  the  boys  were  afflicted  with  some  disease.  It  was  a 
union  shop,  but  the  Chinese  were  not  in  the  union. 


Magic  Land 

"The  A.  F.  of  L.  makes  us  pay  dues,  but  they  refuse  to 
accept  Orientals  in  their  unions.  We  get  no  privileges  or 
protection,  like  the  other  workers,  but  we  have  to  pay  dues 
or  lose  our  jobs. 

"It  is  only  when  the  Americans  are  willing  to  accept  the 
Chinese  that  the  Chinese  will  solve  their  problems.  There 
has  been  a  lot  of  sympathy  for  us  since  the  start  of  the  war  in 
China.  But  we  still  suffer  from  discrimination.  We  live  in 
the  poorest  neighborhoods,  can't  afford  to  go  to  college  and 
can't  join  unions.  How  can  we  be  expected  to  become  good 
citizens?" 

Lois  Crozier,  very  blonde,  told  us  something  about  citizen- 
ship. We  had  learned  about  the  California  Youth  Legisla- 
ture in  San  Francisco.  But  Lois,  its  state  chairman,  had  more 
to  tell  us. 

"We've  got  to  help  all  American  young  people  find  their 
place  as  citizens  in  the  community.  Our  democracy  is  be- 
ing challenged,  and  if  we  don't  do  something  about  it,  who 
will?" 

Lois  represented  the  Baptist  Young  People's  Union  in  the 
Congress.  She  worked  as  a  secretary  and  taught  Sunday 
School. 

"Christianity  must  be  tied  up  with  economics  and  soci- 
ology if  it  is  to  be  a  vital  and  living  thing.  That  realization 
h#s  been  a  growing  thing  with  me." 

The  California  Youth  Legislature  meant  much  to  Lois. 

"Racial  tolerance — that's  one  of  the  most  important  things 
it  stands  for.  At  first  I  was  scared  because  I  found  young 
Communists  working  with  me.  Then  I  learned  they  were 
working  for  the  same  things  I  wanted.  Some  of  the  older 
folks  in  the  Baptist  Union  don't  like  the  idea  of  my  working 
in  the  Legislature,  but  they  can't  stop  me.  I'll  just  never, 
never  give  it  up.  It's  my  life  and  I  know  it. 


154  The  "Argonauts" 

"Being  a  Christian,  I  believe  that  Jesus  was  a  humanitarian 
above  all  else.  He  brought  a  message  of  love  and  tolerance 
and  brotherhood.  The  Youth  Legislature  is  doing  some- 
thing about  those  principles  and  building  better  citizens 
by  it." 


Will  Geer  pulled  on  a  striped  basque  shirt  as  we  sauntered 
up  the  walk  to  his  small  cottage.  Dressed  in  bathing  trunks, 
he  greeted  us  with  a  large  jug  of  wine. 

George  asked  for  a  glass. 

"No,"  drawled  Geer,  "you  drink  it  like  this."  On  one 
thumb  he  hoisted  the  jug  onto  his  shoulder,  turned  his  head 
and  drank.  Tall,  sun-burned  and  slow-moving,  he  handed 
the  jug  to  George. 

"We'd  better  have  five  glasses,"  said  Helen. 

We  had  seen  Will  Geer  in  Broadway  plays,  and  when 
Olive  told  us  he  was  working  on  a  government  film  in  one 
of  the  studios,  we  invited  ourselves  over.  He  told  us  the  pic- 
ture was  a  dramatization  of  Paul  De  Kruif's  book  The 
Fight  for  Life,  about  the  hazards  in  the  birth  of  a  baby. 
Geer's  wife,  Herta,  was  expecting  a  child,  so  the  picture  had 
assumed  an  educational  role  for  Will.  As  we  sat  around  his 
porch  talking,  Dr.  "Benny"  drove  up  in  a  small  coupe. 

"He's  the  doctor  in  the  film,"  Geer  told  us.  "He's  just  a 
young  guy,  but  he's  one  of  the  greatest  obstetricians  in  the 
country.  He's  taking  care  of  Herta." 

When  Dr.  Benny  came  out  of  the  house,  Will  conferred 
with  him. 

"Have  to  hop  over  to  the  drugstore  for  a  few  minutes. 
Don't  go  away,"  said  Geer. 

"We'll  just  go  down  the  street  for  a  bite  of  supper,"  Helen 
declared. 


Magic  Land  155 

"Fine,"  Geer  replied  and  hurried  to  Dr.  Benny's  car.  "Be 
sure  to  come  back.  Every  Friday  night  we  have  a  com- 
munity sing  at  my  house.  You'll  like  it." 

When  we  returned  for  the  sing,  Geer  welcomed  us  with 
a  broad  grin. 

"You  kids  were  in  on  the  birth  of  the  youth  movement  and 
didn't  know  it.  Herta  gave  birth  to  a  baby  girl  while  you 
were  gone.  We're  agoin'  to  call  her  Katherine." 

We  sang  and  toasted  Herta.  We  toasted  Katherine  and 
Dr.  Benny.  We  toasted  Will. 

"Woody" — self-acclaimed  dustiest  of  the  Dust  Bowlers, 
played  his  "geetar"  and  sang  ballads.  Short  and  thin,  with 
a  circular  sandy  beard,  Woody  had  come  to  California  with 
thousands  of  other  migratory  workers  from  Oklahoma.  He 
could  play  the  "geetar"  and  sing.  First  he  had  played  for  the 
other  migrants.  Then  he  began  to  sing  his  ballads  over  a 
local  radio  station.  He  combined  his  songs  with  home-spun 
philosophy  on  politics  and  economics  and  wrote  a  daily 
column  called  "Woody  Sez"  for  the  People's  World,  a  West- 
Coast  paper. 

Then  Will  Geer  sang  some  ballads.  Small  groups — they're 
at  every  party — formed  to  discuss  the  news  of  the  day.  Soviet 
Russia's  non-aggression  and  trade  pacts  with  Germany  was 
the  news  of  that  day. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  moaned  a  blonde  woman,  rather 
plump,  with  painted  toenails  protruding  from  her  sandals. 
"How  could  Soviet  Russia  go  off  and  do  such  a  thing?" 

Woody  approached  her. 

"Ma'am,"  sez  Woody,  "don't  you  be  cryin'  about  Soviet 
Russia.  She  kin  purty  well  take  care  of  herself." 

"But  how  could  she  do  such  a  thing?" 

"Ma'am,"  sez  Woody,  "don't  you  take  me  fer  one  of  them 


156  The  "Argonauts" 

poh-lee-tical  experts  that  talk  so  smart  on  the  radio.  But 
Russia  is  pertektin'  herself." 

"But  how  could  Russia  do  such  a  thing?"  the  blonde 
woman  persisted. 

"Ma'am,"  said  Woody  as  he  prepared  to  sing  another 
ballad,  "why  don't  you  go  over  there  and  ask  her  yer  own 
self?" 

In  another  corner  of  the  room,  Dr.  Benny  told  Helen 
something  important.  She  immediately  rounded  up  the 
other  Argonauts  and  led  them  out  to  a  quiet  spot  on  the 
porch. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "Dr.  Benny  is  going  up  to  see  John 
Steinbeck  tomorrow.  He  says  we  can  go  with  him." 

We  toasted  ourselves. 

"How's  he  going?"  George  asked. 

"Airplane." 

George  yanked  his  hair.  "Airplane?"  he  shouted.  "What 
do  you  want  to  do,  buy  one  on  the  installment  plan?  We 
can't  go!" 

"We've  got  to  go,"  said  Lillian. 

"We  haven't  got  the  money,"  said  George. 

Democratic  discussion  followed,  for  two  hours.  We  de- 
cided to  send  two  Argonauts  by  car  who  would  meet  Benny 
at  the  airport  when  he  disembarked.  We  voted.  On  the 
third  ballot,  the  tabulation  showed: 

Mel  four  votes. 

Lillian  four  votes. 

7 

We  wanted  to  see  John  Steinbeck.  We  didn't  want  his 
autograph,  and  we  didn't  care  what  kind  of  breakfast  food 
he  ate.  But  we  wanted  to  talk  with  him,  more  than  we 
wanted  to  see  ourselves  in  print. 


Magic  Land  157 

We  saw  him,  and  he  was  almost  as  good  as  his  work. 

Steinbeck  provided  conversation  for  the  dinner  table 
among  the  Hollywood  dilettantes.  The  man  who  had  writ- 
ten a  best-seller  would  not  frequent  the  Brown  Derby  and 
act  his  part!  We  heard  that  he  hated  humanity  and  suf- 
fered from  eight  different  psychological  complexes.  Middle- 
aged  women,  with  no  encouragement  at  all,  gave  us  confi- 
dential explanations  of  "Steinbeck's  sexiness."  The  gossip 
made  us  feel  sick. 

.  At  five  in  the  morning,  Mel  and  Lillian  sped  north.  We 
had  stayed  up  all  night  talking  about  Steinbeck.  Early  in 
the  afternoon,  we  greeted  Dr.  Benny  triumphantly  at  the 
Monterey  airport. 

"So  you  made  it,"  he  said  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  silvery 
plane. 

We  grinned  at  him,  feeling  proud  of  ourselves.  We  had 
not  slept  in  more  than  thirty  hours,  but  we  had  stamina 
when  it  came  to  Steinbeck.  We  had  been  chasing  him  all 
over  California  for  a  month  and  now 

"Wait  here,"  said  Benny,  "I'll  call  him  and  tell  him  you're 
coming." 

Benny  called  and  returned  to  us.  Steinbeck  had  gone  out; 
the  person  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  did  not  know  where. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Benny.  "Some  other  time.  I'm  going 
to  San  Francisco  with  some  friends.  Come  along  and  see 
the  Fair." 

"What  other  time?  No,  thanks,  we've  seen  the  Fair." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry " 

"That's  all  right,"  Lillian  mumbled.  "If  Steinbeck  is 
around  here,  we'll  find  him.  We've  got  to." 

Mel  and  Lillian  waved  sadly  as  Benny  left  for  the  Fair. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back  to  Hollywood?"  Mel  asked. 

Lillian  looked  at  him.  "No." 


158  The  "Argonauts" 

"No,"  Mel  repeated.  "What'll  we  do?" 

"Find  Steinbeck." 

We  found  him.  We  combed  Monterey  and  found  him  in 
a  fisherman's  house. 

First  we  found  Robert  Leslie  Bruckman  at  the  Hopkins 
Marine  Laboratory.  He  was  a  nice  man  and  very  informa- 
tive. He  explained  to  us  the  hydrobiological  survey  of 
Monterey  Bay,  the  spectroscopic  study  of  algal  pigments  and 
the  method  of  preventing  the  depletion  of  the  $1,000,000 
sardine  industry.  He  talked  enthusiastically  for  several 
hours  about  polyclads,  chitons,  gastropods  and  coelenterates, 
about  algae  and  kelps,  about  Pelagia,  Leodice  and  Glycera. 

Mel  and  Lillian  were  very  patient. 

Finally,  nice  Mr.  Bruckman  became  a  little  discouraged 
and  asked  his  two  expressionless  visitors  to  his  house  for 
some  cocoa.  He  could  explain  some  more  things  at  his  house. 

"Do  you  want  to  go?"  asked  Mel. 

Lillian  looked  at  him.  "No." 

"No,"  Mel  repeated.  "What'll  we  do?" 

"Find  Steinbeck."  Lillian  turned  to  nice  Mr.  Bruckman. 
"Can  you  give  us  some  names  of  fishermen  around  here? 
People  who  have  lived  on  the  waterfront  for  a  long  time  ? " 

"There's  one  near  here.  He's  a  combination  fisherman  and 
scientist.  He's  done  some  magnificent  research  among  the 
flora  and  fauna,  very  systematically " 

"What's  his  name?"  we  asked  with  exaggerated  curiosity, 
avoiding  the  hurt  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Ed  Ricketts.  The  composition  of  sea  water " 

We  found  Ed  Ricketts.  He  had  a  Van  Dyke  beard  and 
a  tall  bottle  of  rum.  His  friend  Hilaire  (pronounced  Hill-a- 
ree)  Belloc  had  a  Van  Dyke  beard  too  and  was  helping 
Ricketts  with  the  tall  bottle  of  rum. 

Ricketts  poured  us  some.   We  drank,  saw  the  looks  of 


Magic  Land  159 

approval  and  were  afraid  to  refuse  a  second  glass.  A  dim 
lamp  in  the  center  of  the  room  cast  shadows  over  Hill-a-ree, 
in  a  torn  coat  and  half  sneakers,  lying  on  a  narrow  unmade 
bed.  Ed  Ricketts  twittered  about  us. 

"Youth,  eh?  What  are  you  discovering  about  youth?" 

"They're  pretty  much  the  same  all  over.  They  want 
security " 

"Security?"  Hill-a-ree  laughed  shakily.  "Bah!  All  youth 
wants  is  a  place  to  throw  its  dirty  socks.  Isn't  it  so,  Ed?" 

Ordinarily,  we  would  have  interrupted  quickly  to  answer 
for  Ed  that  it  was  not  so.  We  were  youth,  and  we  wanted 
more  than  a  place  to  throw  our  socks.  But  Hill-a-ree's  high- 
pitched,  up-hill  down-hill  Oxford  accent  stumped  us.  We 
drank  our  rum  silently. 

Belloc  started  to  tell  us  about  himself,  "for  instance." 

"Now  I'm  a  fisherman,  just  a  poor  ordinary  fisherman. 
When  I'm  not  out  fishing,  I  work  at  a  swimming  pool.  They 
pay  me  a  hundred  dollars  a  month  just  to  hang  out  at  this 
pool.  I  have  to  sit  around  and  watch  the  daughters  of  the 
idle  rich  paint  their  nails." 

"They  want  more  than  a  place  to  throw  their  socks,"  Lil- 
lian suggested,  a  little  belligerently. 

That  started  a  long  debate  about  the  disgusting  daughters 
of  the  idle  rich  who  painted  their  nails.  It  was  run-around- 
in-circle  talk  where  the  participants  neither  knew  nor  cared 
where  they  were  going.  With  our  college  sophomoric  back- 
grounds, we  were  experts  at  it.  But  right  now  we  were  in- 
terested in  finding  John  Steinbeck.  As  Ricketts  arose  to  re- 
fill our  glasses,  we  told  him  that  we  were  searching  for  the 
author. 

"He  was  here  fifteen  minutes  ago,"  said  Ricketts. 

"Don't  you  know  where  he  is  now?" 

"I  think  I  know  where  I  can  find  him.    I'll  run  out  and 


160  The  "Argonauts" 

tell  him  you're  here.   He'll  come  if  he  wants  to.  Do  you 
want  to  stay  on,  Hill-a-ree?" 

Hill-a-ree  stayed  on — with  the  rum.  He  talked  some  more 
about  those  disgusting  daughters  and  their  toenails. 
We  waited  for  a  sound  outside. 
".  .  .  parasites,  ugly  little  parasites  .  .  ." 
We  heard  a  car  draw  up  to  the  house,  a  door  slam  and  the 
sound  of  a  heavy  man  taking  the  steps  two  at  a  time. 

John  Steinbeck  filled  the  doorway.  He  was  big,  with  the 

shoulders  of  a  longshoreman  and  a  round  red  bulbous  nose. 

"Hello,"  he  said  and  threw  an  old  yachtsman's  cap  into  a 

corner.  He  seated  himself  heavily  in  a  chair  near  the  bottle 

of  rum  and  refilled  all  our  glasses. 

"Never  thought  you  kids  would  make  me  come  to  you," 
he  said. 

He  looked  quickly  at  us  with  large,  round,  baby-blue 
eyes.  He  fingered  his  glass  with  a  restless  hand.  Maybe  he 
was  like  Jack  London  or  some  of  the  others  we  never  knew. 
Anyway  he  was  Steinbeck,  a  guy  in  gum-soled  shoes,  tweed 
sport  coat  and  orange  striped  basque  shirt.  He  might  have 
been  a  blustering  stock  broker  at  a  Princeton  football  game. 
"What  do  you  want  to  see  me  for?"  he  asked.  "I  don't 
talk,  you've  probably  heard." 
"We've  heard.  But  you  read  ? " 
"Sure,  sure  I  read."  He  coughed  up  a  deep  laugh. 
"We  want  you  to  read  this."  Lillian  gave  him  the  care- 
fully carboned  copies  of  the  first  draft  we  had  sent  to  our 
publisher.  He  read. 

Hill-a-ree  began  to  talk  about  the  dreaded  rich  daughters. 
With  the  corners  of  our  eyes  glued  on  Steinbeck,  we  sympa- 
thized with  Hill-a-ree  about  those  toenails.  When  Steinbeck 
chuckled,  we  grinned  at  Belloc.  When  something  in  that 
draft  drew  forth  a  grunt  of  "good,  good"  from  the  author, 


Magic  Land  161 

we  acted  as  if  nothing  worse  existed  in  the  world  than 
Hill-a-ree's  swimming  pool. 

"Sounds  good,"  said  Steinbeck  after  he  had  finished  read- 
ing. Then  he  "talked"  for  a  couple  of  hours.  A  great  writer, 
he  was  helping  two  novices  just  by  talking. 

Famous  writers,  what  were  they?  We  knew  some  who 
were  phonies.  We  didn't  like  their  pretensions,  their  crawl- 
ing after  the  big  names,  their  false  lectures  to  ladies'  clubs, 
their  empty  talk  at  cocktail  parties.  They  were  shallow  and 
mean.  We  neither  liked  them  nor  wanted  to  follow  in  their 
footsteps. 

But  we  needed  help.  We  wanted  to  model  our  lives  after 
the  really  sincere  and  creative  men.  How  should  we  choose 
our  heroes? 

We  had  read  Steinbeck's  books,  including  The  Grapes  of 
Wrath  by  this  time.  He  brought  life  simply  and  honestly  to 
his  pages.  That  was  our  definition  of  a  writer — that's  what 
we  wanted  to  do.  But  that  was  not  enough.  We  wanted 
to  know  more — did  a  great  writer  keep  himself  apart  from 
the  world  he  talked  about  on  paper  or  did  he  move  with  that 
world,  his  individual  life  integrated  with  the  people  and 
ideas  in  his  books? 

We  had  seen  writers  in  a  trade  union,  the  Newspaper 
Guild,  who  moved  with  the  times.  But  it  meant  more  to  us 
to  learn  about  the  writer  who  had  something  to  say  about 
those  times — about  the  wrongness  of  degrading  human  life. 
Did  such  a  writer  confine  his  sympathy  and  understanding 
for  people  between  the  covers  of  a  book,  or  did  he  extend  his 
interest  and  his  work  into  actual  lives  ? 

I  am  treasonable  enough  not  to  believe  in  the  liberty 
of  a  man  or  a  group  to  exploit,  torment,  or  slaughter 
other  men  or  groups.  I  believe  in  the  despotism  of 


162  The  "Argonauts" 

human  life  and  happiness  against  the  liberty  of  money 
and  possessions. 

Steinbeck  had  written  that  in  a  pamphlet  called  Writers 
Sides,  published  by  the  League  of  American  Writers, 
in  which  he  and  others  had  declared  themselves  to  be  in 
favor  of  the  Spanish  Loyalists.  We  had  this  in  mind  when 
we  talked  with  him. 

We  had  in  mind  also  a  letter  Steinbeck  wrote  in  1936  to 
the  editor  of  the  student  magazine  at  the  University  of 
California  at  Berkeley : 

I  wish  I  could  write  you  the  article  you  suggest,  more 
for  my  own  good  than  for  yours.  But  man!  I  don't  know 
enough.  There  are  fine  retirements  into  one  terminology 
or  another.  I  haven't  been  able  so  to  protect  myself. 
The  very  frightened  use  the  academy,  research  into  one 
kind  of  microscopic  detail  or  another,  or  bury  themselves 
in  some  old  time  and  its  equipment,  feeling  safe  be- 
cause that  time  is  over.  Others  are  like  the  man  who  ap- 
proved of  revolutions  that  happened  at  least  a  hundred 
years  ago.  Others  a  little  closer  to  the  surface  create 
and  dive  into  systems  as  complete  and  beautiful  and  effec- 
tive as  that  of  St.  Thomas.  ...  I  haven't  anything  to  tell 
young  writers.  The  ones  capable  of  using  their  eyes 
and  ears,  capable  of  feeling  the  beat  of  time,  are  frantic 
with  material,  while  those  who  use  the  escapes  into 
technique  and  definitions,  into  all  the  precious  tricks 
that  have  separated  art  from  life,  will  not  hear  anyway. 

We  had  all  this  in  mind  when  we  told  him  we  would 
write  in  this  book  that  we  had  found  one  want  of  the  people 
in  America— the  want  of  security  in  life. 


Magic  Land  163 

"I'm  willing  to  bet,"  said  Hill-a-ree,  "that  the  more  security 
a  man  possesses,  the  weaker  he  becomes." 

Lillian  replied  sharply,  "It's  easy  to  bet  that  way  when 
you  don't  have  any  stakes  on  the  bet." 

We  looked  to  Steinbeck  for  an  answer. 

"Men  are  growing  weaker,"  he  said.  "They  don't  drink 
and  fight  and  swear  the  way  they  used  to.  The  security 
of  their  penthouses  and  night  clubs  has  made  them  weak." 
He  clipped  his  sentences  short. 

"But  we  don't  mean  that  security,"  said  Mel.  "We  mean 
the  desire  to  eat  and  live.  A  hungry  man  who  has  a  good 
meal  gets  a  taste  of  security.  Won't  he  become  stronger,  and 
fight  for  more  security?  Won't  he  remember  how  it  was 
to  be  hungry?" 

Steinbeck  drained  his  glass  of  the  rum.  He  laughed  and 
gazed  steadily  at  us.  "Have  you  ever  been  hungry?"  he 
asked. 

"Well,  no.  Not  really  hungry  for  a  long  time." 

"I've  been  hungry,  really  hungry,"  he  declared,  his  large 
blue  eyes  fixed  on  us.  "Now  I  don't  remember  what  it  was 
like.  I  remember  once  I  wanted  some  pork  chops  more  than 
anything  else  in  life.  But  I  don't  remember  what  it  was 
like.  Once  hunger  is  satisfied,  a  man  wants  more  and  more, 
and  he  forgets  how  it  was  in  the  beginning." 

"But  you're  stronger,  not  weaker,  now,"  said  Mel. 

"How  about  your  own  Joad  family?"  Lillian  persisted. 
"When  they  got  some  money  for  food  and  overalls  and  a 
dress,  didn't  they  feel  stronger?  Wasn't  that  security?" 

Steinbeck  nodded.  "But  remember  there's  a  great  differ- 
ence between  not  having  anything  at  all  and  getting  some- 
thing, and  having  something  to  start  with  and  getting  more. 
There's  a  difference."  He  broke  off,  took  another  drink  and 
poured  rum  into  all  the  empty  glasses. 


164  The  "Argonauts" 

"Men  are  hungry  now.  They're  getting  restless."  He 
turned  the  glass  in  his  hand,  looking  at  it. 

"There's  the  story  Lincoln  Steffens  told.  He  went  down 
to  Mexico  and  saw  President  Cardenas.  Cardenas  asked 
Steffens,  'How  can  I  be  sure  that  I,  as  the  leader,  will  not 
drift  away  from  the  masses  of  people  or  betray  their  inter- 
ests?' Steffens  told  him,  'Give  them  guns.  Give  the  people 
guns,  and  you  won't  have  to  worry  about  drifting  away. 
Give  them  guns,  and  they'll  watch  that  you  don't  betray 
them.' " 

We  were  silent,  and  he  continued.  "Life  is  simple  in  it- 
self. It's  the  economic  struggle  within  the  framework  of 
life  that  makes  things  complex.  I've  read  books,  hundreds 
of  them,  every  kind,  to  understand  it.  I  couldn't  find  one 
simple  answer.  I  had  to  go  to  the  people  themselves  for  the 
answer." 

Lillian  thought  she  had  an  answer.  "Why  must  the  eco- 
nomic struggle  be  complex  if  life  itself  is  simple?  People 
have  to  eat  and  sleep  and  wear  clothes.  They  have  to  live 
with  other  people.  Put  those  two  things  together,  and  you 
get  a  simple  answer.  The  economic  struggle  is  the  struggle 
for  these  two  things." 

Steinbeck  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"You're  simplifying  too  much,"  he  said.  "You're  young 
yet,  and  you  see  only  the  immediate.  There's  too  much  to 
life.  You  can't  simplify." 

Another  silence,  while  the  glasses  were  refilled.  We  didn't 
refuse  the  rum,  because  we  wanted  to  keep  up  with  Stein- 
beck. We  were  beginning  to  feel  a  little  dizzy,  and  we  won- 
dered if  it  was  due  to  the  drink  or  to  the  talk. 

"I'd  like  to  stop  thinking  for  a  few  months,"  the  author 
continued.  "I'd  like  to  be  in  Vermont  in  the  winter,  behind 
one  of  those  large  bob-sleds  with  the  snow  in  my  face.  I'd 


Magic  Land  165 

like  to  be  on  a  freighter  on  my  way  to  South  America.  I'd 
like  to  get  away  from  thinking  so  much." 

We  stared  at  him.  He  arose  and  looked  down  at  us  with 
a  laugh  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  look  so  much,"  he  said.  "If  you  want  to  write, 
you've  got  to  feel  more.  Don't  look,  feel." 

We  felt  pretty  groggy  at  that  moment. 

"All  we've  been  saying  is  nonsense,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"You  know  that,  don't  you  ?  When  you  think  back  on  this 
night,  you'll  know  we've  been  talking  nonsense.  The  non- 
sense doesn't  matter.  People  out  there" — he  waved  in  the 
direction  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley — "people  out  there  are 
starving  and  working  and  fighting  and  organizing  unions 
and  struggling  to  live.  They  matter.  The  nonsense  doesn't 
matter." 

A  few  days  later,  we  saw  how  those  people  mattered. 


Chapter  1   VINEYARD   OF  THE 
GRAPES    OF  WRATH 


giant  cockroach  lay  on  its  back,  the  bristly  feelers 
wiggling  helplessly  in  the  air.  We  sat  on  the  beds  and  chairs 
in  the  bargain  tourist  cabin  and  watched  its  squirming 
efforts  to  move  from  the  center  of  the  floor.  We  placed  bets 
on  its  chances. 

This  cockroach,  the  owner  of  the  cut-rate  cabins  had  in- 
formed us,  was  over  600  years  old.  There  were  thousands 
of  them  around,  and  if  their  ancient  breeding  grounds  of 
slums,  filth  and  disease  were  destroyed,  there  would  be  hell 
to  pay.  Cockroaches  in  the  open  sunlight  ?  They'd  go  crazy, 
without  dirt  and  smaller  insects  to  feed  their  bloated  bodies. 
In  their  rage,  they'd  devour  each  other. 

We  watched  the  large,  beetle-like  creature  curiously.  It 
was  as  big  as  a  California  nectarine.  This  particular  cock- 
roach must  have  been  the  largest  and  juiciest  of  all  the 
species  Blatta  in  the  world.  Its  wings  were  torn,  and  its  head 
rocked  frantically  from  side  to  side.  Lillian  wagered  George 
her  cigarette  quota  for  the  day  that  this  cockroach  would 

166 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  167 

not  have  to  wait  for  the  open  sunlight  to  meet  its  end. 

From  the  shadow  under  the  sink,  we  saw  a  tiny  ant  ap- 
proach slowly  and  carefully.  The  giant  reached  out  its 
feelers,  and  the  ant  scuttled  away.  At  a  safe  six-inch  distance, 
the  small  black  dot  stood  still.  More  black  ants  marched  out 
of  the  cracks  under  the  sink  and  circled  around  the  big 
brown  bug. 

Then  they  attacked.  The  advance  guard  took  the  head, 
some  went  for  the  breast,  others  the  wings  and  the  rest  of 
the  body.  They  fought  slowly.  Another  hour  passed,  and 
all  we  could  see  of  the  battle  was  a  crazily-rocking  brown, 
spotted  with  black.  Soon  all  movement  stopped. 

In  the  morning,  the  only  sign  of  the  struggle  was  a  small 
brown  mess  in  the  center  of  the  floor.  The  owner  of  the 
cabins  entered  with  a  broom,  swept  the  floor,  and  mumbled 
complaints  about  all  the  ants  hidden  in  the  cracks  under  the 
sink.  .  .  . 

California  newspapers  said  it  was  all  a  lie.  John  Stein- 
beck's Grapes  of  Wrath,  babies  dead  from  starvation,  migra- 
tory slums,  terror  and  bloodshed,  bankers  behind  the  As- 
sociated Farmers — all  were  furious  lies.  We  knew  little 
about  the  migratory  workers.  We  knew  that  Steinbeck's 
book  was  a  best-seller,  but  only  Mel  and  Lillian  had  read  it. 
We  had  seen  "America's  first  concentration  camp"  in  Yaki- 
ma  where  migrants  had  been  interned.  We  had  passed  a 
sprawling  "jungle  camp" — hundreds  of  skinny  kids,  babies 
suckling  at  their  mothers'  dry  breasts  under  torn  canvas 
roofs — someplace  in  Oregon.  We  remembered  the  little 
fellow  who  had  argued  over  the  price  of  gasoline  on  the 
Redwood  Trail.  But  the  words  migrants  and  Associated 
Farmers  and  California's  industrialized  agriculture  together 
had  no  coherent  meaning  for  us. 


168  The  "Argonauts" 

The  Chamber  of  Commerce  tried  to  help  the  five  strangers 
from  the  great  East.  One  brochure  told  us:  "From  many 
parts  of  the  nation  have  come  business  executives  to  build 
themselves  palatial  homes  in  this  land  of  sunshine.  .  .  ." 
Another  informed  us  that  "those  who  live  in  the  sun-kissed 
Southland  gather  flowers  in  profusion  clear  around  the 
calendar."  Then  why  the  fuss  ? 

We  decided  to  see  for  ourselves.  We  donned  old  clothes, 
left  our  baggage  in  Los  Angeles,  and  headed  for  the  San 
Joaquin  Valley.  How  did  you  go  about  searching  for  the 
truth  in  sunny  California  anyway  ?  In  San  Francisco,  Joseph 
Henry  Jackson  had  advised  us  to  look  up  Carey  Me  Williams, 
who  had  just  written  a  book  called  Factories  in  the  Field. 
The  book  critic  had  told  us  Me  Williams  knew  the  facts 
behind  the  migratory  question.  Like  five  versions  of 
Diogenes,  we  entered  the  large,  white  State  building  in 
downtown  Los  Angeles  and  knocked  on  a  door  labeled 
CHIEF,  DIVISION  OF  IMMIGRATION  AND  HOUSING. 

Carey  Me  Williams  was  the  CHIEF.  He  had  rimmed  glasses 
and  a  snub  nose.  He  was,  according  to  the  Visalia  Times- 
Delta,  an  "irresponsible  and  unethical  writer." 

"We're  going  into  the  San  Joaquin  Valley,"  we  said. 
"We  want  to  find  out  the  truth  about  the  migratory 
workers." 

Me  Williams  glanced  rapidly  at  each  of  us.  "What  do  you 
want  to  see?" 

"Everything." 

"Fine.  Go  to  see  Harold  Pomeroy  or  Hugh  Osborne  of 
the  Associated  Farmers;  the  Tagus  Ranch,  where  Hullett  C. 
Merritt  will  probably  show  you  around  in  person;  another 
Associated  Farmer  you  ought  to  see " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  we  interrupted.  "Aren't  these  people  the 
ones  who  are  fighting  you?" 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  169 

"Sure,"  he  said,  and  held  out  a  pack  of  cigarettes.  We 
smoked,  and  he  continued.  "They'll  be  glad  to  talk  to  you. 
They'll  give  you  the  point  of  view  of  the  Associated 
Farmers." 

"Oh." 

"Then  go  to  see  the  Federal  Migratory  Camps,  at  Arvin, 
Visalia  and  Shafter,  and  the  Mineral  King  Co-operative 
Farm,  the  Hoovervilles  near  Bakersfield.  Dan  Harris,  edi- 
tor of  the  Kern  County  Labor  Journal  in  Bakersfield  has  a 
lot  of  dope  on  the  Associated  Farmers.  .  .  .  Don't  worry 
about  things  to  see." 

"But  we  don't  know  anything  about  the  setup  in  Cali- 
fornia. We  thought  you  might  give  us  a  picture  of  agricul- 
ture in  the  state  before  we  start  out." 

"The  setup  is  a  nice  one,"  he  responded  directly.  "That's 
true  of  both  the  San  Joaquin  and  Imperial  Valleys.  The 
hirelings  of  the  Associated  Farmers  not  only  work  hand  in 
hand  with  county  officers  and  government  officials,  but  in 
many  cases  the  vigilantes  and  the  county  politicians  are  one 
and  the  same.  In  Marysville,  for  instance,  the  workers  go 
on  strike,  and  the  county  officials  pass  a  series  of  ordinances 
designed  to  break  the  strike.  The  sheriff  leads  and  directs 
the  vigilante  terror.  The  federal  government  agencies  can 
move  in  only  when  constitutional  rights  are  denied  by  the 
state  and  county  agencies." 

"Why  are  the  big  farmers  opposed  to  the  federal  camps?" 

"Because  they're  islands  of  sovereignty  in  the  midst  of 
territory  controlled  in  every  way  by  the  Associated  Farmers. 
The  workers  have  the  right  of  free  speech  in  these  camps. 
They  have  access  to  hot  water  and  a  bit  of  recreation.  The 
Associated  Farmers  feel  that  if  the  workers  become  accus- 
tomed to  livable  conditions,  they  will  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  mud-holes  and  slums  on  the  private  plantations." 


170  The  "Argonauts" 

"Why  is  agriculture  in  California  so  different?" 

"That's  a  big  question,"  he  answered.  "You'll  find  out 
when  you  see  the  San  Joaquin  Valley.  Six  per  cent  of  the 
farms  comprise  three-fourths  of  the  acreage.  Farming  is  con- 
ducted on  a  larger  scale  out  here.  The  processors  raise  their 
own  crops,  eliminating  the  small  farmer's  profit.  They  sell 
their  own  crops  to  their  own  canneries  at  a  loss,  forcing  down 
the  market  price.  Thus,  they  force  the  small  farmer  to  sell 
at  a  loss,  and  they  make  more  profits  at  the  cannery.  Eventu- 
ally they  hope  to  get  rid  of  the  small  farmer  altogether.  But 
you'll  see  it  all  in  action." 

Fortified  with  an  autographed  copy  of  Factories  in  the 
Field,  we  took  leave  of  Carey  Me  Williams  to  "see  it  all  in 
action." 

We  had  seen  its  prologue  as  we  hurried  across  the  middle 
of  America,  dipping  into  the  Dust  Bowl  and  coming  up 
for  air.  From  Chicago  to  the  Coast  we  had  seen  deserted 
farm  shacks  and  rusty  machines.  We  had  seen  crops  de- 
stroyed by  dust,  thirst  and  erosion  and  turned  into  an  ach- 
ing, sterile  desert.  We  had  seen  some  of  the  6,000,000  acres 
of  land  in  America  now  in  ruins. 

We  had  learned  about  the  American  Farmer  as  we  drove 
West.  We  remembered  Ted  Lang,  dark  and  sullen  in  his 
dusty  little  gas  station  in  Kansas.  We  remembered  the 
stories  of  tenants  being  thrown  of!  their  land.  We  had  seen 
the  American  Farmer  on  the  road,  in  a  jalopy  piled  with 
household  goods,  blond  babies  and  beds.  We  had  seen  the 
migratory  cavalcades  heading  for  California,  Oregon  and 
Washington. 

Why  did  we  think  of  him  as  the  American  Farmer?  In 
California  he  was  a  "dirty  Okie."  To  us,  he  was  a  farmer 
who  wanted  to  work  the  land.  He  wanted  to  raise  food.  He 
wanted  a  piece  of  ground,  with  water  to  give  it  life,  and  he 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  111 

would  do  the  rest.  That  had  been  our  notion  of  a  farmer 
before  we  saw  one,  and  we  were  not  far  wrong. 

There  were  200,000  migratory  workers  in  California,  200,- 
ooo  farmers  who  had  been  cheated  and  betrayed  in  their  bat- 
tle for  land,  water  and  food. 

Their  land  in  Oklahoma  had  been  blown  into  Kansas. 
Their  place  as  sharecroppers  in  Arkansas  had  been  taken  by 
one  large,  cold,  rattling  tractor.  They  had  come  to  Cali- 
fornia from  Texas,  Oklahoma,  Arkansas  and  Kansas  to 
work  for  the  men  who  owned  the  land. 

These  owners  too  were  called  farmers — the  Associated 
Farmers.  They  didn't  work  the  land  themselves.  They 
owned  canneries  and  banks  and  tall  buildings  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, Los  Angeles  and  New  York.  They  talked  to  us  of 
overhead  costs,  communist  agitators,  and  they  studied  stock 
market  reports.  They  did  not  jibe  with  our  notion  of  a 
farmer. 

Route  99 — the  migratory  pathway  from  onions  to  pota- 
toes to  grapes  to  peaches  to  apples.  We  were  not  alone  on 
the  road  going  north.  We  sped  toward  Baker sfield,  leaving 
behind  the  trail  of  tin  lizzies  and  dilapidated  Chevvies  with 
their  work-hungry  occupants.  We  passed  a  family  of  Mexi- 
cans, dark  and  expressionless,  surrounded  by  mattresses,  pots 
and  pans  and  rags.  We  entered  Kern  County.  Below  us, 
the  valley  stretched  for  miles,  an  unending  brown  rug.  For 
an  hour  we  drove  past  the  rich  wheat  fields,  marred  by 
nothing  except  a  large  sign,  "Rancho  Gasoline  Corp. — Keep 
OfT,"  and  a  fat  Mobilgas  tank. 

A  few  miles  before  Bakersfield  we  stopped  at  a  gas  station. 
We  climbed  out  and  stretched.  It  was  September  2 — a  San 
Joaquin  day,  with  a  temperature  near  100.  Helen,  after 
determining  that  the  restrooms  were  duly  "registered,"  tried 
the  door.  It  was  locked.  The  station  attendant  hurried  over. 


172  The  "Argonauts" 

"Just  a  minute,  Miss,  I  have  to  unlock  it." 

"Only  privileged  characters  allowed?"  Helen  chided. 

The  attendant  was  embarrassed.  "I'm  sorry,  Miss,  we  get 
our  orders  to  keep  it  locked.  We've  had  a  lot  of  trouble  with 
the  Okies." 

Inside,  a  small  tin  box,  like  an  old-fashioned  match  holder, 
was  tacked  to  the  wall.  "This  restroom  approved  by  Good 
Housekeeping  Magazine,"  its  face  proclaimed.  "Have  you 
any  suggestions  for  its  improvement?" 

Across  the  road  from  the  gas  station  stood  a  small  booth 
shaded  by  a  large,  green  umbrella. 

STOP  HERE  FOR  INFORMATION 

about 

Jobs  for  Farm  Workers  in  Valley 
California  State  Employment  Service 

"Let's  go  over,"  Joe  suggested. 

He  and  Lillian  crossed  the  road. 

"I  wonder  if  we  could  pass  for  migrants,"  Lillian  said. 
"Let's  ask  for  jobs.  We  don't  look  undernourished.  But  if 
they  don't  notice  your  Brooklyn  accent,  your  sloppy  pants 
might  get  you  over." 

"Okay,"  Joe  returned  appraisingly.  "You  don't  look  so 
civilized  yourself." 

Our  efforts  to  "pass"  were  not  needed.  We  were  not  the 
only  ones  seeking  jobs.  The  question,  "Any  work  around?" 
was  expected.  Three  others  were  before  us.  While  waiting 
our  turn,  we  struck  up  a  conversation  with  a  middle-aged 
man  in  blue  dungarees  and  a  wide  straw  hat. 

"Ah'm  too  late  foh  the  grapes,"  he  said,  "and  Ah  guess 
Ah'm  too  early  foh  cotton.  Just  out  of  luck,  thasall." 

His  car  bore  a  Texas  license. 

"Things  are  bad  out  there.   Mah  wife's  family  lives  in 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  173 

Texas,  and  they're  aimin'  to  move  away.  Don't  go  to  Texas, 
if  you  want  work.  They're  payin'  fifty  cents  per  hundred  foh 
pickin'  cotton.  Mah  wife's  folks  are  big  people,  but  they 
can't  pick  enough  to  even  try  livinV 

His  turn  came,  and  he  began  to  confer  earnestly  with  the 
man  in  the  booth.  The  young  man  and  woman  who  had 
preceded  the  Texan  walked  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  stood 
there.  The  man's  shirt  was  torn  at  the  back,  and  his  sleeves 
were  cut  to  the  elbow.  He  walked  with  a  limp.  A  car  sped 
by,  and  both  the  man  and  the  woman  gestured  a  going-my- 
way  with  their  thumbs.  The  car  did  not  stop.  Joe  and 
Lillian  approached. 

"Waiting  for  a  lift?" 

"Yah." 

"Don't  you  have  a  car?" 

"Sold  it." 

"Oh." 

Suddenly,  Joe  and  Lillian  felt  ashamed. 

The  man  saw  the  two  flushed  faces. 

"We  got  no  car,"  he  said  kindly.  "We  got  to  bum  rides. 
We  got  no  other  way  to  get  to  Visalia  for  the  cotton  season." 

Joe  and  Lillian  hurried  back  to  the  car. 


Bakersfield — the  seat  of  the  Associated  Farmers. 

"They  can't  get  rid  of  me,"  Daniel  Harris  boomed,  as  we 
sat  around  his  tiny  office  in  the  Labor  Temple.  "Just  let  'em 
try.  They're  shiverin'  in  their  boots  now." 

He  said  he  was  having  "a  helluva  time  livin',"  and  we 
believed  him.  He  was  the  sixty-five-year-old  editor  of  the 
Kern  County  Union  Labor  Journal.  He  wore  thick  glasses 
and  a  silk  shirt. 

"Associated  Farmers,  my  Aunt  Emma!  Associated  robber 


174  The  "Argonauts" 

barons,  that's  what  they  are!  My  own  father  was  one  of 
them,  so  you  can't  tell  me.  They  stole  those  large  land- 
holdings.  And  my  wife's  father  did  it  too,  so  you  can't  tell 
her." 

He  removed  his  glasses  with  one  hand,  and  with  a  large 
white  handkerchief  in  the  other,  he  wiped  his  perspiring 
face,  thick  gray  hair  and  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"Say,  how're  you  kids  traveling?" 

"In  a  1939  sedan,  bought  on  the  installment  plan,"  we 
answered  casually. 

He  guffawed,  and  we  relaxed.  He  was  all  right. 

"How  do  you  eat?   Been  eating  regularly?" 

"Well  .  .  ." 

"Who's  in  charge  of  the  money?" 

"I  am."  George  assumed  his  righteous  attitude. 

"Oh,"  Dan  Harris  said,  pretending  to  be  disdainful. 
"Here,  you,"  he  handed  the  bill  to  Helen,  "you're  the  best- 
looking  one.  You  take  this  and  see  that  they  all  get  a  good 
meal  tonight." 

"In  my  day,"  he  went  on,  beaming  at  Helen,  "girls  who 
showed  their  ankles  were  wicked.  Now  look  at  you!  Pants! 
Traveling  all  over  the  country  in  pants.  Well,  anyway,  only 
one  thing  makes  me  mad.  People  who  call  me  'that  venerable 
editor.'  I'm  not  old.  I'm  only  sixty-five."  He  lowered  his 
eyelids  coyly.  "I  can  live  without  working,  but  I  like  this 
work.  I  say  there's  something  wrong  with  the  whole  system 
as  long  as  there  is  one  child  who  has  to  go  hungry.  .  .  . 
Yes,  we've  got  real  labor  unity  in  Bakersfield,  let  me  tell  you 
we  have.  The  A.  F.  of  L.  big-wigs  tell  us  they  won't  stand 
for  all  this  unity,  unity,  unity  talk.  But  we've  got  a  strong 
Unity  Council,  composed  of  the  Workers'  Alliance,  the  CIO 
and  A.  F.  of  L.  unions  and  the  Railroad  Brotherhoods.  And 
we  tell  the  A.  F.  of  L.  big-wigs  to  go  to  hell.  The  CIO 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  175 

organizer  in  Bakersfield  helped  to  organize  the  vegetable 
workers  into  an  A.  F.  of  L.  union  in  Edison,  ten  miles  away. 
We've  got  6,000  union  members  in  Bakersfield.  We  can  tell 
Bill  Green  to  go  to  hell.  Yes." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  asked: 

"Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  how  strange  it  was  that  there 
are  so  many  more  horses'  behinds  than  there  are  horses?" 

He  roared. 

"Which  reminds  me,"  Dan  said,  "of  a  story.  A  boy  was 
starving  and  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Then  he  found  a 
million  dollars.  He  returned  every  penny  of  the  money  to 
the  rich  man  who  had  lost  it.  The  rich  man  gave  him  his 
daughter  to  marry.  The  next  day  they  had  twins.  Which 
shows  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward." 

Our  fun  was  interrupted  by  loud  shouts  outside  the  Labor 
Temple. 

"Extrah!   Extrah  papuh!" 

Mel  ran  outside  to  get  a  copy.  He  returned,  his  dark  face 
serious. 

FRANCE  MOBILIZES  TROOPS 

GERMANY   ADVANCES   IN   POLAND 

The  headlines  were  three  inches  high. 

"War  is  horrible,"  the  labor  editor  said.  "As  a  kid,  I 
enlisted  in  the  Spanish-American  War.  I  was  a  telegraph 
operator  in  the  World  War.  It's  horrible.  They'll  try  to  get 
us  into  this  one.  Well,  they  won't  do  it;  not  if  I  can  help  it. 
We've  got  to  stay  out." 

As  we  left  Bakersfield  Saturday  afternoon,  the  newsboys' 
shouts  of  "Wah!"  echoed  after  us.  We  read  the  newspaper 
carefully.  Mel  drove  slowly  so  that  we  might  follow  the 
printed  lines.  We  passed  the  large  Edison  Orange  Growers' 
Association  building,  the  Sunkist  advertisements,  the  rich 


176  The  "Argonauts" 

oil-drilling  area,  rows  of  regimented  derricks  planted  in  the 
land,  the  wealthy  di  Giorgio  fruit  farms.  Wrinkled  moun- 
tains in  the  distance  walled  in  the  richness  of  the  sun-burned 
Valley.  The  late  afternoon  sun  colored  the  sky.  And  the 
headlines  in  our  paper  seemed  to  reach  out  and  touch  every- 
thing. 

It  was  beginning  to  grow  dark  when  we  reached  the 
federal  migratory  camp  at  Arvin.  Here  John  Steinbeck  had 
lived  with  the  migrants,  while  working  on  The  Grapes  of 
Wrath.  A  tall,  blond  young  man  dressed  in  khaki  shirt  and 
trousers  came  out  of  the  small  cottage  near  the  camp 
entrance.  He  was  the  camp  manager,  Fred  Ross.  He 
showed  us  about  the  grounds,  through  rows  of  newly  built 
one-room  houses,  each  with  a  small  front  "porch."  The  agri- 
cultural families  would  move  into  them  in  a  few  days,  when 
construction  had  been  completed. 

Ross  unlocked  the  door  to  one  of  the  houses.  Concrete 
floor,  metal  walls,  screened  windows  over  which  metal  flaps 
could  be  pulled — it  was  as  big  as  a  kitchenette  in  a  New 
York  apartment.  It  wasn't  much;  we  wouldn't  have  liked 
to  live  there.  The  migratory  workers  probably  didn't  like  it 
either.  But  it  meant  a  roof,  a  real  roof  over  their  heads.  We 
were  to  discover  that  a  roof  is  a  rare  thing  in  some  parts  of 
California. 

Past  the  new  structures  were  the  old  tent  floors,  covered 
with  roofs  of  patched  canvas,  to  be  discarded  on  "moving 
day."  A  little  boy  playing  in  front  of  a  ragged  tent  ran  after 
us  as  we  walked  by.  He  reached  Ross  and  grabbed  the 
manager's  legs.  Then  he  ran  away  laughing  triumphantly. 

Ross  pointed  out  the  recreation  hall,  the  laundry  room, 
the  nursery  and  school,  the  medical  clinic,  the  garage.  He 
outlined  the  activities  of  the  camp  community.  The  campers' 
council  was  the  central  governing  body  and  was  composed 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  111 

of  representatives  elected  by  the  workers.  The  council  met 
every  Thursday  night  to  conduct  its  business.  Wednesday 
was  fun  and  amateur  night,  Friday  was  lecture  and  moving- 
picture  night  on  health,  child  welfare,  or  cooking. 

"Each  family,"  Ross  continued,  "pays  a  rental  of  ten  cents 
a  day,  and  helps  two  hours  a  week  in  the  upkeep  of  the 
camp.  Some  pay  the  rental  by  the  week,  some  by  the  month, 
and  some  send  us  the  money  they  owe  long  after  leaving  the 
camp." 

In  the  dusk,  Ross  pointed  to  a  group  of  small  plots  each 
with  a  little  house,  about  fifty  yards  away.  These  were  the 
"garden  homes"  where  agricultural  workers  had  rented  small 
patches  of  land  to  work.  The  homes  raised  vegetables  and 
supplied  them  to  the  Arvin  camp  or  sold  them  to  private 
companies. 

Fred  Ross  had  been  camp  manager  for  only  a  few  months, 
but  he  believed  in  these  agricultural  workers  and  liked  them. 
After  we  had  settled  ourselves  on  the  comfortable  couch  and 
floor  in  his  cottage,  he  talked  with  us  about  his  work.  His 
dark,  pretty  wife  and  a  visiting  friend  from  Los  Angeles 
joined  us  as  we  listened. 

He  showed  us  the  camp  paper,  the  Tow-Sac^  Tattler, 
published  by  the  workers  themselves.  We  read  a  poem, 
called  "Cotton  Fever,"  written  and  signed  by  "A  Camper." 

Along  the  road  on  either  side 
Cottons  green  and  two  miles  wide. 
Fields  jan  out  in  rows  string-straight, 
And  a  boll  flings  out  his  wadded  bait 
And  grins  at  me  and  seems  to  say: 
"You'll  be  a-grabbin'  at  me  one  day 
At  six  bits  a  hundred  weight!' 


178  The  "Argonauts" 

Then  the  bolls  started  rustling,  shoutin'  in  the  air 

Just  li\e  as  if  they  was  callin'  off  a  square: 

"Chase  that  possum,  chase  that  coon, 

Chase  that  cotton  boll  around  the  moon. 

Crawl  down  a  row  and  stand  up  straight 

On  a  six-bit  whirl  for  a  hundred  weight. 

Hunger  on  along  and  grab  'er  all  around, 

Payin  the  man  for  the  use  of  his  ground. 

Lint's  heaped  up  an  a  record  yield; 

Gins  chucl^  full  so  gin  'er  in  the  -field. 

You  can  live  on  the  land  till  the  day  you  die — 

Jus'  as  long  as  you  can  leave  when  the  crop's  laid  by. 

So  pic\  'er  on  down  to  the  end  in  the  gloam, 

Then  swing  up  your  $ac\  an  promenade  home. 

Meet  your  baby,  pat  him  on  the  head, 

Feed  him  white  beans  an'  a  piece  a  corn  bread. 

No  need  to  worry,  he'll  go  freight — 

At  jus'  six-bits  a  hundred  weight." 

And  so  I  mosey  down  the  hill 

Cotton  bolls  a-callin'  still: 

"At  Long  Row's  End  the  Boss  Man  wait, 

Nail  you  up  in  a  wooden  crate. 

At  six-bits  a  hundred  livin's  hard, 

But  dyin's  dear  in  the  County  Yard — 

At  twenty-five  buc\s  a  hundred  weight!" 

"We  want  to  print  things  that  you  want  to  read,"  an 
announcement  in  the  paper  said,  "and  the  only  way  we'll 
ever  find  out  what  those  things  are  is  for  you  to  get  busy 
and  bring  us  little  stories  or  ideas.  ...  If  you  can't  write 
'em,  or  don't  want  to  write  'em,  then  just  come  on  down  to 
the  office  and  talk  'em." 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  179 

That  night  we  realized  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  wor\ 
to  be  done,  editing  little  papers  like  the  Tow~Sac\  Tattler. 
To  catch  the  spirit  and  songs  and  activities  o£  people  like 
these  agricultural  workers!  That  was  something  worthwhile. 
We  wouldn't  have  traded  one  Tow-SacJ^  Tattler  for  a  year's 
subscription  to  the  New  York  Herald  Tribune! 

"Want  to  go  to  the  camp  dance  tonight?"  Ross  asked. 

"Will  it  be  all  right  for  outsiders  to  come?"  Joe  asked. 

"How  much  is  it?"  George  inquired,  always  on  the  job. 

"It's  twenty-five  cents  for  guests.  Outsiders  can  come,  but 
you  have  to  be  invited  by  a  camper.  I'm  inviting  you." 

"It's  okay  with  me,"  said  George.  "But  only  on  condition 
that  we  go  without  supper  tonight." 

We  voted  to  go  to  the  dance — without  supper. 

A  tall,  brawny  worker  in  a  tight-fitting  blue  suit 
approached  Helen. 

"Would  you  care  to  have  this  round?"  he  asked  politely. 

Helen  was  twirled  off. 

The  hall  was  pretty  well  filled.  Against  the  walls,  on 
benches,  sat  the  older  folks  holding  sleeping  babies  and  the 
shy  younger  folks.  The  band  on  the  rostrum  was  a  three- 
piece  affair — a  fiddle,  a  guitar  and  a  harmonica. 

Joe  wandered  into  a  corner,  where  some  young  boys  stood 
shyly  with  hands  in  pockets.  Mel  was  outside,  asking  the 
"gate-man"  if  there  was  ever  any  trouble  at  these  dances. 
Helen  was  twirling.  George  looked  at  Lillian. 

"Wanna  dance?" 

"Me?  Don't  ask  me!  You  ought  to  dance  with  some  of 
the  girls  sitting  around  the  room.  That's  the  way  you'll  get 
to  know  them." 

"I'm  . . .  I'm  afraid."  George  shook  his  head,  his  collegiate 
past  forgotten. 


180  The  "Argonauts" 

"Would  you  like  to  have  this  square?"  a  deep  voice 
inquired. 

Lillian  turned.  A  tall  fellow  wearing  sideburns  stood  with 
his  hand  outstretched.  Lillian  took  the  hand,  waved  her  free 
arm  happily  at  George. 

Breathless  and  flushed,  after  twenty  minutes  of  whirl  your 
partner,  in  and  out,  grand  right-and-left,  she  was  escorted 
back  to  George,  who  sat  disconsolate  on  the  sidelines. 

"Well,  did  you  see  me  doing  that  square?"  she  asked 
triumphantly. 

"Yeah." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  did  it.  I  took  your  advice."  George  looked  reproachful. 
"I  asked  her,  the  pretty  one  in  the  green  slacks." 

"And?" 

"Do  you  know  what  she  said?  'I  ain't  dancin'  tonight, 
Bud.'  That's  what  she  said.  Probably  thought  I  was  a  fresh 
guy.  This  never  happened  to  me  before.  I'm  squelched." 

And  so  we  met  the  migratory  workers.  The  dancing 
couples  in  the  hall  might  have  been  any  young  people  in  any 
part  of  America.  We  wanted  to  write.  These  young  people 
wanted  to  farm.  A  wiry  youngster  wanted  a  farm  of  his  own 
back  in  Oklahoma  if  "it  ever  gets  to  rainin'  out  there." 
Meanwhile  he  was  playing  his  "geetar"  in  local  beer  parlors, 
just  to  stay  alive.  A  lovely  blonde  girl  in  a  bright  green  dress 
wanted  to  marry  a  farmer  and  help  him  work  the  land. 
A  freckled  prankster  called  Sam  became  serious  when  he 
talked  about  settling  down  some  day  on  land  of  his  own.  He 
would  save  some  money,  he  said,  and  buy  a  plot.  He'd  build 
the  house  and  barn  himself,  and  start  with  a  good  staple  crop, 
letsee,  now.  .  .  . 

They  knew  what  they  wanted  and  hoped  for  a  time  when 
their  dreams  would  come  true.  We  were  no  different. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  181 

3 

Sunday  morning — and  we  slept  late.  We  all  took  showers. 
Helen  and  Lillian  put  on  the  one  dress  each  had  brought, 
and  the  boys  shaved.  Feeling  clean  and  rested,  we  started 
out  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Bertha  Rankin,  a  widow  whose 
small  farm  adjoined  the  Arvin  camp.  It  was  she,  Fred  Ross 
had  told  us,  who  had  sold  the  government  the  site  of  land 
for  the  camp,  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  Associated 
Farmers. 

Her  name  was  on  the  gate,  and  we  drove  right  up  to  the 
farmhouse.  We  stepped  out  into  the  hot  morning  sun  and 
knocked.  No  answer.  We  knocked  again,  and  heard  some 
movement  inside.  Finally,  without  opening  the  door,  a 
woman  called,  "What  d'ya  want?" 

"We'd  like  to  talk  to  you." 

"Come  back  in  the  afternoon.  I  just  woke  up." 

Our  feelings  hurt,  we  went  over  to  the  camp  manager's 
cottage  to  seek  solace.  Tall  and  genial  Fred  Ross  greeted  us 
with  some  news. 

"England  has  declared  war." 

"War?" 

The  word,  which  we  had  used  so  often,  now  sounded 
strange,  as  if  the  official  British  pronouncement  had  given  it 
new  meaning  and  a  new  taste. 

"President  Roosevelt  is  speaking  over  the  radio  tonight. 
We've  got  to  listen  to  him.  He's  going  to  talk  about  the 
war."  Helen  read  the  announcement  from  the  paper. 

"Well,  whatever  else  the  war  means,  there's  one  thing  I'm 
sure  of,"  Mel  declared. 

"What?" 

"The  speculators  are  going  to  make  profits  out  of  it." 

"Check!" 


182  The  "Argonauts" 

"And  the  large  cotton  growers,"  Fred  added. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  our  conversation.  Fred 
answered  it. 

"Hello,  Mrs.  Rankin,"  he  said. 

She  was  in  her  forties — a  strong,  heavy  woman.  She  had 
bright  blue  eyes  like  John  Steinbeck's.  She  saw  us  and 
laughed,  wrinkling  her  nose  like  a  little  child  who  has  dis- 
covered a  new  toy. 

"Well,  hello!  I  didn't  know  who  you  were  before.  But 
I  guess  you're  all  right  if  you're  friends  of  them,"  she  pointed 
a  thumb  at  the  Rosses.  "I  guess  you're  on  our  side."  There- 
after, we  were  to  recognize  the  small  farmers  and  migrants 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Associated  Farmers  on  the  other, 
by  the  descriptions  of  "They're  on  our  side"  or  "They're  not 
on  our  side." 

"I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  very  friendly  when  you  called  before," 
she  explained,  "but  you  see,  I  have  to  be  careful.  Lotsa  times 
the  Associated  Farmers  send  young  roughnecks  over  to  try 
to  scare  me  or  threaten  to  burn  down  my  barn.  But  you're 
on  our  side,  I  see.  You'll  have  to  come  over  to  the  house  and 
have  some  cold  lemonade." 

"Why  don't  the  big  farmers  like  you?" 

"Because  I  sold  this  land  to  the  government  for  the  camp. 
But  more  because  I  fight  'em  at  every  turn.  Some  small 
farmers  let  themselves  be  pushed  around  by  the  big  ones. 
But  I  pay  a  decent  cotton  pickin'  wage,  and  they  try  to  make 
me  pay  lower." 

She  told  us  that  the  large  farmers  had  caused  a  strike  to  be 
called  at  Arvin  a  few  years  ago.  They  were  the  same  ones 
now  in  the  Associated  Farmers.  They  had  carried  guns  and 
thrown  tear  gas  at  the  strikers.  One  of  them  had  called  her 
up  to  tell  her  that  her  own  cotton  pickers  were  cooking  for 
the  strikers  on  her  land. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  183 

"  'Kick  them  off  your  land,'  he  told  me,  but  I  said,  'Like 
thunder  I  will.'  They  didn't  try  to  burn  down  my  place 
then,  because  the  bank  has  a  mortgage  on  it!"  She  laughed. 
"They  own  the  bank  too,  and  they  were  afraid  to  burn  my 
place  down." 

She  paused.  "I  was  at  the  Board  of  Supervisors  meeting 
when  they  banned  The  Grapes  of  Wrath.  Stanley  Abel — he's 
kinda  king  over  in  Taft — was  there  and  all  the  rest  of  them. 
'But  don't  you  think  the  book  is  filthy?'  he  asks  me.  'No,' 
I  said,  'it's  the  same  as  you  men-folks  talk  when  you're  alone.' 
That  made  him  mad.  But  I  have  three  copies  of  the  book 
and  circulate  them  among  the  small  farmers." 

"They  came  around  here,"  Ross  said,  "and  took  the  three 
copies  out  of  the  camp  library.  The  campers  borrowed  my 
personal  copy  to  read." 

"That  Board  of  Supervisors.  I'm  going  up  there  Tuesday 
for  the  meeting.  I'm  goin'  to  ask  them  to  lift  the  ban.  Would 
you  want  to  come?"  she  turned  to  us. 

We  would. 

"How  would  you  like  to  have  lunch  afterwards  in  the 
El  Tejon  ?  That's  where  all  the  Associated  Farmers  eat." 

"Swell!" 

"I  like  to  work  with  the  Workers'  Alliance,  because  we 
farmers  need  people  with  their  grit,"  she  continued.  "The 
large  farmers  never  pay  good  wages,  but  they're  always 
buying  new  land.  All  the  money  we  get  from  the  govern- 
ment to  pay  for  the  cotton  is  going  to  the  landowners. 

"I  went  to  San  Francisco  last  week  and  got  some  booklets 
from  the  Simon  Lubin  Society.  I'm  going  to  give  them  out 
to  the  small  farmers  here.  Mr.  Housmer  asked  me  if  I  saw 
the  Fair.  'No,'  I  told  him,  'I  haven't  any  money  to  see  the 
Fair.  If  I  have  extra  money,  I'll  give  it  to  you.'  That's  what 
I  told  him. 


184  The  "Argonauts" 

"Oh,  and  then  I  asked  him  if  he  got  my  $15  check.  I  hold 
some  shares  in  a  water  company.  Their  lawyer  once  called 
me  up  and  said,  'Since  that  god-damn  New  Deal  got  in,  the 
country  has  gone  to  hell.'  Just  like  that.  I  hadn't  even  asked 
him.  This  lawyer  is  with  the  Associated  Farmers.  He  sent 
me  the  $15  check  as  a  dividend.  Won't  he  be  mad  when  he 
sees  I  sent  it  to  the  Simon  Lubin  Society?  It'll  come  back 
endorsed  in  big  letters — Simon  J.  Lubin  Society!" 

She  laughed  mischievously,  as  if  she  had  just  played  a  good 
joke.  The  radio  had  been  blaring  news  of  the  war  on  and  off 
as  she  had  been  speaking.  Everybody  would  stop  to  listen, 
then  she  would  continue.  Finally,  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
sighed. 

"Isn't  it  awful?"  she  asked.  "I  don't  know  what  you  folks 
think.  My  father  and  mother  were  born  in  Germany,  and 
I  hate  Hitler.  But  I  don't  think  the  United  States  should  go 
into  the  war  in  Europe.  We've  got  enough  to  do  here 
without  going  to  fight  Europe's  wars." 

Another  light  knock  was  heard.  It  was  a  little  boy,  shyly 
asking  if  he  might  borrow  the  Sunday  paper.  Mrs.  Ross  gave 
it  to  him.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  hungry  for  news  of  this 
war. 

We  left  with  Mrs.  Rankin.  She  gave  us  the  promised  ice- 
cold  lemonade,  and  George,  fussing  around  with  things, 
picked  up  a  gun  carelessly. 

"Careful,  son,"  Mrs.  Rankin  admonished.  "It's  loaded." 

George  paled  and  dropped  the  gun  quickly. 

"I  keep  it  with  me  always.  Can't  take  any  chances  when 
you're  buckin'  the  Associated  Farmers." 

After  promising  to  meet  the  following  Tuesday  at  the 
Bakersfield  Court  House,  we  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Rankin. 
She  was  a  small  farmer  still.  How  long  could  she  hold  out  ? 

We  wondered  what  the  solution  to  all  this  was  going 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  185 

to  be.  Carey  Me  Williams  had  advised  us  to  visit  the  Mineral 
King  Co-operative  Farm.  In  Factories  in  the  Field  he  had 
written : 

The  real  solution  involves  the  substitution  of  collective 
agriculture  for  the  present  monopolistically  owned  and 
controlled  system.  As  a  first  step  in  the  direction  of 
collectivization,  agricultural  workers  must  be  organized. 
...  A  partial  solution  will  be  achieved  when  subsistence 
homesteads  have  grown  up  about  the  migratory  camps; 
such  an  arrangement  should  bring  about  a  large  measure 
of  permanent  stabilization.  But  the  final  solution  will 
come  only  when  the  present  wasteful,  vicious,  undemo- 
cratic and  thoroughly  antisocial  system  of  agricultural 
ownership  in  California  is  abolished. 

We  saw  Mineral  King — the  first  collective  farm  of  its  kind 
in  California.  When  we  first  saw  it,  we  thought  it  might  be 
a  mirage.  After  all,  this  part  of  California  used  to  be  a  desert. 
We  drove  past  vacant,  unused  lands,  ugly  and  bare.  Mineral 
King  had  to  be  reached  by  a  side  road,  and  it  was  bumpy  and 
dusty.  Then — fifteen  red  and  white  homes,  community 
buildings,  the  manager's  house,  barns,  storerooms.  Children 
on  bicycles  and  up  in  the  trees.  Activity  everywhere. 

Fred  Nagel,  director  and  manager,  explained  the  setup. 
The  farm  was  operated  like  a  corporation.  The  thirteen 
families  (two  more  to  be  added)  worked  the  land  together, 
dividing  the  profits.  The  farm  was  leased  from  the  govern- 
ment at  a  seven-dollar-per-acre  yearly  rental. 

Mr.  Nagel  unrolled  a  large  blueprint,  showing  what  the 
farm  would  look  like  "once  it  really  gets  started."  The  plans 
showed  provisions  for  landscaping,  terracing,  flower  and 
vegetable  gardens,  new  buildings. 

"We're  not  afraid  to  go  ahead,"  Mr.  Nagel  told  us.  "Last 


186  The  "Argonauts" 

year  the  co-operative  voted  to  invest  the  small  profit  in  cattle. 
That's  the  way  we  intend  to  grow.  And  we're  not  afraid  of 
opposition  from  the  Associated  Farmers." 

The  farm  sold  some  of  its  products  on  the  market.  The 
Visalia  federal  migratory  camp  near  by  bought  raw  milk 
from  the  co-operative.  When  additional  labor  was  needed  on 
the  farm,  the  agricultural  workers  from  the  camp  were  hired. 
The  friendliness  and  co-operation  extended  to  Saturday 
nights  when  the  farmers  and  migrants  danced  squares  and 
rounds  with  each  other  at  the  camp  hall. 

We  visited  the  new  homes,  four  modern,  neat  rooms, 
arranged  with  scientific  ventilation  and  lighting.  Each  home 
was  equipped  with  refrigerator,  wash  tub,  washing  machine, 
table-top  gas  stove  and  modern  plumbing  facilities.  In  a 
still-unoccupied  house,  a  new  ironing  board  stood  in  the 
corner.  Outside  were  a  tool  shed  and  open  garage.  A 
eucalyptus  tree  shaded  the  front  porch. 

A  tall  man  in  a  tan  sport  jacket  approached  us. 

"Do  you  mind  giving  me  some  information  about  this 
project?"  he  inquired  in  a  clipped,  neo-Oxford  accent. 

"Be  glad  to,"  Mr.  Nagel  replied. 

"Quite  a  lot  of  land  for  so  few  men  to  run,  isn't  it?" 

"We  have  machines." 

"Do  the  crops  pay?" 

"Not  much.  We  have  to  diversify  the  crops  before  they 
can  pay.  Next  year,  we  will." 

"Well,"  the  tall  man  granted,  "with  all  its  faults,  I  can  see 
that  it  helps  the  relief  situation  some.  Of  course,  fifteen 
families  can't  relieve  it  much.  However,  it's  an  interesting 
proposition." 

The  tall  man  left,  and  the  manager  smiled. 

"Some  days,  all  I  do  is  answer  questions.  A  lot  of  skeptics 
around  here,  you  know." 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  187 

Skeptics  ?  We  were  not  the  ones  to  take  things  for  granted. 
But  we  had  been  learning  a  number  of  things  about  living 
conditions  of  these  ex-Midwestern  farmers,  and  we  could 
recognize  a  good  thing  when  we  saw  it.  One  elementary 
necessity  of  life  was  at  stake  here — food.  We  had  read  a 
pamphlet  purchased  in  Bakersfield,  Their  Blood  Is  Strong 
by  John  Steinbeck.  The  author  had  listed  the  following 
typical  diets  of  the  migratory  workers: 

When  the  families  worked  and  made  money 

Family  of  eight — Boiled  cabbage,  baked  sweet  potatoes, 

creamed  carrots,  beans,  fried  dough,  jelly,  tea 
Family  of  seven — Beans,  baking  powder  biscuits,  jam, 

coffee 

Family  of  six — Canned  salmon,  cornbread,  raw  onions 
Family    of    five — Biscuits,    fried    potatoes,    dandelion 

greens,  pears 

When  the  families  did  not  have  any  money 

Family  of  eight — Dandelion  greens,  boiled  potatoes 
Family  of  seven — Beans,  fried  dough 
Family  of  six — Fried  cornmeal 

Family  of  five — Oatmeal  mush 

• 

These  typical  diets  showed  complete  absence  of  milk  for 
the  children,  whether  or  not  the  families  were  working. 
The  Mineral  King  kids  drank  fresh  milk.  The  Mineral  King 
families  were  able  to  eat  fresh  vegetables  and  meat.  Once 
their  kids  had  chewed  strips  of  leather— to  get  the  "taste" 
of  meat.  In  the  near-by  Visalia  Camp,  children  of  the 
migrants  were  given  milk  daily  by  the  camp  management, 
which  purchased  it  from  Mineral  King.  This  made  sense. 
Mineral  King  Co-operative  Farm  made  sense. 

We  headed  back  over  the  crooked  side  road  to  the  Visalia 


188  The  "Argonauts" 

Camp,  determined  to  compare  notes  with  some  of  the  1,500 
workers  housed  there.  Visalia  was  the  largest  of  the  federal 
camps,  its  metal  houses  the  same  as  those  at  Arvin.  The 
telltale  flivvers  lined  the  roads  in  front  of  the  uniform  rows. 
The  porches  were  crowded  with  boxes,  brooms  and  broken 
chairs. 

Jerry,  the  camp's  guard,  took  us  on  a  tour.  He  was  short, 
with  big  round  shoulders.  He  wore  a  khaki  suit. 

He  led  us  into  a  large  recreation  hall.  Men  sat  at  the  tables, 
playing  checkers  or  dominoes.  Little  boys  rolled  on  the  cool 
floors. 

We  saw  the  nursery,  a  darkened  room  behind  the  enter- 
tainment hall,  where  eighty  small  cots  each  held  a  sleeping 
child.  We  saw  the  library,  medical  clinic,  washing  machines 
and  laundry  room,  toilets,  showers,  garage. 

A  radio  played  softly  near  the  laundry.  Women,  old  and 
young,  bent  over  the  tubs.  In  an  adjoining  room,  both  men 
and  women  ironed  the  clothes.  The  smell  of  cleanliness  was 
all  over. 

In  the  clinic — new  desks,  two  typewriters,  a  shiny  filing 
cabinet,  dressing  rooms,  large  white  cabinets,  labeled  bottles, 
— all  clean  and  new. 

Two  government-paid  nurses  and  two  visiting  doctors 
came  every  day  to  examine,  advise  and  heal.  Persons  with 
contagious  diseases  were  immediately  isolated  and  removed 
to  a  hospital.  That  clinic  was  something,  Jerry  said  proudly. 
We  agreed. 

"But  how  about  all  the  others,  those  who  can't  live  in  the 
federal  camps?"  we  asked  Jerry.  "What's  going  to  be  done 
for  them?" 

"I  would  say  put  up  more  camps,"  the  guard  replied. 
"Only  3  per  cent  of  the  workers  are  cared  for  by  govern- 
ment camps.  The  government  just  has  to  put  up  more 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  189 

camps.  They  can't  let  these  folks  die.  They're  too  good 
to  die." 

Too  good  to  die.  .  .  . 

We  walked  back  to  the  manager's  office  slowly,  passing  a 
group  of  small  children  in  front  of  one  of  the  metal  shacks. 
A  freckle-faced,  ten-year-old  boy  was  feeding  a  tiny  blond 
tot.  The  baby  sat  on  the  porch  waving  its  arms,  as  the  little 
boy  crouched  before  it  patiently  holding  the  large  spoon. 

These  children  impressed  us  as  being  older  than  they 
looked.  Sure,  all  kids  were  the  same.  But  these  were  dif- 
ferent. Maybe  they  seemed  older  because  in  their  own 
families  they  were  considered  an  economic  asset.  The  fruit 
and  cotton  ranches  hired  whole  families.  Children  worked 
in  the  fields.  "Sure  they  ought  to  play  and  go  to  school,  but 
they  got  to  eat  first,"  one  father  told  us. 

More  than  100,000  children  of  school  age  or  younger  were 
estimated  to  be  with  the  migratory  families.  The  Federal 
Wages  and  Hours  Act  provided  that  no  child  under  sixteen 
years  of  age  might  work  during  school  hours.  Was  that  law 
enforced  in  California  ? 

Future  citizens.  They  didn't  know  what  it  meant  to  sleep 
in  a  bed  or  eat  at  a  table.  Their  parents  could  remember 
these  things,  but  these  children  had  grown  up  on  the  road, 
in  jungle  camps  and  in  fruit  orchards.  They  had  nothing  to 
remember. 

Some  of  the  older  ones  could  remember,  and  the  memory 
had  made  them  bitter.  Two  boys  were  sitting  under  a  newly 
planted  tree  in  a  spot  of  shade.  The  taller  boy,  blond  and 
lanky,  supported  himself  on  one  arm  and  examined  us  sus- 
piciously. The  younger  one,  dark  and  anemic-looking,  in 
tattered  overalls  and  torn  canvas  shoes,  smiled  faintly. 

"C'mon  over  and  set,"  he  invited.  "It's  hot." 

"My  father  owned  a  ranch  in  Texas,"  said  Evan,  the  older 


190  The  "Argonauts" 

boy,  as  he  lay  flat  on  his  back  and  stared  up  at  the  California 
blue  sky.  "Then  he  got  into  debt,  lost  the  ranch.  We  went 
to  Oklahoma  and  got  into  debt  again.  When  we  heard  about 
California,  we  were  like  all  the  others — thought  money  grew 
on  trees.  Waa-al,  we  found  nothin'  to  do  but  pick  peaches  or 
cotton.  I  hate  it." 

Jimmy  didn't  like  California  either.  "I've  still  got  kinfolks 
in  St.  Louis,"  he  declared.  "I  want  to  go  back  there  and  try 
to  get  a  job." 

"You  won't  get  no  job,"  said  Evan.  "There  ain't  no  jobs 
in  the  city.  My  brother  is  tryin'  to  buy  a  piece  of  land  down 
South.  Then  he's  gonna  call  me  down  to  work  it  with  him." 

We  all  remained  quiet  for  a  while.  Then  Evan  added, 
"If  we  don't  get  pushed  into  war.  Then  I'll  have  to  go  get 
my  head  shot  of!  in  the  war.  I  hope  we  stay  out." 

It  was  mighty  peaceful  at  that  moment.  The  hot  sun 
seemed  to  still  everything  in  sight.  We  could  hear  nothing 
except  our  own  voices. 

Stay  out  .  .  .  too  good  to  die  ... 

The  night  before  we  had  crouched  over  a  dilapidated 
radio  and  listened  to  the  President  of  our  country  talk  about 
this  war.  ".  .  .  remain  neutral  in  action,  but  I  can't  expect 
each  citizen  to  remain  neutral  in  thought." 

We  had  been  puzzled.  President  Roosevelt  had  once 
spoken  clearly,  leaving  no  room  for  puzzlement.  "I  hate 
war,"  he  had  once  said.  Young  Jimmy  and  Evan  and  the 
five  of  us — were  we  to  remain  neutral  in  action  but  not  in 
thought  ? 

Evan  laughed  bitterly.  "Don't  know  as  I  much  care  what 
happens  if  my  brother  doesn't  get  that  land.  But  I'd  rather 
die  clean  than  a  bloody  mess." 

A  few  days  later  we  were  to  read  in  the  papers  that  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt  had  called  a  special  session  of  Congress  to 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  191 

amend  the  Neutrality  Act  so  that  the  United  States  might 
sell  supplies  to  Great  Britain  and  France.  Was  this  being 
"neutral  in  action  but  not  in  thought"?  We  remembered 
how  the  Spanish  Republic  had  pleaded  for  the  right  to  pur- 
chase arms  in  order  to  defend  its  legally  elected  democratic 
government.  The  Neutrality  Act  had  also  been  amended 
then — but  to  make  it  more  strict  in  its  application. 

Under  a  larger  tree,  across  from  the  manager's  office,  a 
dozen  men  squatted.  Large  straw  five-and-dime  hats  shaded 
their  brown  creased  faces. 

"There's  gonna  be  war."  By  this  time,  it  had  become  a 
rumbling  chant. 

"We  got  a  pluckin'  in  the  last  war,"  a  gangling  fellow 
declared,  rubbing  the  stubble  under  his  chin.  "We  ought  to 
know  better  this  time." 

"We  got  no  business  in  a  war."  An  elderly  man  let  out  the 
words  in  a  thick  drawl.  "We  don't  start  it.  The  fellas  that 
start  it  don't  fight  it." 

The  gangling  man  spoke  up  again.  "They  call  us  'mi- 
groh-to-ry'  workers  and  say  we're  no  darn  good.  But  watch 
how  fast  they'll  come  runnin'  after  us  when  they  want  us  to 
fight  their  war.  It's  none  of  our  affair.  We  ought  to  keep 
out." 

The  chant  almost  split  our  heads.  "There's  gonna  be  war. 
There's  gonna  be  war.  There's  gonna  be  .  .  ." 

But  a  new  chant  was  being  taken  up.  "Stay  out.  Stay  out. 
Stay  out."  The  chant  began  to  grow  around  us  in  the 
migratory  camps  in  California  and  follow  us  clear  across  the 
country  on  our  way  home. 

4 

Feudalism,  we  had  learned  in  our  history  books,  prevailed 
around  the  years  1300  to  1500.  The  teacher  had  drawn  a 


192  The  "Argonauts" 

feudal  manor  on  the  blackboard — where  the  serfs  lived, 
where  the  lord  lived,  where  the  tradesmen  lived,  where  the 
crops  were  grown,  how  the  lord  guarded  his  manor,  etc.  But 
we  saw  a  feudal  manor  in  California,  and  we  talked  with  its 
lord.  It  was  called  the  Tagus  Ranch. 

"Tagus — the  world's  largest  nectarine,  peach,  and  apricot 
orchard."  An  enormous  sign  on  Highway  99  told  us  before 
we  reached  the  7,ooo-acre  ranch.  We  passed  the  Tagus  gas 
station,  the  Tagus  cafe  and  bar,  the  Tagus  general  store  and 
the  Tagus  general  office.  We  parked  our  car  in  front  of  the 
last  and  stopped  a  young  barefoot  boy,  wearing  torn  overalls 
and  a  straw  hat. 

"We  want  to  see  the  ranch,"  George  announced.  "Where 
do  we  find  the  boss?" 

"Ask  in  there."  The  boy  pointed  to  the  general  office. 

"Is  Huelett  C.  Merritt,  Jr.,  the  head  boss?" 

"Naw,  the  old  man  Merritt  is  the  head.  But  he's  down  on 
Pasadena  Beach  throwing  colored  balloons  to  purty  girls. 
His  son  is  boss  now." 

The  office  might  have  been  transplanted  from  a  Wall 
Street  skyscraper.  Leather  armchairs,  rows  of  small  offices, 
six  secretaries  to  ask  after  our  business.  A  low  bench  near 
the  door,  occupied  by  overalled  Mexican  and  American 
workers,  reminded  us  this  was  really  a  ranch  in  California. 
They  sat  silently,  with  expressionless  faces.  A  youngish,  effi- 
cient-looking man  came  out  of  an  inner  office  and  handed 
each  of  them  a  small  slip  of  paper.  They  took  them  and  left 
without  a  word. 

One  of  the  six  secretaries  eyed  our  now-soiled  and  wrinkled 
clothes.  She  received  coldly  the  news  that  we  were  writing 
a  book  about  America,  and  that  we  wanted  to  see  Mr. 
Merritt,  who  was  a  part  of  America. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  193 

"Huelett  C.  Merritt,  Jr.,  is  busy  entertaining  guests  at  his 
home,  but  I'll  call  him  and  find  out  if  he  will  see  you." 

We  sat  down  on  the  bench  where  the  overalled  workers 
had  waited.  In  ten  minutes,  the  secretary  returned. 

"Mr.  Merritt  will  see  you  now,"  she  said,  sniffing  disdain- 
fully as  we  filed  past  her.  We  were  shown  into  a  large  air- 
cooled  office  in  the  rear.  Huelett  Clint  Merritt,  Jr.,  was 
seated  at  the  head  of  a  long  conference  table.  He  gestured 
toward  the  tall-backed  chairs  about  the  table,  and  we  sat 
down,  Lillian  on  his  right,  Joe  on  his  left,  Mel  at  the  opposite 
end,  and  George  and  Helen  across  from  each  other. 

He  was  a  pufTy,  lordly  little  person.  His  green  tweed  suit 
and  matching  tie  blended  in  Christmas  fashion  with  his 
plump  red  face.  His  right  eye  blinked  continually  at  us. 

"I  suppose  you've  all  been  reading  the  lies  in  The  Grapes 
of  Wrath  and  Factories  in  the  Field,"  he  began  in  a  nasal 
voice.  Without  waiting  for  our  reply,  he  continued.  "All 
this  ridiculous  misrepresentation.  I  tell  you,  my  wife  is  so 
mad  at  John  Steinbeck  she  can't  eat  properly." 

He  pulled  a  scrapbook  from  a  leather  portfolio  with  the 
initials  A.  C.  M.  embossed  in  gold  on  it.  "Now  look  at 
these."  He  opened  the  boojp.  "Adorable,  white  cozy  cot- 
tages. You  and  I  couldn't  ask  for  more." 

We  looked. 

"That's  where  our  workers  live,"  Mr.  Merritt  informed 
us.  "See  these  lovely  gardens  ?  We  encourage  them  to  raise 
flowers,  and  each  year  we  give  prizes  for  the  best  gardens." 

"Do  the  workers  get  these  homes  free?"  Joe  asked. 

"Well,  no.  We  like  them  to  feel  that  these  houses  are  their 
very  own.  So  we  ask  them  to  pay  small  rentals.  Two  dollars 
per  month  for  one-room  houses,  two-fifty  for  two  rooms, 
and  three  dollars  for  three  rooms.  Isn't  that  reasonable?" 

"How  much  are  the  workers  paid  ? " 


194  The  "Argonauts" 

"Our  average  wage  is  twenty-five  cents  an  hour.  The 
average  annual  wage  is  $750,  and  sometimes  more.  Now 
that's  better  than  what  a  bank  clerk  earns,  isn't  it?" 

With  every  statement,  he  added  a  rhetorical  question;  he 
seemed  to  be  on  the  defensive.  Maybe  he  felt  persecuted, 
though  we  were  awfully  polite  and  took  down  everything 
he  said.  Of  course,  after  we  had  left  him,  we  checked  back 
on  the  information  he  had  given  us  and  found  some  startling 
contradictions  against  other  sources.  For  instance,  a  Tagus 
worker  told  us  the  annual  average  wage  was  $300.  Accord- 
ing to  another,  the  history  of  the  rentals  on  the  Tagus 
houses  was  as  follows :  Two  years  before,  the  Merritts  raised 
wages  for  pickers  from  twenty-five  cents  to  thirty  cents  and 
began  to  charge  rent  for  the  first  time.  The  next  year,  wages 
were  again  lowered  to  twenty-five  cents,  but  rent  on  the 
houses  continued. 

"People  work  and  live  here  all  year  around,"  Mr.  Merritt 
said.  "When  they're  not  working,  they  don't  pay  rent." 

We  wrote  that  down  in  our  notebooks  and  later  read  it  to 
a  gaunt  Mexican  who  had  lived  on  the  ranch  for  four  years. 
"Sure,"  the  worker  said,  his  eyes  narrowing,  "sure,  he  lets  us 
stay  when  there  is  no  work,  then  we  owe  him  money  for 
back  rent  and  cannot  leave  the  land.  If  we  try,  we  are 
arrested." 

But  we  didn't  know  about  these  conflicting  accounts  as  we 
sat  in  the  comfortable,  air-cooled  office.  We  just  listened  as 
Mr.  Merritt  talked  about  Tagus.  "I  guess  I'm  really  a 
socialist  at  heart,"  he  said.  "I  like  to  think  of  Tagus  as  one 
large,  happy  family.  We  never  hire  anyone  from  the  outside. 
Everyone  rises  from  the  ranks,  working  their  way  up  the 
fruit-picking  ladder  of  success. 

"You  know,  every  week  I  hold  court  here,  in  this  office. 
I  like  the  workers  to  come  to  me  with  their  little  stories  and 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  195 

troubles.  They  just  sit  around  this  table  like  you're  doing 
now  and  talk  to  me." 

He  arose  suddenly  and  went  over  to  his  desk,  returning 
with  a  stack  of  circulars. 

"But  I'm  always  being  hounded  by  these  agitators.  Look 
at  these."  He  gave  us  a  copy  of  the  circular. 

Tagus  Ranch  Workers  .  .  . 
ARE  YOU  MEN 

OR  MICE? 

Mice  are  satisfied  to  live,  crouching,  in  dark,  dirty  holes, 
eating  crumbs  and  scraps  of  food.  .  .  . 

But  men  want  to  live  in  decent,  clean,  comfortable  homes 
.  .  .  with  wholesome,  abundant  food  for  themselves  and 
their  families! 

Can  25  cents  an  hour  buy  you  such  necessities  of  life  ? 

CERTAINLY  NOT! 

Now  is  the  time  to  organize,  to  use  your  constitutional 
rights  and  bargain  collectively  for  fairer  living  wages  and 
working  conditions. 

The  circular  called  the  workers  to  a  meeting  of  agricul- 
tural workers  in  Tulare  County,  sponsored  by  the  Council  of 
Agricultural  Workers  Organizations.  Merritt  reached  for 
the  circular  and  turned  it  face  down. 

"They  circulated  that  thing  on  my  ranch  on  my  time,"  he 
almost  shouted.  "They  gave  out  more  than  2,000  of  them  in 
both  English  and  Spanish.  I  know  who  they  are.  They're 
communists.  I  put  two  of  them — Pat  Chambers  and  Caroline 
Decker — in  prison  a  few  years  ago,  and  I'll  do  it  again.  I 
know  who  they  are,  those  trouble-makers!  Honestly,  you 
have  no  idea  how  much  trouble  those  agitators  can  stir  up. 

"Of  course,  none  of  my  men  wanted  to  go  to  that  meeting. 
So  I  had  to  demand  that  four  of  my  men  go  down  there  to 
find  out  who  was  there.  If  I  don't  take  precautions,  first 


196  The  "Argonauts" 

thing  you  know  those  communists  will  start  a  strike  out 
here." 

He  led  us  out  the  back  entrance  to  his  car.  "I'll  try  to 
show  you  as  much  as  possible,"  he  said.  "It  would  take  days 
to  see  it  all,  you  know.  It's  104  miles  around  the  ranch." 
We  climbed  onto  the  blue  plush  seats.  "First  we'll  see  the 
homes." 

They  didn't  look  so  cozy,  nor  so  white.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  they  didn't  look  like  the  pictures  in  the  scrapbook. 

"I  don't  like  to  invade  the  privacy  of  their  homes,"  Mr. 
Merritt  said,  when  we  asked  if  we  might  see  the  inside  of 
one  of  the  gray,  worn  homes.  So  we  were  not  able  to  judge 
for  ourselves  the  truth  of  what  we  later  were  told — that 
these  houses  could  not  keep  out  cold,  heat,  or  wind,  that  the 
roofs  leaked,  that  the  walls  and  ceilings  were  warped,  that 
there  was  no  electricity  or  gas  or  plumbing  and  that  the  only 
toilet  facilities  available  were  old-time  outhouses,  twenty 
feet  in  back  of  the  homes. 

"We  try  to  place  families  in  homes  with  more  than  one 
room.  That's  why  I'm  so  opposed  to  the  federal  migratory 
camps,  to  tell  you  the  truth.  All  their  houses  have  only  one 
room.  Now  how  can  you  expect  a  family  to  enjoy  the  deli- 
cacy of  touch  or  the  tenderness  of  heart  so  dear  to  us  when 
they  all  live  in  one  room?  It's  immoral." 

"Do  all  the  houses  lack  plumbing?"  Lillian  asked  bluntly. 

"Really,"  he  replied,  blinking  his  right  eye,  "it  would  be 
cheaper  to  put  in  plumbing.  But  the  outhouses  are  more 
sanitary,  and  the  people  like  them  better.  Besides,  these 
people  aren't  educated  enough  to  use  regular  plumbing. 
They  wouldn't  understand  modern  toilets." 

He  drove  up  to  a  large  square  area  crowded  with  tents. 

"This  is  how  we  train  them  when  they  first  come  to  us," 
he  explained.  "They  have  to  be  house-broken.  We  have  to 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  197 

teach  them  how  to  be  clean  and  neat.  This  is  where  we  do 
it,  until  they  learn  how  to  live  in  one  of  our  houses." 

A  group  of  men  near  one  of  the  tents  looked  at  Merritt, 
seated  at  the  wheel  of  the  car.  Their  eyes  narrowed  in 
motionless  faces  as  they  stared.  They  said  nothing.  They 
were  being  house-broken.  House-breaking?  Strikebreaking, 
more  likely,  for  Tagus  had  a  system — the  Merritt  System — 
whereby  a  surplus  of  labor  was  kept  on  hand  constantly  as  a 
threat  to  the  workers'  jobs  in  case  of  a  strike. 

Merritt  passed  rapidly  on,  stopping  next  before  another 
group  of  "cozy  cottages."  The  2,500  workers  employed  on 
the  ranch  were  housed  in  groups,  so  that  Mexicans  were 
separated  from  the  Americans,  and  both  nationalities  were 
divided  among  themselves,  "because  we  have  to  be  careful 
of  epidemics.  One  day  without  picking  when  the  crop  gets 
ripe  would  ruin  our  profits."  Perhaps  he  was  referring  to 
that  contagious  and  dreaded  disease — unionism? 
We  spotted  some  tents  hidden  behind  the  houses. 
"Do  workers  live  in  tents  after  they  are  house-broken  too?" 
Mel  asked,  pointing. 

"Oh,"  said  the  lord  of  the  ranch,  "that's  a  mistake.  Tents 
aren't  allowed." 

"Maybe  some  kids  are  playing  Indian,"  Lillian  suggested. 
"Probably."    He  frowned,  and  turned  the  car  around 
quickly.  Next  stop  was  a  foreman's  home. 

"Our  foremen  have  better  homes,  with  modern  plumbing. 
They  can  appreciate  a  higher  type  of  living.  You  just  can't 
expect  much  from  the  ordinary  worker.  We  have  Americani- 
zation classes  taught  by  the  American  Legion  for  them,  and 
we  try  to  raise  them  to  a  higher  level.  We  have  a  school  of 
our  own  on  the  ranch  for  the  children.  Every  year  we  give 
a  party  for  the  children.  I  personally  award  the  child  with 
the  best  attendance  record  a  whole  new  outfit  of  clothes 


198  The  "Argonauts" 

and  a  purse  with  five  dollars  in  it.  You  can't  expect  to  give  a 
prize  for  brilliance  to  these  people." 

Workers  were  given  their  choice  of  being  paid  in  cash  or 
in  brass.  The  latter  was  a  form  of  company  scrip  honored 
only  at  Tagus  stores  and  enterprises,  where,  we  were  told, 
prices  were  a  third  higher  than  elsewhere  in  the  county. 

Jim  McGowan,  short  and  chubby  secretary  of  the  Council 
of  Agricultural  Workers  Organizations  later  told  us  that 
Tagus  was  being  organized.  More  than  500  Tagus  workers 
had  attended  the  meeting  called  for  in  the  circular  Merritt 
showed  us.  The  Council  embraced  9,000  workers  repre- 
sented in  the  Workers'  Alliance,  the  United  Cannery,  Agri- 
cultural, Packing  and  Affiliated  Workers  of  America 
(UCAPAWA),  the  National  Association  for  the  Advance- 
ment of  Colored  People  and  other  groups. 

The  Council  was  working  toward  a  minimum  wage.  In 
this  way,  the  old  technique  of  the  big  farmers  of  bringing 
down  the  wage  by  calling  in  more  workers  than  could  be 
hired  would  be  combated. 

As  we  returned  with  Mr.  Merritt  to  his  office,  he  showed 
us  his  private  sub-station-radio.  After  the  strike  experience 
of  a  few  years  back,  he  had  donated  a  radio  station  to  the 
Tulare  police  and  kept  part  of  it  for  himself.  All  the  fore- 
men and  straw  bosses  on  the  ranch  were  deputized.  The 
very  minute  "trouble"  started,  Huelett  Clint  Merritt,  Jr.,  and 
the  radio  station,  together  with  the  deputies  and  police,  could 
go  into  action. 

"I  have  a  lot  of  fun  with  the  radio.  I  can  give  orders  and 
keep  in  touch  with  every  part  of  the  ranch,  without  stepping 
out  of  the  office." 

Ray  Edwards  helped  a  lot  in  times  of  trouble.  We  dis- 
covered that  he  was  an  exception  to  the  Tagus  rule  of  rising 
from  the  ranks.  The  Merritts  hired  him  after  he  had  proved 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  199 

his  mettle  as  a  member  of  the  Tulare  police  force  on  duty 
at  the  Tagus  strike.  He  was  reputed  to  have  been  fired  from 
the  force  for  excessive  drinking.  Then  the  Tagus  Ranch 
hired  him. 

We  had  almost  underestimated  Mr.  Merritt,  Jr.  Now  we 
knew  what  he  was  capable  of  in  protecting  Tagus  for  the 
Merritt  family.  He  was  a  powerful  man — director  of  eleven 
large  corporations,  including  mines,  railroads  and  canneries, 
chairman  of  six  different  price-setting  commissions,  leader 
and  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Associated  Farmers. 

Yet  he  was  worried.  About  peaches. 

"You  should  see  those  pickers.  When  they  get  thirsty,  they 
take  a  large,  luscious  one  and  bite  into  it.  Then  they  throw 
it  away,"  he  complained. 

But  that  was  not  all.  He  was  worried  about  losing  money. 
So  we  checked  up.  An  item  in  a  Tulare  newspaper  noted 
the  fact  that  Tagus  freestones  had  brought  a  good  price  in 
1939 — fifty  dollars  a  ton.  Two  years  before,  a  ton  of  free- 
stones had  brought  $21.50.  In  1938  a  ton  had  sold  for  $7.50. 

"We  have  to  watch  our  step,"  he  told  us,  after  mentioning 
all  the  mines,  canneries,  cotton  gins,  big  buildings  and  land 
he  controlled.  "If  we  don't,  all  the  Mexicans  and  ignorant 
workers  will  be  in  our  shoes,  and  we'll  be  in  theirs.  Things 
can't  go  on  the  way  they  have.  We're  going  to  change  the 
Wagner  Act  and  get  rid  of  that  La  Follette  Committee. 
Watch  and  see." 

As  we  were  leaving,  he  bestowed  upon  us  three  gifts.  The 
first  was  a  copy  of  a  speech  he  had  delivered  before  the  Pro- 
American  Society  the  previous  month.  We  thought  of  his 
unique  manner  of  blinking  his  right  eye,  so  that  every  time 
he  made  some  characteristic,  forceful  statement,  he  seemed 
to  be  kidding  himself.  One  statement  in  that  speech  was : 

"When  I  say  'Capitalist'  and  'Laborer'  I  do  not  know  why 


200  The  "Argonauts" 

I  make  that  distinction,  for  the  Capitalist  is  merely  a  Laborer 
under  another  name." 

The  second  gift  was  a  copy  of  The  Commentator,  dated 
November  1938,  in  which  was  printed  an  article  called  "The 
Merritt  System,"  by  Frank  J.  Taylor.  "Tagus  Ranch,"  Mr. 
Taylor  had  written,  "is  even  more  remarkable  for  the  things 
that  do  not  meet  the  eye." 

The  third  gift  was  a  generous  assortment  of  large  cans  of 
peaches,  apricots,  and  nectarines — samples  of  his  produce. 
We  brought  them  to  the  school  storeroom  at  the  Arvin  fed- 
eral migratory  camp.  The  children  were  given  free  lunches 
there. 

We  had  sensed  a  lot  of  things  that  did  not  meet  the  eye  at 
Tagus,  but  we  wanted  to  know  more.  We  went  to  see  Mr. 
Merritt's  former  chauffeur — now  Police  Chief  Samuel  T. 
Locke  of  Tulare.  On  his  desk  were  a  large  picture  of 
President  Roosevelt  and  a  small,  framed  certificate  of  mem- 
bership in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  Peace  Officers  Association. 
The  Chief  was  thin  and  bald. 

"Do  you  have  much  trouble  with  the  workers  on  Tagus 
Ranch?"  we  asked. 

"Eh?  Oh,  Tagus.  No,  we  don't  bother  with  what  they 
do  out  there.  If  anyone  gets  drunk  or  causes  a  little  trouble, 
and  if  Edwards  or  Mr.  Merritt  wants  to  stick  a  fellow  in  the 
jug  to  cool  off,  we  bring  him  in." 

"Edwards  used  to  be  a  member  of  the  police  force  here, 
didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  that's  right."  The  Chief  looked  up  quickly,  and  ran 
the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  long,  sharp  nose. 
"Was  Edwards  fired?" 

"No,  he  wasn't  fired.  He  just  left  the  force  to  take  a  better 
job."  The  Chief  smiled.  "He's  getting  better  pay,  and  he's 
got  an  important  position." 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  201 

"He's  a  deputy  sheriff,  isn't  he?" 

"Well,  yes,"  he  spoke  slowly.  "A  lot  of  things  can  come 
up,  and  it's  damn  nice  to  have  someone  on  the  ranch  with 
the  authority  of  sheriff."  He  swayed  back  in  the  swivel  chair. 
"We  have  numbered  police  cars,  all  equipped  with  radios. 
One  car  is  always  on  the  ranch.  Whenever  we  want  'em  to 
do  anything,  we  just  buzz  'em." 

"Are  they  equipped  for  two-way?" 

"No." 

"Then  whenever  Mr.  Merritt  has  to  tell  the  radio  car  on 
his  ranch  anything,  he  just  buzzes  you,  and  you  buzz  the 
car?" 

Chief  Locke  smiled  and  reached  for  a  cigarette.  "Come 
on,  do  you  want  to  see  the  set?"  he  asked  quickly. 

He  rose  and  we  followed  him  to  a  larger  room.  On  a 
long  table  near  the  door  was  a  large  black  sending  set  with 
a  small,  silvery  microphone. 

"Mr.  Merritt  told  us  he  donated  this  set  to  the  force." 

"Well,  if  Mr.  Merritt  told  you  .  .  ."  The  Chief's  sen- 
tence petered  out. 

"We  also  hear  you've  got  a  nice  arsenal  here,"  George 
said. 

"Yes.  Yes,  we've  got  a  nice  one.  Do  you  want  to  see  it?" 

He  took  a  small  key  from  his  pocket  and  led  us  to  a  tall 
steel  cabinet  in  another  room.  Six  or  seven  long  rifles  and 
a  squat  gun  rested  vertically  against  notches  in  the  lower 
half  of  the  cabinet.  Boxes  filled  the  upper  half. 

"This  is  our  Thompson  sub-machine  gun,"  the  Chief  said 
proudly  as  he  took  the  squat  gun  into  his  hands.  "We're 
prepared  for  any  kind  of  trouble.  You  see,"  he  demon- 
strated, "you  hold  the  gun  like  this,  and — "  He  pointed  it  at 
Joe. 

"Hey!   Take  it  easy!"  Joe  backed  away. 


202  The  "Argonauts" 

The  Chief  roared  and  put  back  the  machine  gun.  "These 
are  our  rifles,  and  up  here  we  keep  the  gas  bombs."  He 
reached  up  to  the  shelves  and  took  down  a  few  boxes.  "This 
is  vomiting  gas."  He  hefted  an  oval  black  bomb  in  his  hand. 
"You  see,  you  just  pull  this  thing,  and  then  you  throw  it. 
They're  pretty  bad."  He  replaced  it  and  took  out  another. 
"And  this  is  the  tear  gas  bomb." 

"What  company  makes  those  bombs?" 

"It  says  here  on  the  box,  wait  a  minute.  Here  it  is.  'The 
Federal  Gas  and  Cartridge  Company.'" 

We  had  heard  of  their  like,  companies  investigated  by 
the  La  Follette  Civil  Liberties  Committee,  and  accused  of 
selling  weapons  to  put  down  riots  that  had  been  encouraged 
by  their  own  men. 

We  were  beginning  to  understand  what  Carey  Me  Wil- 
liams meant  when  he  wrote  in  his  book: 

Having  every  attribute  of  industrial  organization, 
California  agriculture  continues  to  masquerade  behind 
the  disguise  of  "the  farm."  It  is  no  longer  "agriculture" 
in  the  formerly  understood  sense  of  the  term,  but  a 
mechanized  industry,  owned  and  operated  by  corpora- 
tions and  not  by  farmers,  and  closely  identified  with  the 
large  financial  interests  which  dominate  industrial  oper- 
ations. 

General  Motors  in  Cleveland  had  been  protected  by 
cruising  police  cars  loaded  with  tear  gas  too. 

That  night  we  decided  we  needed  some  relaxation,  and 
appropriated  our  supper  money  for  a  movie.  The  picture 
was  called  Captain  Fury  and  told  the  story  of  a  sort  of 
Robin  Hood  in  Australia  who  defended  the  poor  peasants 
against  the  rich  landowners. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  203 

We  didn't  see  anyone  from  the  Merritt  Ranch  at  the 
picture. 

5 

At  Long  Row's  End  the  Boss  Man  wait, 
Nail  you  up  in  a  wooden  crate. 
At  six-bits  a  hundred  livins  hard, 
But  dyin's  dear  in  the  County  Yard — 
At  twenty-five  buc\s  a  hundred  weight! 

Before  returning  to  Bakersfield,  we  thought  we  might 
make  a  little  money  picking  cotton.  Fred  Ross  and  Mrs. 
Rankin  warned  us,  but  we  wanted  to  try.  The  cotton 
picking  season  would  start  in  two  weeks.  When  we  asked 
a  foreman  for  jobs,  we  were  told: 

"We  want  families." 

They  wanted  mothers  and  fathers  and  aunts  and  uncles 
and  cousins  and  brothers  and  babies  to  work  in  the  fields. 
They  were  intending  to  pay  eighty  cents  per  hundred 
pounds  for  picking  cotton.  The  Workers'  Alliance  and  the 
Council  of  Agricultural  Workers  Organizations  were  ask- 
ing $1.25.  A  big,  strong  man  averaged  from  250  to  300 
pounds,  working  from  sunup  to  sundown.  The  whole 
family  had  to  work  in  order  to  live  on  those  wages!  If  we 
had  tried  it,  the  five  of  us  would  have  averaged  about  a 
hundred  pounds  together,  because  we  didn't  know  how. 
And  then  we  would  have  had  to  stay  in  bed  for  a  week 
with  sore  backs. 

We  headed  for  the  Board  of  Supervisors  meeting  instead. 
Mrs.  Rankin  awaited  us.  About  fifty  others  had  come  to 
see  the  supervisors  at  work.  Dark,  sun-burned  people, 
dressed  in  faded  blue  overalls,  they  sat  on  the  solid,  pew- 
like  benches  and  watched  the  chairman,  Roy  Woolomes 


204  The  "Argonauts" 

("that  fat  fella— he's  not  on  our  side"),  mechanically  intone: 
"All  those  in  favor  say  aye — contraminded — so  ordered." 
The  other  two  supervisors  present — "Charlie  Wimmer's  on 
our  side,  C.  W.  Harty,  he's  not  on  our  side" — had  buried 
their  noses  at  the  start  of  the  meeting.  They  didn't  lift  their 
heads  as  they  grunted  their  "ayes"  to  Woolomes. 

The  meeting  dragged  along  with  the  chairman's  voice. 
Our  eyes  wandered  from  a  small,  light-haired  child  sucking 
his  thumb  to  the  framed  Constitution  and  American  and 
California  flags  draped  above  the  head  of  the  droning 
chairman. 

"I  guess  two  of  the  supervisors  are  absent,"  Mrs.  Rankin 
whispered.  "They're  not  going  to  bring  up  the  banning  of 
Steinbeck's  book."  She  rose  quickly  and  walked  to  the 
front  of  the  room.  Leaning  over  the  rail,  she  asked  loudly : 

"Are  you  going  to  lift  the  ban  on  The  Grapes  of  Wrath?" 

"There  ain't  no  ban,"  the  paunchy  chairman  replied.  He 
scratched  his  shoulder  and  lumbered  close  to  Mrs.  Rankin. 
"There  ain't  no  ban.  We  just  requested  the  library  to  re- 
move the  book,  and  they  did." 

"Are  you  going  to  ask  that  the  book  be  put  back  in  the 
library?" 

"The  book  is  a  lie,"  Woolomes  said  slowly  with  a  poker 
face. 

"It's  the  truth,  and  you  know  it,"  Mrs.  Rankin  shot  back. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  camps  bein'  burned  down?" 

"I  know  of  strikers  bein'  shot!" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  Woolomes  said  ex- 
asperated. 

"Well,  you  should!"  Her  eyes  were  hard  upon  him. 
"You  was  there!" 

The  onlookers,  who  had  jacked  themselves  up  in  their 
seats  when  Mrs.  Rankin  had  arisen,  snickered. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  205 

"We're  not  here  today  to  talk  about  that  book!"  Wool- 
lomes  lost  control,  his  large  face  turned  red.  "They  was 
only  Mexicans  anyway!  You're  out  of  order!" 

Mrs.  Rankin  smiled  and  walked  back  to  her  seat. 

"Let's  go,"  she  said.  "They're  not  going  to  lift  the  ban." 

Bill  Moses,  a  young  cub  reporter  on  the  Bakersfield 
Calijornian,  had  asked  us  to  come  in  after  lunch  for  an  in- 
terview. We  arranged  to  meet  Mrs.  Rankin  in  an  hour  for 
a  tour  of  some  migratory  slums.  After  we  had  our  pictures 
taken  and  answered  a  lot  of  questions  about  the  West  as 
we  who  were  from  the  East  saw  it,  we  headed  for  the  near-by 
Hoovervilles. 

Three  per  cent  of  the  migrants  were  housed  in  govern- 
ment camps.  How  did  the  others  live?  In  the  little  book- 
lets given  to  us  by  California  real  estate  offices,  we  saw  all 
kinds  of  homes — one-story  and  three-story,  stucco  and  shin- 
gle, white  and  green,  colonial  and  old  Spanish  models.  The 
agricultural  workers  in  California  had  all  kinds  of  homes 
too.  Ditch  bank  models  with  old  cardboard  box  roofs. 
Weedpatch  tents,  torn  and  dirty,  holding  families  of  eight 
and  ten.  Camps  on  city  dumps.  Jungle  slums,  fashioned 
from  soap  boxes  and  pounded  out  of  tin  cans,  held  together 
by  rags.  Owned  by  mayors  and  chiefs  of  police. 

Two  years  before,  Mrs.  Rankin  explained  as  she  guided 
us  about,  the  shacks  were  torn  down  and  the  inhabitants 
driven  off.  Gradually,  the  workers  returned  and  built  their 
homes  again.  These  models  of  housing  for  the  migrants 
were  the  oldest  and  the  neatest.  We  could  tell  that  by 
walking  down  the  narrow  dusty  paths  dividing  one  row  of 
houses  from  the  other.  Large  piles  of  discarded  automobile 
parts  and  broken  chairs  told  the  story  of  time  in  the 
Hoovervilles.  A  bit  of  curtain  in  a  glassless  window,  a  plant 
in  a  small  grocery  box,  an  attempt  to  fence  off  one  home 


206  The  "Argonauts" 

from  another  told  the  story  of  the  desire  of  these  people  to 
live  cleanly  and  happily. 

A  broad-hipped  woman  stood  near  a  fence,  watching  two 
men  build  a  roof  out  of  burned,  decaying  lumber. 

"What  are  you  doing,  rebuilding  a  part  of  your  house 
that  burned?" 

"No,"  she  pushed  back  an  old-fashioned  sunbonnet. 
"That  was  someone  else's  place.  We're  just  usin'  the  wood 
to  build  me  a  kitchen." 

"What's  this  place  called,  besides  Hooverville?" 

"Nothin'.  Hooverville's  the  only  name  she's  got.  She  was 
named  after  President  Hoover,  that  Ree-publican." 

Two  other  women  were  conversing  together  as  we  ap- 
proached. They  didn't  look  up  until  we  said  "Hello." 
They  examined  us  carefully  for  a  few  minutes,  before  re- 
plying. 

"How  are  chances  for  jobs  around  here?"  asked  Helen. 

"Wa-a-al,  there's  some  jobs  up  north  a-ways.  They're 
payin'  a  cent  and  a  quarter,"  the  brown,  thin  one  replied. 
She  kept  turning  the  two  rings  on  her  engagement  finger. 

"Humph!  Cent  and  a  quarter,"  the  other  woman  said. 
"You  cain't  earn  nuthin'  workin'  that  way.  I  tried  it,  an' 
I  couldn't  earn  worth  a  meal." 

"Missus  McLeary  went  out  today.  She  said  she  wuz 
gonna  pick  grapes.  There's  some  grape-pickin'  work  now," 
the  thin  one  informed. 

"You  aimin'  to  stay  here?"  asked  the  other.  "Sure  would 
liven  things  up  to  have  some  young  folks  here.  Most  of  our 
young  folks  leave  as  soon  as  they're  able.  If  you're  aimin' 
to  stay  here,  I'll  give  you  a  hint.  When  you're  pickin'  grapes, 
you  don't  have  to  cut  them  ofT,  just  pull  them  off.  The 
boss  doesn't  lose  money,  and  you  save  yourself  some  work. 
Do  as  I  tell  ya." 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  207 

The  thin  woman  became  more  friendly.  She  was  from 
Louisiana,  she  told  us.  "I'm  forty-two  years  old,  and  I've 
got  three  grandchildren,"  she  declared  proudly. 

Her  friend,  not  to  be  outdone,  said:  "I've  got  eight 
grandchildren,  and  I'm  only  sixty!" 

"Lord  knows  what's  gonna  happen  to  all  them  kids,  now 
that  we  got  'em.  Mine'll  never  set  foot  in  the  fields  if  I  kin 
help  it.  And  they  won't  do  housework  for  them  ladies 
Rich-Bitch  either." 

They  stared  at  us  critically.  "Sure  do  wish  you  folks  would 
settle  here.  There's  nuthin'  to  do  here  but  set.  Young  folks 
like  you  would  liven  things  up." 

When  we  explained  that  we  could  not  settle  there,  they 
turned  away  and  forgot  us.  We  hurried  over  to  the  Labor 
Temple  to  see  Dan  Harris. 

"Hey,  Jim!"  he  called.  "Those  New  York  kids  are  back! 
Watch  out!  Be  careful  what  you  say!" 

The  invisible  Jim  in  the  next  office  yelled  back,  "Okay!" 
We  told  Dan  about  all  the  things  we  had  seen.  Dan's  face 
grew  solemn  as  he  heard  our  story. 

"Say,  you  kids  ought  to  be  called  to  testify  before  the  La 
Follette  Committee,"  he  declared.  "They're  out  here  to 
investigate  the  Associated  Farmers." 

We  were  not  called  to  testify  before  the  Committee,  but 
we  read  of  its  findings.  Members  of  the  Committee  were 
assaulted  when  they  visited  the  scene  of  a  strike  meeting  in 
the  town  of  Madera.  The  cotton  pickers  suffered  from  that 
"disease"  Clint  Merritt  feared — organization.  They  went 
out  on  strike.  Large  mobs  of  vigilantes  broke  up  their  meet- 
ings and  raided  strike  headquarters.  The  sheriff  at  Madera 
was  W.  O.  ("With-Out")  Justice. 

The  La  Follette  Committee  found  that  industrialists — 
oil  companies,  banks,  railroads,  canneries  and  utilities — had 


208  The  "Argonauts" 

provided  funds  for  the  Associated  Farmers.  The  members 
of  the  Committee  heard  evidence  from  farmers,  migrant 
workers,  police  officials,  union  organizers  and  industrialists. 
It  was  brought  out  that  Joseph  di  Giorgio,  head  of  the 
$10,500,000  di  Giorgio  Fruit  Corporation  and  its  subsidi- 
ary, the  $5,500,000  Earl  Fruit  Company  had  played  a 
leading  role  in  organizing  the  Associated  Farmers. 

The  Committee's  report  told  a  story  of  bloodshed  and 
violence.  We  had  seen  the  reasons  for  that  violence.  Gov- 
ernment committees  reported  the  reasons  officially.  John 
Steinbeck  wrote  movingly  about  them.  .  .  . 

The  people  come  with  nets  to  fish  for  potatoes  in  the 
river,  and  the  guards  hold  them  back;  they  come  in 
rattling  cars  to  get  the  dumped  oranges,  but  the  kero- 
sene is  sprayed  and  they  stand  still  and  watch  the 
potatoes  float  by,  listen  to  the  screaming  pigs  being 
killed  in  a  ditch  and  covered  with  quicklime,  watch 
the  mountains  of  oranges  slop  down  to  a  putrefying 
ooze;  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  there  is  the  failure; 
and  in  the  eyes  of  the  hungry  there  is  a  growing  wrath. 
In  the  souls  of  the  people  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  filling 
and  growing  heavy,  growing  heavy  for  the  vintage. 

And  what  was  going  to  be  done? 

That  night  Dan  took  us  to  dinner  at  his  house.  Fried 
chicken,  old  California  style,  Spanish  beans,  relishing  appe- 
tizers to  start  us  of?  again  toward  more  chicken,  luscious 
cakes,  home-baked  bread.  We  feasted. 

And  what  was  going  to  be  done? 

Many  pounds  heavier  than  we  had  been  in  the  morning, 
we  fell  into  the  car  and  started  back  to  Los  Angeles. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  209 


Pat  Kiloran,  a  bright-eyed  reporter,  had  never  walked  on 
a  picket  line  in  her  life  until  the  Hollywood  Citizen-News 
went  out  on  strike.  Pat  belonged  to  the  Newspaper  Guild, 
and  she  went  out  with  the  rest  of  them.  She  had  learned  a 
lot  of  things  in  that  strike,  and  the  Irish  in  her  got  her 
dander  up  about  them.  She  emerged  from  the  Guild  vic- 
tory to  continue  her  work  on  the  newspaper,  but  she  took 
on  the  additional  job  of  secretary  of  the  John  Steinbeck 
Committee  in  Hollywood. 

The  Steinbeck  Committee  was  formed  in  the  fall  of  1938. 
Comprising  movie  stars,  writers,  screen  technicians,  artists, 
college  professors  and  journalists,  the  committee  set  about 
to  aid  the  migratory  workers  by  collecting  clothing  and 
money,  backing  legislation  and  attempts  to  organize  the 
workers.  Everyone  on  the  committee  was  employed  in 
other  work.  All  time  was  given  voluntarily. 

"We  get  everyone  to  help  us,"  Pat  said,  "the  merchants, 
Boy  Scouts  and  even  the  American  Legion.  They're  sus- 
picious at  first,  because  we  make  no  bones  about  helping 
UCAPAWA,  the  CIO  union.  But  when  we  show  them 
the  real  plight  of  these  workers,  they  realize  unions  are  not 
so  bad. 

"Oh,  I  get  so  mad  when  some  of  our  well-fed  pillars  of 
society  say  that  these  migrants  don't  want  to  work.  The 
stories  I  know!  Just  let  me  tell  you  about  one  man.  He 
had  three  little  children  and  a  wife  to  support.  He  had  a 
job  picking  crops  fifteen  miles  away  and  drove  back  and 
forth  every  day.  When  he  returned  from  work,  he  would 
spend  hours  building  a  house  of  corrugated  tin.  In  the 
meantime,  the  family  lived  under  an  old  canvas  covering. 
When  the  house  was  completed,  the  family  moved  inside 


210  The  "Argonauts" 

and  had  a  little  celebration.  Then  the  authorities  came 
along.  They  tore  down  the  house.  They  made  this  man 
move  away.  They  said  he  was  littering  up  the  land." 

Pat's  face  reddened. 

"I  get  so  mad  when  I  think  of  these  things.  Do  you 
know  that  of  eighteen  babies  who  died  in  the  Kern  County 
hospital,  fifteen  of  the  fathers  were  employed  in  agricul- 
ture, one  was  unemployed,  one  was  employed  in  other 
work  and  one  was  on  relief?  The  health  officer  said  the 
babies  died  from  'inflammation  of  the  bowels.'  We  call 


We  had  seen  two  federal  migratory  camps,  but  the  third 
one  was  different.  It  was  the  mobile  unit  in  the  program. 
We  found  it  at  Lakeview,  in  the  Imperial  Valley.  The 
mobile  camp  made  three  moves  during  the  year.  From  the 
middle  of  September  until  April,  it  was  stationed  at  Kal- 
patrin;  from  April  until  June  at  Cherry  Valley;  and  from 
July  to  September  at  Lakeview,  where  we  found  it. 

Jim  Collins,  director,  had  a  combination  home  and  office 
in  a  neat  trailer.  Another  trailer  carried  the  medical  clinic. 
Platforms,  lights,  showers,  toilets,  recreation  hall,  nursery — 
all  were  carried  on  movable  equipment.  The  annual  cost 
of  the  mobile  unit  was  $30,000,  while  the  stationary  camps 
cost  $300,000  a  year. 

"These  are  fine  people  here.  Seventy  per  cent  of  them 
have  been  farmers  according  to  our  registration.  Once  they 
come  here,  they  blossom  out  and  become  part  of  a  friendly 
community."  Jim  Collins  spoke  deeply,  sincerely. 

Everything  was  movable  or  collapsible — including  the 
nursery  school.  Naps  in  the  afternoon  for  the  kids,  hot 
lunches,  a  nursery  teacher  from  the  Farm  Security  Adminis- 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  211 

tration — no  wonder  "every  youngster  who  attended  the 
nursery  school  gained  five  pounds"! 

A  tremendous  truck  carried  the  thirteen-ton  power  plant 
which  generated  electricity.  It  was  the  only  one  of  its  kind 
in  the  country.  A  migratory  automatic  oil  burner,  boiler 
for  hot  water!  Its  water  was  piped  from  the  local  commu- 
nity's tanks. 

Showers  on  wheels,  one  for  the  women  and  one  for  the 
men.  Pipe  lines  carried  hot  water  from  the  power  truck  to 
the  shower  trucks. 

"Showers  .  .  .  gee  .  .  .  wish  we  had  one  with  us." 

As  we  talked  with  Collins,  a  Japanese  farmer,  dressed  in 
overalls  and  a  large  straw  hat  approached. 

"Got  any  help?"  he  asked.  "I  need  some  men." 

"Go  down  there  and  talk  to  the  men,"  Collins  advised, 
pointing  to  the  group  of  men  standing  before  one  of  the 
tents.  "I  never  butt  into  the  hiring  of  workers,"  he  ex- 
plained to  us  as  the  Japanese  walked  toward  the  group. 
"We  want  them  to  feel  independent,  that  this  camp  is  their 
own.  It's  their  community,  and  it's  for  them  to  run  it." 

From  Lakeview  we  drove  farther  south  to  Indio.  As  we 
came  deeper  into  the  Imperial  Valley,  we  saw  more  and 
more  of  the  wreckage  left  by  the  recent  flood.  Flocks  of 
crickets  swarmed  about  us.  At  first,  we  squirmed  every  time 
a  cricket  lighted  on  our  coats  or  arms.  But  we  became 
accustomed  to  them,  for  they  infested  the  entire  country  be- 
tween Indio  and  New  Orleans.  About  ten  o'clock  at  night 
we  stopped  at  the  Indio  Migratory  Camp  and  watched  an 
amateur  show.  Then  we  sped  on  to  Brawley. 

Brawley,  in  the  heart  of  the  Imperial  Valley,  was  sub- 
merged in  four  feet  of  water.  We  splashed  through  the 
streets,  the  valises  in  the  rack  at  the  side  of  the  car  getting 


212  The  "Argonauts" 

covered  with  thick  mud.  Carey  Me  Williams  had  suggested 
that  we  look  up  Nelson's  auto  camp. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Nelson's  auto  camp  was 
dark  and  silent.  Joe  and  George  took  the  flashlight  and 
reconnoitered.  In  five  minutes,  they  returned.  Ed  Nelson 
was  there,  but  he  wouldn't  see  us  or  take  us  into  the  cabins. 

The  next  morning  we  learned  why. 

"I  don't  get  up  at  night  for  anyone,"  Ed  Nelson  told  us. 
"The  Associated  Farmers  and  their  vigilantes  are  out  gun- 
ning for  me.  They've  threatened  me  a  couple  of  times.  I 
have  to  be  careful." 

Forty-five  men  had  been  killed  already  for  trying  to  or- 
ganize the  agricultural  workers  in  the  Valley.  The  biggest 
Imperial  farmer  was  the  Bank  of  America,  controlling  one- 
third  of  the  land  in  the  Valley.  They  didn't  play  gently. 

"A  Civil  Liberties  lawyer  came  here  once  to  speak.  Some- 
one called  him  to  the  phone  at  the  Planters  Hotel.  Seven- 
teen men  grabbed  him  and  took  him  to  the  desert,  stripped 
him,  beat  him  and  tossed  him  into  a  ditch.  .  .  ." 

Nelson  took  us  to  see  the  Mexican  section  in  Brawley. 
The  rains  had  washed  out  the  roads  and  left  wide  pools 
and  streams.  Barefoot  dark  Mexican  girls  and  boys  played 
in  the  mud.  The  quarter  was  fenced  of!  from  the  rest  of 
Brawley.  Rows  of  shacks,  built  from  packing  crates  and 
bits  of  torn  canvas,  like  the  homes  of  the  migratory  work- 
ers, stood  close  together.  We  walked  by  these  sheds,  the 
Mexicans  staring  at  us  coldly.  A  little  boy  wearing  nothing 
but  a  ragged  pair  of  shorts  was  pulling  a  goat  out  of  a  mud 
hole.  When  he  saw  us,  he  ran  to  some  other  small  children 
and  jabbered  quickly  in  Spanish.  The  children  circled 
around  us. 

"Penny,  meestar?    Penny?" 

They  all  approached  slowly. 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  213 

"Will  you  take  a  picture  with  us?"  asked  George. 

The  little  boy  who  had  left  the  goat  nodded.  George 
gave  the  circle  some  pennies  and  took  the  picture.  We 
walked  down  the  narrow  muddy  pathway  between  the 
rows  of  shacks.  One-room  shacks.  Naked  babies  sleeping 
with  open  mouths  on  piles  of  dirty  blankets.  Flies  and 
mosquitoes  covered  them  like  a  black  rash.  No  toilets — 
not  even  outhouses.  No  running  water.  Trash  and  filth. 
We  could  not  believe  this  was  the  United  States,  the  Im- 
perial Valley,  one  of  the  richest  agricultural  centers  in  the 
world. 

A  little  boy  in  long  corduroy  trousers,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  came  over  to  our  car  as  we  left  Brawley.  A  mongrel 
dog  played  with  him.  "Ah  like  dogs,"  he  said.  "Ah  lost 
my  dog.  He  was  big.  He  broke  his  collar  and  jumped  off 
our  truck.  We  looked  all  over  for  him,  but  couldn't  find 
him.  Maybe  he  tried  to  go  back  home." 

He  watched  Mel  tighten  the  ropes  holding  our  luggage 
at  the  side  of  the  car. 

"What  kind  of  dog  was  he?"  Mel  asked,  frowning  at  the 
muddy  valises. 

"German  police  dog.  He  lived  with  us  on  the  farm." 

"Where  are  you  from?    Oklahoma?" 

"No,  Ah'm  from  Texas.  We  had  a  nice  farm  there,  but 
we  had  to  leave.  Once  mah  mother  tried  to  whip  me.  She 
just  got  in  one  lick,  and  mah  dog  jumped  on  her.  He  sure 
was  mah  friend."  He  smiled,  showing  spaces  between  his 
teeth. 

"Do  you  go  to  school?" 

"Uh-huh,  in  El  Centre.  The  other  kids  make  fun  of  me, 
because  Ah  ain't  got  shoes.  But  Ah  don't  care.  Ah  have  a 
lot  of  fun  with  mah  dog." 

El  Centro  was  about  ten  miles  south  of  Brawley.  In  the 


214  The  "Argonauts" 

small,  dusty  office  of  the  Imperial  Valley  A.  F.  of  L.,  Walter 
Weldon  told  us  about  a  murder.  Weldon,  secretary-treas- 
urer of  the  Imperial  Valley  Central  Labor  Council,  said  the 
murder  "mystery"  would  answer  our  question  about  "vio- 
lence" in  the  Valley. 

On  April  7,  1938,  two  men  saw  a  car  parked  in  the 
desert  near  the  road  to  Plaster  City.  A  week  later,  they  saw 
the  same  car,  standing  in  the  same  lonely  spot.  They  inves- 
tigated and  found  the  body  of  a  dead  man — George  Kildow. 

Kildow  was  the  organizer  for  the  Teamsters'  Union  in 
the  Valley.  He  led  the  organization  of  truck  drivers  who 
drove  the  farmers'  produce  to  the  market.  If  the  trucking 
costs,  including  wages,  could  be  kept  low,  the  farmers  would 
realize  higher  profits.  Kildow  had  led  the  fight  for  higher 
wages.  .  .  . 

The  body  of  the  dead  man  appeared  to  have  been  thrown 
into  the  car.  One  foot  was  draped  over  the  steering  wheel, 
the  other  on  the  floor,  and  one  hand  hung  outside  the 
right  door.  A  gun  lay  on  the  running  board.  Its  muzzle 
was  pointed  toward  the  motor. 

The  doctor  testified  that  the  bullet  entered  the  left  side  of 
his  chest  below  the  collarbone  and  came  out  below  the 
lowest  ribs  about  three  inches  to  the  right  of  the  spinal 
column.  It  would  have  been  possible  for  Kildow  to  shoot 
himself  only  if  he  held  the  gun  in  a  very  awkward  position 
and  pulled  the  trigger  with  his  thumb.  No  fingerprints  were 
found  on  the  gun. 

The  sheriff  and  district  attorney  conducted  an  investiga- 
tion. The  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  that  Kildow  was  killed 
by  a  bullet  fired  by  himself  or  some  other  person.  Who 
was  the  other  person?  Nobody  dared  say. 

General  Moseley,  in  testifying  before  the  Dies  Commit- 
tee, stated  that  he  wished  he  were  back  in  the  "serene,  pure 


Vineyard  of  the  Grapes  of  Wrath  215 

atmosphere"  of  the  Imperial  Valley,  in  the  spring.  Kildow 
was  murdered  in  the  spring  of  1938.  That  year,  John 
Steinbeck  wrote: 

The  spring  is  rich  and  green  in  California  this  year. 
In  the  fields  the  wild  grass  is  ten  inches  high,  and  in  the 
orchards  and  vineyards  the  grass  is  deep  and  nearly 
ready  to  be  plowed  under  to  enrich  the  soil.  Already 
the  flowers  are  starting  to  bloom.  Very  shortly  one  of 
the  oil  companies  will  be  broadcasting  the  locations  of 
the  wild-flower  masses.  It  is  a  beautiful  spring. 

There  has  been  no  war  in  California,  no  plague,  no 
bombing  of  open  towns  and  roads,  no  shelling  of  cities. 
It  is  a  beautiful  year.  And  thousands  of  families  arc 
starving  in  California.  .  .  . 


Chapter  8  LONE  STAR  STATE 


high  wire  fence  marked  the  border  between  Mexico 
and  the  United  States.  At  Calexico,  a  clean  California  town 
with  wide  paved  streets,  American  guards  asked  us  why 
we  were  leaving  the  United  States.  Mexican  guards  asked 
us  why  we  were  entering. 

We  entered  Mexicali — another  world.  The  wide  paved 
street  ended  as  soon  as  we  had  filed  past  the  guards.  Muddy 
ruts  led  us  into  this  other  country,  but  did  they  characterize 
Mexico?  We  remembered  the  muddy  crooked  streets  in 
the  Mexican  section  of  Brawley. 

High-cheeked,  brown-skinned  natives  wearing  sombreros 
and  dark  overalls  leaned  against  the  low  tilted  store  fronts. 

We  were  gringos,  tourist  gringos,  to  them.  We  combed 
the  gift  shops,  trying  to  stretch  the  small  sums  of  "personal 
money"  to  cover  huarachos,  wooden  belts,  Mexican  cig- 
arettes, book  ends,  sombreros  and  bandannas. 

A  Mexican  Indian  stopped  us  on  the  street  and  asked  for 
some  money  for  a  "coop  ov  coffee." 

216 


Lone  Star  State 


217 


Two  small  black-eyed  Mexican  boys  watched  us  in  amuse- 
ment. "Allo,  gringos,"  they  said  and  snickered. 

"Buenas  noches,"  answered  Joe,  proud  of  the  little  Span- 
ish he  had  learned  from  the  movies. 

The  two  youngsters  laughed  loudly.  "Buenas  noches 
mean  good  night.  Eet  is  not  night  now." 

Joe  pointed  to  his  shoes.  "What  are  these?" 

"Zapatos."  They  laughed  again  as  Joe  stamped  his  feet 
and  said,  "Zapatos  hurt." 

Mel  kicked  a  large  black  cricket.  "What  do  you  call 
those?"  he  asked. 

"Grillos,"  the  smaller  of  the  two  boys  said.  He  picked 
one  up. 

"Hell  of  a  lot  of  grilles  around  here,"  said  Mel. 

Black-haired  senoritas  wearing  tight-fitting  dresses  pa- 
raded up  and  down  the  muddy  avenue.  In  a  small  park 
down  the  street,  a  fife  and  drum  corps  of  small  boys  was 
practicing.  We  attempted  to  walk  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
small  town,  but  the  muddy  roads  were  impassable. 

On  our  way  back  to  our  own  country,  the  American 
border  guards  confiscated  some  oranges  we  had  brought 
into  Mexico  from  California.  The  oranges  had  been  grown 
and  purchased  in  California,  but  it  was  against  the  law 
to  bring  them  into  the  country  from  Mexico.  So  careful 
was  California  in  protecting  the  health  of  its  citizens. 

Early  in  the  evening  we  started  across  the  vast  Gila 
Desert.  At  Yuma,  our  first  stop,  thick  clusters  of  crickets 
hung  onto  the  walls  of  buildings  and  blackened  the  streets. 
The  moon  climbed  behind  us  as  we  drove  into  a  heavy 
wind  blowing  streams  of  sand  across  the  road.  We  watched 
the  slow  moving  changes  on  the  stage  of  the  desert. 

It  took  a  few  minutes,  so  it  seemed,  to  cover  a  few  hun- 
dred miles  into  Gila  Bend,  a  long  thin  town  of  gasoline  sta- 


218  The  "Argonauts" 

tions  and  open-all-night  eateries.  We  filled  up — gasoline  for 
our  car  and  coffee  for  ourselves.  Lillian,  disturbed  by  the 
drove  of  crickets,  questioned  the  youth  behind  the  lunch 
counter. 

"Are  those  things  dangerous?"  she  asked. 

"Sure,"  he  replied.  "They  get  into  your  soup  when 
you're  not  looking." 

"I  won't  have  soup  then.  What  else  annoys  people  around 
here?" 

"Oh,  we  have  Gila  monsters,  scorpions  and  rattlesnakes. 
You'd  better  be  careful." 

We  didn't  have  a  hard  time  staying  awake  on  this  desert. 
We  held  our  breaths  as  crickets  pasted  to  the  windows  of 
the  car  dropped  inside  or  crawled  up  the  seat. 

In  the  gray  dawn  Tucson  broke  the  desert  with  the  cheer- 
ful twinkle  of  restaurants  and  the  blue  eerie  light  of  a  news- 
paper plant.  We  could  see  the  scrubs  and  cacti  of  the  desert 
as  we  climbed  gradually  into  the  Arizona  hills  and  leveled 
off  onto  a  plateau. 

Tombstone,  a  monument  of  the  old  mining  days,  stood 
dead  and  awkward  among  the  ruins.  Was  this  the  tough 
little  town  of  the  rootin'-shootin'  West?  A  small  school 
building  seemed  as  deserted  and  dead  as  a  large  swinging- 
door  saloon.  Other  old  mining  towns,  like  Douglas  twenty 
miles  away,  seemed  lost  in  the  smoky  haze  of  a  copper 
smelting  plant.  A  waitress  told  us  the  war  had  started  a 
boom  in  the  plant.  "But,"  she  continued,  "the  men — my 
man  works  in  the  plant — didn't  get  a  cent  raise." 

A  tremendous  wasteland  lay  before  us,  purposeless  and 
idle.  For  miles  not  a  house,  not  a  fence  blemished  the  im- 
movable face  of  the  earth.  We  saw  no  people.  We  passed 
a  car  every  other  hour  or  so.  We  saw  black  vultures 
feeding  on  the  carcasses  of  dead  jackrabbits.  We  remembered 


Lone  Star  State  219 

the  dead,  dry  land  in  Kansas  and  the  thousands  of  homeless 
farmers  in  California. 

A  few  miles  from  the  New  Mexico  border  we  passed  a 
stone  monument  commemorating  the  surrender  of  Geron- 
imo,  the  Apache  chief  who  fought  the  invasion  of  the 
white  men.  Small  roadside  signs  symbolized  the  victory 
of  that  invasion  and  the  substitution  of  the  white  man's 
culture : 

READ  RANCH  ROMANCE 
LOVE  AND  ADVENTURE  IN  THE   WEST 

and 

THIS  IS  GOD'S  COUNTRY 
DON'T  DRIVE  THROUGH  IT  LIKE  HELL 

At  Deming,  a  dry  and  dusty  town,  we  saw  another  sign: 

TURN  HERE  FOR  CIVILIAN  CONSERVATION  CORPS 
CAMP  MIRAGE 

We  turned.  The  long  green  buildings  and  shops  appeared 
like  a  fresh  oasis.  We  stopped  the  car  close  to  a  large  cage 
holding  a  young  eagle,  an  owl  and  a  snake.  The  eagle  was 
tearing  apart  and  devouring  a  rabbit  while  the  owl  and  the 
snake  watched  stoically. 

In  the  camp  office,  Captain  Staiger  and  Company  Com- 
mander Pain  greeted  us  coldly. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"What  kind  of  work  do  the  boys  in  the  camp  do?"  George 
began. 

"They  fence  in  grazing  land,  build  dams  to  prevent  soil 
erosion,  build  stock  tanks  and  then  they  learn  some  trade 
in  the  school  we've  got  here." 

"On  whose  land  do  you  do  all  this  work?"  asked  Helen. 


220  The  "Argonauts" 

The  Captain  gazed  at  her  suspiciously.  "Say,  those  news- 
paper clippings  you  showed  me  said  there  were  five  of  you. 
Where's  the  other  one?" 

We  started.  "Oh,  you  mean  Mel!  He's  sleeping  in  the 
car.  We've  driven  for  two  days  without  stopping  for  any 
sleep." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Captain.  "Now  what  do  you  want  to 
know?" 

Helen  repeated  her  question. 

"The  boys  work  on  private  land,  owned  by  farmers  here. 
We  do  that  work  for  the  farmers  and  the  cattlemen  after 
they  agree  to  cut  down  on  the  number  of  cattle  to  prevent 
over-grazing  the  land  and  over-production  on  the  market." 

He  explained  that  the  boys  worked  six  hours  a  day  and 
put  in  another  hour  at  the  trade  school.  The  full  strength 
of  the  camp  was  200.  For  their  work,  the  boys  were  paid 
thirty  dollars  a  month,  the  assistant  leaders  got  thirty-six 
dollars,  and  the  officers  and  clerks  forty-five  dollars — about 
the  same  pay  as  the  regular  army  men  receive. 

"The  pay  is  the  same,"  the  Captain  continued,  "the  uni- 
forms are  almost  the  same,  and  retired  army  officers  lead 
the  boys.  But  what  you  hear  about  the  CCC  being  a  mili- 
tary training  ground  is  the  bunk.  The  CCC  was  created 
to  give  jobs  and  training  to  unemployed  youth  and  to  pro- 
vide a  work  force  to  do  things  in  the  country  that  had  to  be 
done.  The  CCC  wasn't  created  to  build  up  a  raw  fighting 
force — not  here  at  any  rate." 

"Do  you  have  regular  army  discipline  here?"  Joe  asked. 

"No,"  the  Captain  replied.  "We've  just  got  a  fining  sys- 
tem for  any  minor  infractions  of  the  rules.  A  boy  can  be 
fined  up  to  three  dollars  or  lose  some  of  his  privileges." 

"If  this  country  went  to  war,  would  those  boys  be  drafted 
as  a  part  of  the  regular  army?"  Lillian  queried. 


Lone  Star  State  221 

"No.  But  if  there  was  a  draft,  they  would  be  included 
just  like  any  young  person,  college  student  or  factory 
worker." 

"What  do  the  boys  say  about  the  war  ?  Would  they  want 
to  go  overseas  and  fight?" 

"Offhand,"  the  Captain  returned  coldly,  "I'd  say  they 
wouldn't  like  it.  But  if  they  have  to  go,  they'll  go." 

Outside,  we  passed  a  kitchen  and  smelled  baking  pies. 
Inside  the  dormitories,  cots  were  crowded  together,  neatly 
made  up.  In  the  clinic,  traveling  dentists  were  fixing  boys* 
teeth.  We  entered  the  amusement  hall  where  dark-  and 
light-skinned  boys  were  playing  ping-pong  and  pool. 

"The  Anglo  boys  get  along  very  well  with  the  Spanish- 
Americans,"  said  the  Captain. 

We  returned  to  our  car,  awoke  Mel  and  headed  back  to 
the  main  highway  over  the  rutted  road. 

"It  looked  good,"  George  told  Mel,  who  wanted  to  know 
what  he  had  missed.  "But  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  the  regu- 
lar army  bossing  those  kids  around.  If  they  really  don't 
want  them  in  the  army,  why  can't  they  have  civilian  super- 
vision of  the  camps?" 


"Hey,  look  at  that  cowboy!   Look  at  him  ride." 
We  had  seen  better-dressed  cowboys  in  Hollywood.  This 
one  wore  a  black  dusty  shirt  and  a  battered  felt  hat.  A  big 
collie  dog  ran  close  to  the  light-brown  horse.  We  stopped 
and  watched.  The  dog  moved  up  silently  to  the  side  of  a 
heavy  steer  and  forced  it  closer  to  the  cowboy,  who  swung 
his  loop  and  hung  it  swiftly  over  the  steer's  head.  The  dog 
sat  on  his  haunches  and  looked  up  at  the  rider.  The  cow- 
boy grinned  and  waved  to  us. 
Mel  tobogganed  the  car  up  and  down  the  rounded  hills, 


222  The  "Argonauts" 

and  we  came  into  El  Paso  as  a  heavy  rainstorm  broke.  A 
hollow  drumming  noise  sounded  from  the  motor. 

"Sounds  as  if  we've  got  Gene  Krupa  locked  under  the 
hood,"  said  George. 

To  the  rest  of  us,  it  sounded  like  a  death  rattle  for  the 
Twentieth  Century  Unlimited. 

Mel  slowed  the  car.  "Maybe  it's  the  valves,  maybe  the  oil 
rod,  maybe  .  .  ." 

"And  we've  got  thirty  dollars  left,"  groaned  George. 

We  stopped  at  the  first  garage,  learned  with  relief  we 
should  use  bronze  gas  instead  of  red  gas  to  keep  the  motor 
cool,  rented  cabins  and  caught  up  on  three  days'  sleep  in 
spite  of  the  noisy  rainstorm. 

In  the  morning,  we  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  River  into 
Juarez,  Mexico,  paying  two  cents  per  person  to  walk  over 
the  bridge.  We  became  gringos  once  more.  Pushcart  ped- 
dlers, guides  and  panhandlers  besieged  us.  A  small  black- 
haired  boy  approached  Mel  and  Joe. 

"Would  you  like  a  nice  girl,  meester?" 

"No." 

Street  hawkers  crowded  the  sidewalks  on  the  long  main 
street  in  front  of  the  bars  and  gift  shops.  Old  women  in 
long  black  skirts  carried  baskets  of  fruit  and  vegetables  on 
their  heads  or  under  their  arms,  walking  hurriedly  and 
ignoring  the  tourists. 

Small  crowds  gathered  about  the  newsstands  talking 
about  the  war.  Headlines  said: 

INGLATERRA  LUCHAR  CON  ALEMANIA 

Headlines  on  our  American  papers  said: 

ENGLAND  SENDS  TROOPS; 
FRENCH  BATTLE  NAZIS 


Lone  Star  State  223 

We  could  not  understand  the  rapid  conversation  of  the 
small  groups,  but  we  could  feel  what  we  ourselves  felt — 
the  fear  of  being  drawn  into  this  war  .  .  .  "neutral  in  action 
but  not  in  thought." 

Leaving  El  Paso,  a  city  much  the  same  as  any  cosmopoli- 
tan city  in  the  country,  we  drove  into  a  long  green  valley, 
one  of  the  few  signs  of  living  color  we  had  seen  in  the  past 
week.  A  rainstorm  soon  blotted  out  the  color,  and  Mel 
slowed  the  car,  straddling  the  white  line  in  the  center  of 
the  highway.  The  rain  poured  off  the  hills  into  the  road  so 
that  we  seemed  to  be  driving  down  a  river. 

A  red  neon  sign  shining  hazily  through  the  thick  rain 
drew  us  to  a  beanery.  We  stamped  into  the  place.  A  Mex- 
ican in  overalls  stood  at  the  bar.  Two  men  dressed  in  khaki 
uniforms  sat  at  the  front  booth  and  looked  out  the  window. 

"What's  the  name  of  this  place?"  George  asked  one  of 
the  men  in  khaki. 

"Fort  Hancock,"  answered  his  friend. 

"How  many  people  live  here?" 

"Dunno.  I  figure  about  ten  or  twelve.  Won't  really  know 
until  the  next  census  count."  He  pointed  a  thumb  at  the 
other  man.  "He's  our  census  taker.  He  can't  find  time  to 
take  an  official  count.  He's  mayor  of  this  town." 

"That  shouldn't  take  much  time." 

"But  he's  customs  inspector,  border  patrolman,  deputy 
sheriff  and  about  everything  else  too." 

"What  do  people  in  this  town  do  for  a  living?" 

"Oh,  we  just  sit  around  and  predict  the  coming  of  rain. 
Sheriff  here  picked  this  rain  to  the  day  and  hour.  He's  the 
official  weather  forecaster." 

A  large  truck  drew  up  to  the  eating  place,  and  two  Mexi- 
can youths  walked  in  and  ordered  coffee.  The  sheriff  and 
his  man  looked  out  the  window. 


224  The  "Argonauts" 

"Looks  like  those  cotton  pickers  they  brought  up  from 
San  Antonio  the  other  day  had  to  stop  work,"  said  the 
sheriff's  man.  "They  bring  those  Mexicans  up  from  the 
cities  so  they  can  pay  'em  less  money.  Look  at  'em  now." 
He  gestured  toward  the  truck.  "They're  soaked,  and  they 
can't  sleep  under  those  burlap  tents  in  the  fields.  Poor 
devils." 

3 

Allamore,  Van  Horn,  Lobo,  Valentine,  Alpine,  Altuda, 
Marathon  .  .  .  gas-station  towns  on  the  road  to  Del  Rio. 
We  would  trace  the  thin  highway  line  on  road  maps  and 
anticipate  coming  into  a  town  only  to  find  a  gasoline  pump 
and  dilapidated  shacks.  We  remembered  how  Dan  Harris 
back  in  Bakersfield,  California,  had  characterized  his  own 
town. 

"I  koow  what  you  think,"  he  had  said.  "You  drive  into 
town  and  say,  'Nice  town  we're  coming  to,  wasn't  it?"1 

Mel  pulled  out  the  throttle  and  the  car  skimmed  along 
the  straight  road.  We  waved  to  a  tall  Indian  seated  up- 
right on  a  horse  amid  a  flock  of  sheep.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
brightly  beaded  leather  jacket  and  trousers,  and  he  nodded 
to  us  in  greeting. 

A  long  barbed-wire  fence  began  to  run  parallel  to  the 
highway.  Dog-like  skeletons  hung  from  the  posts.  The 
skeletons  turned  out  to  be  coyotes  in  various  stages  of 
decay;  we  finally  saw  them  in  their  brown  fur  coats,  cruci- 
fied to  the  posts. 

A  steep  downgrade  took  us  into  the  Pecos  River  Canyon; 
its  rounded  stones  and  crevices  seemed  to  gape  at  us  as  we 
gaped  at  them. 

We  could  do  little  else  in  this  part  of  the  country  except 
drive  all  day  and  look,  stop  for  the  night  and  write.  At  Del 


Lone  Star  State  225 

Rio  we  rented  cabins,  ate  Helen's  standard  supper  of  canned 
soup,  canned  salmon,  bread  and  jam  and  coffee,  and  then 
worked  at  our  typewriters,  until  we  could  stay  awake  no 
longer.  Joe  and  Lillian  held  out  the  longest.  When  Joe 
gave  up  at  three  in  the  morning,  he  nudged  George  and 
Mel  to  "move  ovah"  in  the  narrow  bed,  lay  down  on  the 
edge,  and  the  three  boys  collapsed  with  the  bed. 

We  came  into  Uvalde  early  the  next  morning. 

"So  this  is  the  place  where  we  were  going  to  be  stranded," 
said  Helen. 

Uvalde — home  of  seventy-year-old  John  Nance  Garner, 
Vice-President  of  the  United  States.  It  was  hot  and  flat,  and 
it  looked  none  too  prosperous. 

We  decided  to  find  out  about  John  Nance  Garner.  A 
cow  hand  in  front  of  the  main  drug  store  told  us:  "He's 
everything  that  feller  John  L.  Lewis  called  him  and  more. 
Darn  right.  He  drinks  his  whisky  neat  and  plays  a  mean 
hand  of  poker.  And  he  is  rich,  believe  me." 

We  stepped  into  the  Hotel  Kincaid  and  saw  the  famous 
collection  of  Garner  gavels.  The  hotel  clerk  told  us:  "Too 
bad  you  missed  the  Vice-President.  He  left  this  morning 
for  the  special  session  of  Congress  in  Washington.  Want 
to  buy  some  postcards  of  his  house  or  family?" 

We  didn't  buy  any  postcards,  but  we  walked  through  the 
quiet  streets  of  Uvalde  to  Garner's  home.  It  was  a  large 
brick  house,  shaded  by  huge  trees  and  shrubbery. 

"Yes,  he  sure  is  rich,"  said  a  laundry  man  who  stood 
idly  near  the  post  office.  "He  owns  about  everything  around 
here,  all  the  ranching  land,  the  bank,  that  whole  block  over 
there."  He  waved  toward  a  group  of  stores  and  buildings 
down  the  street. 

"He  wants  to  be  the  next  President,"  the  laundryman  con- 
tinued. He  walked  to  the  curb,  held  his  white  tie  close  to 


226  The  "Argonauts" 

his  white  shirt  and  spat  tobacco  juice  into  the  street.  "I 
guess  this  town'll  vote  for  him  if  he  runs.  I  don't  care 
much  one  way  or  the  other." 

He  lifted  his  straw  hat  and  scratched  the  top  of  his  head. 
"D'ya  want  to  see  something  peculiar?"  He  pointed  to  an 
old  gray-haired  man  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  bank  across 
the  street.  "That's  Garner's  brother-in-law.  He  always  sits 
there.  He's  got  nothing  else  to  do.  He  can't  even  get  a 
job." 

"Now  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  we  weren't  stranded  in  Uvalde," 
said  Helen,  as  we  headed  out  of  town  toward  San  Antonio. 
Cattle  grazed  quietly  on  the  land.  Cattle  and  John  Nance 
Garner — that's  all  we  found  until  we  reached  San  Antonio. 

NAMES  .  .  . 

Maury  Maverick,  Mayor 

San  Antonio 

Friend  of  publisher 

lunch  and  hospitality — sure  bets 

The  telephone  book  didn't  list  his  number.  City  Hall 
closed  at  six  o'clock  and  it  was  three  hours  after  that  now. 
So  we  called  up  the  Chief  of  Police  and  told  him  it  was 
imperative  that  we  get  Mayor  Maverick  on  the  phone.  He 
gave  us  the  telephone  number.  We  called.  Maury,  said 
Mrs.  Maverick,  had  left  for  New  York  ten  minutes  before. 

Following  her  instructions,  we  searched  out  a  tourist 
camp  where  she  would  get  in  touch  with  us  the  next  day. 
The  camp  was  grandiose.  We  rented  a  three-room  house 
with  all  modern  conveniences — air  conditioning,  refrigera- 
tion, a  dinette,  two  bedrooms,  etc.  The  prices  air-condi- 
tioned our  treasury.  We  were  down  to  our  last  twelve 


Lone  Star  State  227 

dollars.   People  always  seem  to  start  splurging  when  they 
are  near  starvation. 

But  Joe  had  an  idea.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  his  college 
newspaper,  informing  the  staff  he  was  stranded.  If  they 
ever  wanted  to  see  his  cherubic  face  again,  would  they  start 
a  drive  at  the  school  to  "Bring  Wershba  Back  Alive?" 

Lillian  had  a  better  idea.  She  sat  herself  and  the  others 
down  at  the  typewriters  and  finished  off  additional  chapters 
of  the  book.  We  mailed  them  to  our  publisher  in  New 
York,  crossed  our  fingers  and  went  to  lunch  with  Mrs. 
Maverick. 

Small  Mrs.  Maverick  was  peppy  and  talkative.  She  talked 
while  we  ate.  Waiters,  hostesses  and  busboys  hovered  about 
us  attentively,  frowning  at  Joe,  who  unconsciously  ate  his 
roast  beef  from  the  serving  platter.  Mrs.  Maverick  said  it  was 
too  bad  we  had  missed  Maury.  With  our  mouths  full  of  roast 
beef  we  assured  her  we  were  doing  all  right.  Well,  any- 
how, she  would  have  given  us  a  key  to  the  city,  but  they 
weren't  ready  yet.  But  it  was  too  bad  we  had  missed  Maury. 

We  heard  a  lot  about  Maury,  chunky,  short  and  dynamic 
Mayor.  "So  you  missed  Maury,  eh?"  said  Cliff  Potter,  San 
Antonio  reporter.  With  his  wife,  his  blonde  daughter,  who 
looked  and  talked  like  Judy  Wallet  in  "Gasoline  Alley," 
and  Tom  Brady,  another  reporter,  he  came  to  our  luxurious 
house  in  the  tourist  camp.  We  sprawled  on  the  beds  and 
kitchen  chairs,  turned  on  the  fans,  sipped  ice-water  and 
heard  about  Maury  Maverick. 

Potter  lit  a  cigarette,  reached  over  to  the  table  and  care- 
fully placed  the  match  in  the  ashtray.  "Have  you  heard 
about  the  fellas  who  started  the  riot  against  the  commu- 
nists a  couple  weeks  ago?" 

"How  did  the  riot  start?"  asked  Helen. 

"Well,  the  Communist  Party  asked  Maury  for  a  permit 


228  The  "Argonauts" 

to  hold  a  meeting  in  the  Municipal  Auditorium,"  Potter 
drawled.  "Maury  gave  it  to  them.  But  the  American  Legion 
kicked  up  a  fuss,  said  the  auditorium  had  been  built  as  a 
memorial  to  the  war  dead,  and  that  i£  the  communists  were 
allowed  to  speak,  it  would  be  casting  a  blot  on  the  war  dead. 

"Then  the  Archbishop  of  the  Catholic  Church  A.  J. 
Drossanta,  issued  a  statement  attacking  the  Communist 
Party.  And  a  guy  by  the  name  of  Herman  G.  Nami,  a 
Legionnaire,  issued  a  statement  along  the  lines  of  this  call- 
to-action  stufl. 

"The  night  of  the  meeting  there  were  about  300  people 
inside  and  10,000  milling  around  outside  the  auditorium. 
I  was  inside  covering  the  meeting. 

"When  the  time  came  to  start,  fiery  little  Emma  Tena- 
yuca  Brooks,  secretary  of  the  Communist  Party  in  the  state, 
got  up  on  the  platform." 

Here  Potter  paused  and  shook  his  head.  "You  ought  to 
see  her.  She's  small  and  thin,  couldn't  hurt  a  cricket.  Well, 
little  Emma  gets  up  and  asks  the  crowd  to  sing  the  'Star- 
Spangled  Banner/" 

"Then  it  started.  I  looked  outside  and  saw  this  mob  of 
kids,  couldn't  be  more  than  seventeen  and  twenty  years  old, 
throwing  bricks.  They  were  all  boozed  up,  and  some 
Legionnaires— you  could  tell  them  by  their  overseas  caps- 
were  egging  these  kids  on. 

"Well,  the  mob  climbed  through  the  windows  into  the 
auditorium.  The  people  at  the  meeting  were  taken  out 
through  the  back  door.  The  mob  smashed  the  furniture 
and  just  wrecked  the  auditorium.  Then  they  paraded  to 
the  Alamo,  smashing  windows  on  the  way  and  scaring  hell 
out  of  everybody.  Finally,  they  hung  Maury  in  effigy.  Boy, 
what  a  night!" 

We  sat  quietly  for  about  two  minutes.   "Who  were  the 


Lone  Star  State  229 

leaders  of  the  mob?    What  did  the  police  do?    Why  did 
they  have  a  riot?" 

"Take  it  easy,  whoa!"  Potter  laughed  good-naturedly. 
He  reached  over  and  filled  his  glass  with  water  from  the 
pitcher.  "Do  you  want  some,  baby?"  he  asked  his  daughter. 
She  shook  her  head,  the  blonde  curls  jumping  crazily,  and 
looked  at  him  expectantly. 

"Clem  Smith,"  Potter  continued,  "he's  a  war  vet  getting 
compensation,  and  he's  also  commander  of  the  Legion  Post. 
He  spoke  at  the  'Americanization'  meeting  after  the  riot, 
and  then  he  led  the  parade  to  Alamo.  At  the  meeting  Clem 
said,  'We  have  a  Catholic,  a  Ku  Kluxer  and  a  Jew  leading  us 
tonight.  I'm  the  Jew.'  "  Potter  grinned  wryly.  Just  like  that. 

"Gee,  those  kids  were  a  shame.  Young  fellas,  like  you," 
he  nodded  at  Mel,  Joe  and  George.  "Our  photographer 
caught  a  shot  of  a  kid,  about  eighteen.  Boy!  That  was  some 
shot,  wasn't  it,  Brady?"  He  turned  to  the  black-haired  young 
reporter  sprawled  on  the  bed. 

"Sure  was,"  Brady  drawled.  "That  kid  had  a  stick  in  one 
hand  and  a  big  stone  in  the  other.  He  was  just  crazy  mad. 
They  ought  to  stick  those  people  in  jail,  that's  what  they 
ought  to  do.  'Americanism,' "  he  snorted.  "They  don't 
know  what  it  means." 

4 

Mel  and  Lillian  climbed  the  stairs  to  Clem  Smith's  photo- 
graphic studio,  about  half  a  block  away  from  the  Alamo. 
A  short  man  in  shirt  sleeves  with  small  red  eyes  stood 
behind  the  counter. 

"Whaddya  want?"  he  called  as  we  approached. 

We  came  closer.  The  strong  odor  of  whisky  almost 
smothered  us. 

"We  heard  that  you  led  the  riot  against  the  communists," 


230  The  "Argonauts" 

said  Lillian.  "We're  from  New  York,  writing  a  book  about 
America  and  some  articles  for  magazines  and  newspapers." 

"That's  right,"  Smith  said  proudly.  He  held  out  a  scaly 
paw,  his  finger  nails  cut  short  to  the  skin.  "That's  me. 
What  do  you  want  to  write  about?" 

"Oh,  about  your  opinions  and  explanation  of  the  riot." 

"Say,"  Smith  stuck  his  head  closer,  "you're  not  members 
of  that  damn  Newspaper  Guild?" 

"Nah,"  Mel  and  Lillian  shook  their  heads  vigorously, 
and  under  their  breaths  muttered,  "We're  not  regular  mem- 
bers." 

"I  was  just  making  sure,  that's  all."  His  eyes  creased  to- 
gether until  only  the  red  rims  showed.  "Well,  here's  some- 
thing for  you  to  see."  He  pulled  a  bedraggled  packet  of 
letters  and  newspaper  clippings  from  under  the  counter. 
"After  the  stories  appeared  in  the  papers,  I  got  letters  of 
congratulation  from  all  over  the  country.  See,  here  is  the 
story  in  the  San  Antonio  Light."  He  read  from  the  clipping 
in  a  hoarse  voice.  "See,  that's  me,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  picture  of  himself  in  the  crowd. 

"Are  all  those  letters  a  result  of  the  publicity?"  asked 
Lillian. 

"Damn  right.  Fan  mail!"  He  smoothed  his  tie,  finger- 
ing a  tie-pin  with  a  six-pointed  Jewish  star.  We  looked  at 
him  questioningly.  "Sure,"  he  snickered.  "I'm  a  good 
Jew!" 

We  read  some  of  his  fan  mail. 

.  .  .  negros  [sic]  and  communistic  jews  are  the 
trouble  with  this  country.  .  .  . 

Gentlemen  ask  anyone  in  New  York  City  and  they 
will  tell  you  the  communistic  foreigner  and  the  colored 
are  getting  all  the  better  of  the  native  born.  .  .  . 


Lone  Star  State  231 

Form  a  committee  and  contact  committees  of  other 
organizations  such  as  the  Elks,  K.  of  C.,  the  Masons, 
American  Legion,  VFW  [Veterans  of  Foreign  Wars] 
and  so  forth.  Have  you  members  go  into  the  hall  in 
2*s  or  3*8  in  a  quiet  manner,  and  fil  the  place  up.  Have 
a  distinctive  badge  (such  as  a  plain  white  ribbon  given 
each)  and  once  they  get  into  the  place  put  same  on,  so 
that  incase  of  any  demonstration  you  will  know  who 
your  friends  are. 

Mel  asked,  "What  started  the  riot?" 
"The  signal  was  given  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  you  arranged  beforehand  to  give  the  signal? 
Who  gave  it?" 

"Who  d'ya  think  gave  it?"  he  bellowed.  Then  he  grinned 
slyly.  "I  don't  know  who  gave  it,  but  when  they  started  to 
sing  the  'Star-Spangled  Banner'  we  went  for  them.  God 
was  on  the  side  of  the  American  people." 

"Who  led  the  boys  in  the  mob?" 

Smith  grinned  benignly.  "Who  d'ya  think?" 

A  short,  thin  fifteen-year-old  youth  with  a  pale  wrinkled 
face  entered.  "H'lo,  Pop,"  he  said  dryly. 

"This  is  my  son,  Buddy,"  said  Smith.  "You  carried  the 
American  flag  in  the  parade,  didn't  you?" 

"Right,  Pop,"  said  Buddy.  He  took  a  pack  of  cigarettes 
from  his  shirt  pocket,  lit  one  and  inhaled  deeply. 

"What  do  you  do?"  questioned  Lillian. 

"Go  to  school." 

"Don't  they  object  to  your  smoking  at  school?" 

Buddy  looked  surprised.  "Sure  they  object.  What  the 
hell  can  they  do  to  me?  They  don't  like  me,  that's  all.  But 
who  the  hell  cares?" 


232  The  "Argonauts" 

Lillian  gulped,  and  turned  back  to  the  elder  Smith. 
"How  many  communists  are  there  in  San  Antonio?" 

"We  don't  know  yet,  but  we'll  find  out  soon.  We're 
getting  spies  in  there.  They'll  get  in  good  with  the  secre- 
tary and  walk  home  with  him  some  night  and  mess  him  up 
a  little  bit.  They  won't  kill  him;  they'll  just  get  his  mem- 
bership books.  Then  we'll  know  who  the  communists  are." 

"Have  you  done  anything  like  that  yet?" 

"Well,  we've  got  one  fella.  He  used  to  belong  to  the 
Communist  Party,  and  he  knows  just  how  to  go  about  it. 
We  can't  do  too  much  of  that  stuff  right  now,  don't  have 
the  organization  yet.  But  we'll  get  it.  You  know,  we  have 
to  pay  those  men  and  women." 

Smith  turned  to  Buddy,  who  sat  silently  on  a  chair  blow- 
ing smoke  rings.  "Buddy,  get  me  the  constitution  of  the 
communists.  I  want  to  show  it  to  them." 

Buddy  went  into  a  back  room  and  returned  with  a  small 
black  book.  "Here,  Pop." 

"I  got  this  here  membership  book  from  a  fella  who  used 
to  belong.  Constitution  is  right  here.  I'll  read  it  to  you. 
Listen."  He  mumbled: 

"The  Communist  Party  of  the  United  States  of 
America  is  a  working  class  political  party  carrying  forth 
today  the  traditions  of  Jefferson,  Paine,  Jackson  and 
Lincoln,  and  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  .  .  . 
it  is  devoted  to  the  defense  of  the  immediate  interests  of 
the  workers,  farmers  and  all  toilers  against  capitalist 
exploitation.  .  .  . 

"Now  that  doesn't  sound  so  bad,  does  it?  They're  smart, 
them  communists,  putting  in  all  that  baloney,  but  listen  to 


Lone  Star  State  233 

this  part.  Here's  where  they  come  out  and  really  say  what 
they're  for. 

"By  establishing  a  common  ownership  of  the  national 
economy,  through  a  government  of  the  people,  by  the 
people  and  for  the  people;  the  abolition  of  all  exploita- 
tion of  man  by  man,  nation  by  nation,  and  race  by  race, 
and  thereby  the  establishment  of  socialism,  according  to 
the  scientific  principles  enunciated  by  the  greatest 
teachers  of  mankind,  Marx,  Engels,  Lenin  and 
Stalin 

"Didj a  get  that?  According  to  the  greatest  bums  in  his- 
tory, if  you  ask  me!  If  you,"  he  turned  to  Lillian,  "weren't 
here,  I'd  call  them  something,"  he  snorted. 

"Well,  we'd  better  be  going,"  sad  Mel. 

"D'ya  want  a  copy  of  this  constitution  ?  I'll  photograph  it 
for  you,"  said  Smith. 

"Won't  it  be  too  much  trouble?"  asked  Mel. 

Smith  waved  a  hand  at  us.  "Not  at  all,  and  I'll  put  my 
name  on  it  so's  people'll  know  where  you  got  it.  I  like  kids 
of  your  type.  Glad  to  help  you  out." 

"Sure,"  Buddy  added  and  flipped  a  cigarette  butt  out  the 
window. 

Mel  and  Lillian  departed  with  an  autographed  enlarge- 
ment of  the  constitution  of  the  Communist  Party. 

Meanwhile,  George  and  Helen  searched  out  Alexander 
Boynton  in  an  old  bank  building,  the  offices  of  the  "Recall 
Maverick"  campaign.  It  was  one  of  the  banks  that  had 
folded  in  1932.  Big  signs,  RECALL  MAVERICK,  hung  outside. 

"Reporters,  huh?"  Hoarse  and  hoary,  Alexander  Boynton 
graciously  held  a  chair  for  Helen  to  sit  down  and  motioned 
George  to  another.  He  looked  at  Helen's  innocent  face. 
"All  right,  I  guess  you're  not  spies.  But  I  want  to  make 


234  The  "Argonauts" 

sure  you  get  everything  I  say,  so  you,"  he  pointed  to  George, 
"you  take  down  the  statement  I  dictate." 

George  wrote  down  everything  Mr.  Boynton  said. 

"Hrrumph.  Personally  I  take  the  position  that  we  in  the 
United  States  are  building  a  house  of  democracy  and  those 
who  wish  to  work  on  the  house  of  communism  or  any  other 
'ism'  should  go  where  they  are  building  that  sort  of  struc- 
ture. .  .  . 

"Hrrumph.  Second  paragraph.  It  is  said  in  the  Bible  that 
you  cannot  serve  two  masters,  and  it  is  equally  true  that 
you  cannot  serve  two  flags.  I  am  not  speaking  for  this  organ- 
ization when  I  say  it  is  my  belief  that  every  man  who  be- 
lieves in  destroying  our  form  of  government  by  violence 
and  bloodshed  should  be  thrown  into  concentration  camps 
and  deported.  .  .  . 

"Hrrumph.  Fifth  paragraph.  It  is  a  well-known  medical 
theory  that  diseases  which  cannot  be  cured  should  be  local- 
ized. I  would  localize  communism  and  anarchy  in  this 
country  by  strict  surveillance  over  communistic  activities 
until  we  could  be  rid  of  communism.  .  .  . 

"Hrrumph.  Seventh  paragraph.  The  blessings  of  liberty 
are  for  those  who  believe  in  liberty  and  should  not  be  ex- 
tended to  the  enemies  of  our  free  institutions.  .  .  . 

"Hrrumph.  Eighth  paragraph.  ...  If  we  wait  until  their 
poisonous  growth  has  become  attached  to  our  vitals,  we  will 
then  be  compelled  to  use  surgery,  and  it  may  not  be  of  the 
bloodless  kind.  ..." 

More  hrrumphs  and  similar  paragraphs. 

George  waved  his  arm  limply  as  he  and  Helen  left. 

5 

We  found  Emma  Tenayuca  Brooks  near  midnight  in  the 
Mexican  section  of  town  at  the  home  address  Potter  had 


Lone  Star  State  235 

given  us.  She  answered  the  door  herself,  dressed  in  a  tan 
skirt,  white  cotton  blouse  and  ankle  socks.  We  thought  she 
was  some  neighbor's  kid,  and  Helen  in  a  motherly  tone 
asked  for  Emma  Tenayuca. 

Her  big  black  eyes  laughed  at  us. 

"I'm  Emma  Tenayuca,"  she  said. 

She  led  us  into  a  barely  furnished  room.  George  and  Joe 
hesitantly  sat  down  on  either  side  of  her  on  the  worn  couch. 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  as  we  stared  at  her. 
The  thin  dark  face,  black  hair  and  shining  white  teeth 
stood  out  sharply,  like  a  clear  deep  etching  in  the  shabby 
room.  Little  Emma's  whole  thin  body  seemed  to  vibrate 
as  she  spoke,  her  mouth  twisting  slightly  to  the  side  as  if 
she  were  making  great  effort  to  enunciate  each  syllable. 

"Well,"  said  Helen,  "we'd  like  to  hear  your  version  of  the 
riot " 

She  corroborated  the  facts  Cliff  Potter  had  given  us. 

She  smiled.  "That's  nothing,"  she  said.  "Remember, 
there's  a  war  in  Europe  now.  We  communists  don't  want  to 
see  the  people  of  this  country  involved  in  it.  But  there  are 
other  people  who  profit  and  grow  rich  on  war,  and  they'll 
try  to  squelch  the  communists.  They  won't  stop  at  riots. 
They'll  try  every  means  to  put  us  out  of  the  way." 

Her  intense  manner  silenced  us,  and  she  continued. 
"These  people  who  profit  from  wars — the  big  bankers  and 
manufacturers — won't  admit  their  real  reason  for  trying  to 
get  us  involved.  But  we  will  never  stop  telling  the  people 
that  the  men  who  want  war  want  to  make  money  out  of  it." 

"But  what's  the  war  got  to  do  with  an  anti-communist 
riot?"  asked  George. 

"Because,"  Emma  replied  directly,  "the  same  people  who 
want  to  get  us  into  war  are  trying  to  divide  and  weaken  the 


236  The  "Argonauts" 

workers  in  this  state.  And  communists  stand  for  the  strength 
and  unity  of  working  people  all  over." 

Lighting  a  cigarette,  she  continued.  "You  have  to  under- 
stand Texas  in  order  to  see  the  whole  picture.  We're  a  ranch- 
ing state,  an  oil  and  cotton  and  pecan  state.  The  owners 
want  to  hire  labor  at  lowest  possible  wages  here,  in  the  cot- 
ton fields  and  pecan  factories.  So  the  big  capitalists  hire 
Mexicans,  pay  them  lower  wages  than  Americans,  divide  the 
two  groups  against  each  other — and  rule  both. 

"But  don't  think  the  West  rules  Texas.  The  big  Eastern 
banks  own  the  oil  wells  and  sulphur  fields — and  profits  go 
back  to  Wall  Street.  Yes,  Wall  Street  controls  the  state 
legislature. 

"You  ought  to  see  some  of  the  ranches  we  have  out  here. 
The  King  Ranch  has  800,000  acres.  People  are  born  and 
buried  there  without  setting  foot  outside.  Census  takers  are 
never  allowed  on,  and  labor  organizers  who  go  in  never  come 
out." 

She  laughed  again  at  our  worried  looks.  "But  things  are 
changing  even  here,"  she  said.  "In  Fort  Worth,  since  the 
organizational  drive  started  among  the  stockyards  workers, 
the  whole  progressive  movement  has  been  given  new  im- 
petus. There's  a  pretty  strong  old-age-pension  movement 
now,  'Nickel  for  Grandma'  it's  called.  It  provides  for  a 
nickel  tax  on  every  barrel  of  oil. 

"Governor  O'Daniel's  main  appeal  in  getting  himself 
elected  was  the  thirty-dollars-a-month  old-age-pension  pro- 
gram. After  he  got  into  office,  he  proposed  that  the  pensions 
be  financed  by  a  'transactions  tax.  He  insists  that  is  different 
from  a  sales  tax,  but  it  provides  for  a  tax  on  every  sale  or 
transaction.  All  the  progressives  have  banded  together  be- 
hind the  'Nickel  for  Grandma'  pension  plan.  Instead  of  tax- 
ing the  poor,  to  finance  the  pensions,  it  would  tax  the  rich 


Lone  Star  State  237 

oil  companies  by  making  them  pay  five  cents  on  every  barrel 
of  crude  oil  they  purchase. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  poll  tax  is?"  she  continued.  "Yes, 
you  have  to  pay  money  in  order  to  vote  down  here.  So  the 
poor  can't  vote.  That's  why  Congressman  Martin  Dies  gets 
himself  elected  with  12,000  votes  out  of  361,000  people  in  his 
district. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  secret  ballot  is?  Well,  we  don't 
have  the  secret  ballot  in  Texas.  Those  workers  who  are 
able  to  pay  the  poll  tax  must  risk  losing  their  jobs  when  they 
vote  for  candidates  whom  their  bosses  oppose." 

Her  dark  eyes  flashed  angrily,  then  smiled. 

"But  it  won't  last  forever.  They  can  start  riots  against  us 
and  malign  us  in  every  way  through  the  powerful  channels 
of  press  and  radio.  But  they  can't  keep  us  down.  The  people 
are  organizing,  farmers  as  well  as  workers,  and  they  can't 
keep  the  people  down  forever." 


Texas  feels  Mexico. 

Juan  Carlos  Hidalgo,  a  school  teacher  returning  to  his 
country  from  the  convention  of  the  American  Federation  of 
Teachers,  told  us  something  about  Mexico.  "I  am  a  member 
of  the  Syndicate  of  Educational  Workers,"  he  said.  "We  have 
a  real  union,  and  the  teachers  are  very  much  aware  of  the 
struggle  between  the  people  of  our  country  and  all  the  im- 
perialists who  try  to  control  us." 

We  met  him  in  a  little  Mexican  restaurant  where  we  had 
gone  to  sample  real  Mexican  food.  The  chili  and  enchilladas 
tasted  hot,  heavy  and  soggy.  Juan  Carlos  pounded  his  fist 
on  the  table  and  waved  his  arms  as  he  explained  what  im- 
perialism had  done  to  Mexico  and  what  Mexicans  were  do- 
ing to  combat  imperialism. 


238  The  "Argonauts" 

"This  is  how  we  teach  arithmetic  and  geography,"  he  said. 
"We  give  the  little  children  a  problem.  'German  imperial- 
ism has  invested  $13,000,000  in  a  certain  industry,  British  im- 
perialism has  invested  $22,000,000  and  America's  Wall  Street 
has  invested  $60,000,000.  How  much  have  all  the  imperialists 
invested  in  this  industry  to  control  our  country?'  The  pupils 
add  these  figures,  and  they  learn  very  early  what  imperialism 
means." 

Helen  struggled  to  down  a  large  crisp  tortilla. 

"Isn't  that  propaganda  you're  teaching?"  she  asked. 

Juan  Carlos  watched  her  amateurish  attempts  to  eat  his 
country's  favorite  biscuit.  He  smiled  amusedly  before  he 
replied. 

"And  what  did  you  learn  in  your  American  schoolrooms  ? 
'If  Johnny  earns  a  million  dollars  and  gives  half  to  his  friend, 
how  much  does  he  have  for  himself?'  That's  the  way  you 
learned  arithmetic  ?  No  ? " 

Helen  gave  up  the  tortilla  with  a  despairing  sigh.  She 
nodded.  "That's  the  way  I  learned  arithmetic,"  said  she. 

"Then,"  Juan  Carlos  continued  triumphantly,  "we  have  a 
right  to  teach  our  pupils  mathematics  on  a  sound  and  real- 
istic basis.  We  give  them  this  problem :  Tour  father  works 
in  a  factory  and  makes  300  pesos  worth  of  goods.  The  boss 
takes  250  pesos  for  himself.  How  much  does  your  father 
get  for  his  labor?'  That's  realistic,  no?  Then  we  teach 
geography,  and  we  describe  Abyssinia  or  Spain.  'These  coun- 
tries used  to  be  free,  but  now  they  have  been  taken  over  by 
German,  British  and  Italian  imperialism.'  That's  how  we 
teach  the  boys  and  girls  of  Mexico." 

We  walked  over  to  the  Hays  Plaza,  where  the  Chili 
Queens — Mexican  women  in  colorful  costumes — served  large 
plates  of  chili  and  tamales,  while  men  in  flat  black  sombreros 


Lone  Star  State  239 

and  tight  trousers  strummed  guitars  and  played  request  num- 
bers. 

The  singing,  strumming  Mexicans  grouped  around  us 
and  smiled  as  they  serenaded  us.  We  looked  across  the 
plaza  at  the  tall  modernistic  buildings. 

After  the  Mexicans  had  finished  their  songs,  they  held  out 
their  sombreros  for  nickels  and  dimes  from  the  crowd. 
George  dropped  a  dime  into  a  hat. 

"Gracias."  They  moved  to  another  part  of  the  Plaza  and 
began  to  sing  to  some  new  arrivals. 

San  Antonio  was  as  cosmopolitan  as  Seattle,  but  it  had  its 
earmarks.  Panhandlers  on  the  street  sang  Home,  Home  on 
the  Range  as  visiting  farmers  and  their  families,  all  decked 
out  in  new  or  infrequently  worn  clothing,  stood  and  stared. 
Baptist  preachers  held  meetings  on  the  street  corners  and 
told  us  our  souls  could  still  be  saved.  Uniforms  were  every- 
where. Near-by  Fort  Houston,  Kelly  and  Randolph  air  fields 
sent  the  soldiers  into  town  for  their  fun.  Department  stores 
displayed  latest  styles  in  riding  boots  and  harnesses.  Other- 
wise, San  Antonio  looked  like  Seattle  or  Kansas  City  or 
Brooklyn's  downtown  section. 

Helen  strolled  into  Franklin's  Beauty  Parlor  to  see  about 
a  manicure.  We  were  still  awaiting  word  from  our  pub- 
lisher, but  after  all,  said  Helen,  she  had  to  help  find  out 
about  public  opinion  in  San  Antonio,  and  if  we  were  going 
to  be  stranded,  thirty  cents  wouldn't  make  much  difference. 
So  young  Isobel  Shell  proceeded  to  give  Helen  the  manicure 
plus  an  idea  of  public  opinion  in  the  city. 

"I'm  from  New  York,"  said  Helen,  "traveling  around  and 
writing  a  book." 

"Oh,"  said  young  Isobel.  "Oh,  my!  Wait,  I'll  call  the 
girls  over."  The  other  girls  gathered  around  Helen,  desert- 
ing angry  customers.  She  asked  them  about  their  work. 


240  The  "Argonauts" 

"We  work  on  a  commission  basis  here,"  said  Isobel.  "We 
average  about  fifteen  dollars  a  week." 

"There  aren't  many  jobs  around,"  added  a  small  dark- 
haired  girl  in  a  soft  drawl.  "My  boy  friend  has  been  un- 
employed since  he  graduated  from  high  school,  so  we  can't 
get  married." 

Another  dark-haired  girl  called  Marie  absent-mindedly 
filed  her  own  nails  as  she  said  slowly :  "He's  not  the  only  one. 
In  the  meat  packing  houses  the  boys  can  earn  about  sixteen 
dollars  a  week,  and  that's  about  all  the  jobs  there  are." 

"Sure,"  said  Isobel.  "That's  why  so  many  of  them  were  in 
that  riot  a  couple  of  weeks  ago.  They've  got  nothing  else  to 
do  and  they're  mad.  So  they  took  it  out  on  the  communists." 

"Hey!"  called  a  plump  customer  from  underneath  a  hair 
drier.  "How  long  am  I  supposed  to  stay  here  while  you  chit- 
chat?" 

The  chit-chat  ended.  Isobel  polished  off  Helen's  nails 
with  a  final  sweep  of  the  brush. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  war  in  Europe?"  asked  Helen. 

Young  Isobel  frowned.  "You  see  all  them  soldiers  in 
town  here?" 

Helen  nodded. 

"They're  pretty  pesky  around  here,  true  enough,  but  I 
wouldn't  like  to  see  them  go  off  and  get  killed." 

Helen  met  George  outside  and  they  went  into  air-cooled 
Joskins  Department  store. 

At  the  sweater  counter  a  tall  thin  woman  wearing  a  small 
silver  cross  continued  the  talk  about  the  war.  She  had 
worked  part  time  for  eleven  years;  at  last  the  store  had  given 
her  a  permanent  job  a  few  months  before.  Her  husband 
was  sick  and  unemployed. 

"They  got  no  right,"  she  said  in  a  high-pitched  voice,  "to 
start  this  war  business  all  over  again.  We  had  enough  of  it 


Lone  Star  State  241 

twenty  years  ago.  My  husband  is  just  the  age  they  take  for 
war." 

San  Antonio  .  .  .  like  Seattle,  Kansas  City  or  Brooklyn. 

Dick  Jeffrey,  lean  and  slow-speaking  secretary  to  Maury 
Maverick,  took  us  on  a  tour  of  the  city. 

We  saw  the  Alamo. 

"Old  Sam  Houston,"  mused  Dick  Jeffrey.  "There's  an 
old  story  told  about  him  and  Senator  Sheppard.  Both 
shouted  'Down  with  liquor'  but  they  went  about  it  in  dif- 
ferent ways." 

We  looked  at  Davy  Crockett's  powder  can  and  shot  pouch, 
at  the  moss  from  the  oak  on  the  San  Jacinto  battleground 
where  Sam  Houston  lay  wounded  when  Santa  Ana  sur- 
rendered his  sword.  We  read  the  familiar — "Thermopylae 
had  its  messenger  of  death;  the  Alamo  had  none." 

We  had  learned  about  the  defense  of  the  Alamo  in  our 
schoolrooms.  About  all  we  remembered  was:  "Remember 
the  Alamo!" 

We  saw  La  Villita,  restored  by  WPA  workers.  La  Vil- 
lita,  the  little  town  where  old  Ben  Milan  held  out  against 
the  Mexicans.  Across  the  plaza  from  City  Hall  we  visited 
the  Spanish  Governor's  palace,  complete  with  wishing 
well  and  fountain,  musty  and  still  smelling  of  the  old 
aristocracy.  An  original  dagger  tree  in  the  garden  still 
looked  menacing,  with  its  sharp  and  pointed  leaves.  The 
Keystone  over  the  entrance  bore  the  Hapsburg  coat-of-arms 
and  the  date  1749. 

Dick  Jeffrey  drove  us  out  to  the  San  Jose  mission,  built 
from  stone.  Soldiers  and  their  families  had  lived  there  when 
the  Spanish  sought  to  stop  the  encroachment  of  the  French. 
Its  mill  had  been  built  in  1720  for  grinding  meal,  and  the 
stone  used  to  grind  corn  was  hundreds  of  years  old. 

Jeffrey  took  us  to  Fort  Houston,  shaped  like  a  quadrangle, 


242  The  "Argonauts" 

inhabited  by  military  men  in  a  military  way.  A  tame  deer 
and  peacocks  on  the  lawn,  together  with  swans  in  a  pond, 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  prim  uniform  houses  and  bar- 
racks. 

Randolph  Field  looked  like  a  summer  resort  with  its  tile- 
roofed  homes,  large  swimming  pool  and  cool-looking  lawns. 
Only  the  roaring  bombers  overhead  and  the  large  hangars 
reminded  us  that  Randolph  Field,  like  Kelly  and  Brooks 
and  Fort  Houston,  were  places  of  war. 

We  had  four  dollars  left. 

Mel  sat  dejectedly  in  a  corner  of  our  swank  tourist  house. 
"We  can't  move,  because  the  car  has  to  be  fixed." 

"Take  it  to  the  garage  and  fix  it,"  said  Lillian.  "When  the 
check  comes,  we  can  call  for  the  car." 

"I've  got  a  headache,"  complained  Joe. 

"What  we  all  need,"  said  Helen,  "is  some  relaxation.  Let's 
go  to  a  movie." 

George  looked  coldly  at  her.  "We've  got  four  dollars  left 
between  us  and  New  York." 

"I've  got  a  headache,"  said  Joe. 

We  voted.  Helen,  Joe  and  George  went  to  the  movies. 
Mel  took  the  car  to  a  garage  and  joined  them  later.  Lillian 
sat  alone  in  the  air-conditioned  house  and  worried.  Sitting 
cross-legged  on  the  bed  with  a  typewriter  propped  on  her 
knees,  she  typed  slowly  and  tore  up  what  she  had  written. 
She  washed  socks  and  pajamas,  returned  to  the  typewriter 
and  waited.  The  morning  mail  came — without  the  ex- 
pected letter.  The  afternoon  mail  came  ...  a  letter  for  Joe. 

The  others  returned. 

"We  saw  Mara  Alexander  in  The  Rains  Came,"  an- 
nounced Helen. 

"Yep,"  chuckled  George,  "she  rushes  into  a  room,  picks  up 


Lone  Star  State  243 

the  dog  and  rushes  out  after  closing  the  door.  What  a  part! 
What  acting!" 

"We  walked  back,"  said  Mel,  "the  car's  in  the  garage." 

"The  check,  it  didn't  come,  did  it?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Suppose  .  .  ." 

The  tourist  owner  knocked  on  the  door.  "There's  a  spe- 
cial delivery  letter  here  for  you." 

Checl^:  "One  hundred  dollars  and  no  cents." 

Letter:  "I  said  I  would  not  let  you  down,  and  here  is  addi- 
tional proof.  .  .  ." 

George:  "This  has  to  take  us  a  long  way.  No  more 
cigarettes." 

Helen:  "What  understanding.  Isn't  he  sweet?" 

Joe:  "What  a  dope  I  was  to  believe  in  Pirandello." 

Mel:  "Let's  get  the  car  out  of  the  garage." 

Lillian :  "Now  we've  got  to  finish  additional  chapters." 

We  phoned  Mrs.  Maverick,  who  came  down  to  our  royal 
suite  and  cashed  the  check.  We  took  the  car  out  of  the 
garage. 

"Look  at  my  letter,"  said  Joe.  "The  boys  at  Brooklyn 
College  have  started  a  'Bring  Wershba  Back'  campaign. 
They're  getting  out  petitions  and  buttons  and  collection  cans. 
They  promise  to  have  some  money  for  us  by  the  time  we 
reach  New  Orleans." 

"And  you  were  worrying!"  Lillian  scoffed. 

7 

It  took  a  few  hours  for  us  to  realize  we  were  approaching 
the  nation's  South.  Coming  into  Austin,  we  stopped  near 
a  railroad  station.  George  stepped  out  to  ask  for  informa- 
tion. 


244  The  "Argonauts" 


COLORED 
WAITING  ROOM 


WHITE 
WAITING  ROOM 


We  had  heard  about  Jim  Crow  in  the  South.  But  when 
the  reality  struck  us  full  in  the  face,  we  were  shocked  and 
surprised  at  our  shock.  George  entered  the  "White  Waiting 
Room"  and  got  the  desired  information  from  a  drawling 
clerk  who  answered  all  questions  politely. 

Austin,  capital  of  the  Lone  Star  State,  which  had  been 
under  six  flags,  including  that  of  an  independent  republic. 

Cliff  Potter  had  given  us  the  name  of  a  newspaper  man 
— Ray  Neuman.  "There's  not  a  single  Republican  here," 
Neuman  told  us  as  we  sat  in  the  legislative  chamber,  de- 
serted except  for  some  bony  farmers  squirming  uncomfort- 
ably in  new  suits  and  their  families  staring  at  the  pictures 
of  the  men  who  had  served  Texas. 

Neuman  told  us  about  the  flour-salesman  Governor,  Lee 
("Pass  the  Biscuits,  Pappy")  O'Daniel.  The  homey  kind, 
O'Daniel  boasted  that  he  had  never  voted  before  he  ran  for 
Governor  on  a  program  that  promised  to  kick  the  profes- 
sional politicians  out  of  Austin  and  to  industrialize  Texas. 
He  still  continued  his  radio  program  complete  with  prayers, 
every  Sunday,  but  his  political  program  remained  on  paper. 

"Lil*  Horace,"  one  of  his  singin'  cowboys,  greeted  us  in 
the  Governor's  office.  He  was  now  the  Governor's  secre- 
tary. The  Governor  was  not  in  town,  said  Lil'  Horace. 

We  parked  our  car  amid  the  forest  of  cars  on  the  Uni- 
versity of  Texas  campus  and  wandered  about  the  huge 
grounds  until  we  found  the  journalism  city  room. 

Christine  Adams,  young  and  amiable  reporter  on  the 
Daily  Texan,  campus  newspaper,  and  husky  Ben  Kaplan, 


Lone  Star  State  245 

radio  editor,  told  us  about  the  University.  There  were  11,000 
students  at  the  school,  and  they  had  a  good  football  team. 

A  large,  plump  boy  in  one  of  the  college  eateries  advised 
us  to  look  up  Joe  Belden,  Director  of  the  Bureau  of  Student 
Opinion  at  the  University.  Belden,  a  slight,  sharp-faced  grad- 
uate with  straight  black  hair  and  neat  dark  suit  told  us 
about  Student  Opinion  Surveys  of  America,  a  sort  of  minia- 
ture student  Gallup  poll,  which  he  mailed  to  college  news- 
papers all  over  the  country. 

"The  student  opinion  surveys,"  he  declared  quietly,  "serve 
the  campus  as  the  American  Institute  of  Public  Opinion 
serves  the  nation." 

What  had  the  Bureau  found?  Belden  showed  us  one  of 
the  clippings  on  a  poll  taken  on  the  candidacy  of  John 
Nance  Garner  for  President.  "GARNER  NOT  FOR  us,  DECLARE 
u.  T.  STUDENTS;  GIVE  us  MORE  NEW  DEAL.  Student  Opinion 
Bureau  Survey  Shows  Campus  Plurality  Thinks  Texas' 
Native  Son  Too  Conservative,  Too  Old." 

The  question  asked  by  bureau  interviewers  was  worded: 
"Do  you  favor  Vice-President  Garner  or  a  liberal  New 
Deal  candidate  for  President  in  1940?" 

The  campus  at  the  University  of  Texas  answered : 

Garner  34.0% 

Liberal  New  Dealer  49.8  % 

No  opinion  16.2% 

A  later  poll  was  taken  on  the  question :  "Would  you  like 
to  have  Roosevelt  elected  for  a  third  term?" 
The  students  said: 

No  third  term  58.8% 

Third  term  desirable  36.7% 

No  opinion  4.5  % 


246  The  "Argonauts" 

Belden  showed  us  replies  on  some  of  the  national  polls 
taken  during  the  past  year. 

Should  sex  education  courses  in  colleges  be  made  com- 
pulsory? Yes — 61.9  per  cent. 

If  you  had  to  make  a  choice,  which  would  you  prefer, 
fascism  or  communism?  Communism — 56.4  per  cent. 
Do  you  think  college  students  drink  too  much?  No — 65.2 
per  cent. 

Do  you  believe  a  blood  test  before  marriage  to  detect  venereal 
disease  should  be  required  by  law?  Yes — 93.1  per  cent. 
If  the  United  States  went  to  war  for  other  reasons  than  the 
defense  of  the  country,  would  you  volunteer?  No — 80.3 
per  cent. 

We  would  have  voted  with  the  majority  on  all  these  ques- 
tions. 

We  stopped  at  the  NYA  office  and  found  Helen  Fuller, 
who  was  working  in  Texas  now.  She  called  in  the  news- 
paper boys,  who  asked  us  what  we  thought  of  Texas.  Next 
day  we  read  our  answers. 

"Down  at  Uvalde,"  said  the  story  in  the  Austin  American, 
"they  tried  to  find  out  who  John  Garner's  neighbors  think 
will  continue  the  New  Deal.  Joe,  the  youngest,  who  does 
most  of  the  talking  if  given  the  chance,  reported  the  Uvalde 
citizens  were  surprisingly  languid  in  their  answer  to  ques- 
tions about  Cactus  Jack." 

Then  the  cheery  NYA  official  took  us  to  dinner.  Over 
large  plates  of  fried  chicken,  she  advised  us  to  stop  and  see 
the  NYA  project  at  Prairie  View  State  College,  on  our  way 
down  to  Houston. 

We  saw  Prairie  View — a  project  for  Negro  youth.  In 
a  large  white  house  surrounded  by  green  lawns  we  found  the 
"oldest  NYA  project  in  existence,"  according  to  Mrs.  Onnie 
L.  Colter,  its  motherly  supervisor. 


Lone  Star  State  247 

"Our  girls  stay  here  for  six  months,  following  the  course 
of  domestic  training.  They  are  paid  twenty-six  dollars  a 
month,  out  of  which  fourteen  dollars  goes  for  maintenance, 
food,  laundry  and  lights.  After  a  girl  leaves,  we  try  to  find 
work  for  her.  Most  of  the  girls  are  placed  in  domestic  serv- 
ice. They  receive  seven  dollars  a  week  plus  maintenance. 
Formerly,  they  were  paid  no  higher  than  three  dollars." 

Mrs.  Colter  stood  as  she  spoke  with  us.  We  waited  for  her 
to  sit  down.  Later  we  learned  that  the  South  teaches  Negroes 
to  act  "respectful"  in  front  of  white  people.  They  do  not  sit 
down  together  in  the  same  room. 

Some  of  the  girls,  the  supervisor  informed  us,  enroll  in 
college  courses  for  which  they  receive  full  credit  toward  a 
degree.  There  is  no  attempt  to  separate  the  regular  students 
from  the  workers  on  the  NYA  projects. 

Mary  Ellen  Jackson,  President  of  the  Co-operative  Club, 
had  come  to  the  project  after  two  years  of  college.  She 
couldn't  find  a  job. 

"You'd  be  surprised,"  she  told  us,  "to  see  how  some  of 
these  kids  are  when  they  first  come  here.  They  think  the 
whole  world  is  against  them.  Sometimes  they  haven't  had  a 
decent  meal  in  months.  But  they  learn  how  to  live  together 
and  work  together,  and  how  they  do  change!" 

Projects  on  the  college  campus  included  a  hospital,  laun- 
dry and  college  kitchen.  Students  worked  here  to  pay  their 
way  through  college,  and  resident  workers  were  trained  in 
nursing,  laundering  and  cooking. 

Mrs.  Colter  suggested  we  go  to  see  the  College  Dean  of 
Women  and  Dean  of  Men  to  get  a  picture  of  the  whole 
project.  Joe,  Mel  and  George  went  over  to  one  of  the  large 
buildings  and  the  girls  to  another. 

R.  W.  Hilliard,  young  Dean  of  Men,  told  the  boys  it  cost 
twenty-five  dollars  a  semester,  including  room  and  board,  to 


248  The  "Argonauts" 

come  to  Prairie  View  State  College.  About  a  thousand  stu- 
dents attended. 

Dean  Hilliard  laughed  good-naturedly  when  Joe  asked 
if  the  college  admitted  any  white  students. 

"This  is  the  South,"  said  Dean  Hilliard.  "The  South 
doesn't  want  to  mix  black  and  white  youth.  But  the  South 
is  waking  up.  Ninety  per  cent  of  the  students  here  are  be- 
coming teachers.  They  will  help  in  the  awakening.  But 
ministers  can  do  even  more,  to  show  the  Negro  that  his 
problem  is  not  only  social  but  economic.  Most  of  the  stu- 
dents come  here  at  a  great  sacrifice.  They  come  from  share- 
cropping  families  or  town  slums.  There's  the  story  of  a 
father  who  took  his  boy,  a  senior,  out  of  school  because  the 
boss  on  the  farm  told  the  family  they'd  be  thrown  of!  the 
land  if  the  boy  didn't  come  back  to  help  farm." 

The  Dean  of  Women  gave  Helen  and  Lillian  a  brighter 
picture.  "Educational  opportunities  in  Texas,"  she  said,  "are 
not  as  bad  as  other  places  in  the  South." 

She  called  over  a  short  thin  girl  in  a  bright  red  blouse  who 
took  us  on  a  tour  of  the  campus.  She  showed  us  the  nursery, 
beauty  parlor  and  laundry  where  the  students  worked  to 
help  pay  their  tuition.  The  laundry  was  clean  and  cool. 
The  young  students  ironed  or  dumped  basketfuls  of  soiled 
clothing  into  washing  machines. 

They  were  learning  to  work  and  feel  useful. 

8 

Houston — the  world's  largest  cotton  port. 

NAMES  .  .  . 

Malcolm  Cotton  Dobbs 

Hotel  Cotton 

Houston,  Texas 

League  of  Young  Southerners 


Lone  Star  State  249 

We  walked  into  the  Hotel  Cotton  and  found  Malcolm,  bet- 
ter known  as  "Tex."  He  was  young,  with  a  firm  chin  and 
black  smiling  eyes.  His  grandmother  owned  the  hotel,  and 
we  occupied  the  family  suite  on  the  top  floor  during  our  stay 
in  Houston. 

"You  can  all  take  baths,"  said  Tex,  "and,  meanwhile,  I'll 
invite  some  young  people  over.  And  tonight  we'll  go  to  a 
YWCA  dance," 

We  took  much  needed  baths  and  put  on  our  best  and 
cleanest  clothes.  We  were  ready  for  the  youth  of  Houston. 
We  filed  into  the  living  room  and  Tex  surveyed  us  with  ad- 
miration. Two  young  fellows  stood  up  from  the  couch  and 
shook  hands. 

"Jim  Gaither  and  Jim  Anderson,"  said  Tex. 

Slightly  built  and  unassuming,  Jim  Anderson  had  been 
clerking  in  a  bank  after  his  graduation  from  the  University 
of  Texas.  One  day  he  met  Tex  Dobbs  casually.  Jim  quit  his 
job  to  work  with  the  League  of  Young  Southerners. 

Jim  Gaither,  wiry  and  bespectacled,  had  attended  theologi- 
cal school  in  the  East.  Now  he  worked  with  a  road  gang 
on  week  days,  preached  on  Sundays  and  worked  for  the 
League  of  Young  Southerners  in  his  spare  time. 

And  Tex  Dobbs,  the  executive  secretary  of  the  League 
of  Young  Southerners,  had  just  received  a  Bachelor  of 
Divinity  degree  from  St.  Lawrence  University  after  study- 
ing for  a  year  at  Union  Theological  Seminary.  He  claimed 
he  was  "broadening  his  vision"  by  working  for  the  Young 
Southerners. 

"A  young  fellow  doesn't  know  enough  about  life  to  start 
advising  others  how  to  live,"  he  said,  his  dark  eyes  sparkling. 
"At  least  I  don't.  A  little  more  work  with  young  people  in 
the  South  will  make  me  a  better  preacher." 


250  The  "Argonauts" 

"And  what  is  the  League  of  Young  Southerners?"  asked 
George. 

We  sipped  Coca-Colas,  the  ever-present  Southern  drink, 
and  watched  Tex,  liking  him  because  we  felt  he  liked  us. 
He  draped  one  leg  over  the  side  of  his  armchair  and  began 
to  talk. 

"We're  a  membership  and  co-ordinating  body  for  youth 
organizations  in  the  South.  We  Southerners  think  our 
democracy  is  a  good  thing,  and  we  want  to  insure  its  con- 
tinuation and  growth  by  promoting  better  citizenship 
among  our  young  people  and  stimulating  a  greater  interest 
in  the  problems  we  Southerners  must  solve." 

"Yes,  but  what  do  you  do?" 

"Well,  things  move  slowly  down  here,"  he  drawled.  "But 
we're  beginning  to  hold  youth  forums  and  conferences. 
We've  done  something  toward  initiating  youth  fact-finding 
commissions  to  %now  your  community  and  citizenship  cere- 
monies for  all  young  people  in  a  community  who  have  come 
of  age."  He  fumbled  in  his  pockets  and  drew  out  a  narrow 
brochure. 

"This  is  our  program."  He  began  to  read.  "Support  of  the 
NY  A,  endorsement  of  a  Federal  Youth  Service  Administra- 
tion combining  the  programs  of  CCC  and  NYA  under 
civilian  control,  work  for  increased  appropriations  to  meet 
the  needs  of  students  and  unemployed  youth,  work  for  long- 
term  loans  at  low  rates  of  interest  to  farm  youth." 

Tex  folded  the  brochure  and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 
"We're  guided  in  our  program,"  he  continued,  "by  the 
thoughts  and  ideas  of  young  people  throughout  the  South. 
And  what  they  demand  we  are  trying  to  provide." 

"Whew!" 

Tex  laughed.   "You  don't  know  how  important  some- 


Lone  Star  State  251 

thing  like  the  Young  Southerners  is  until  you  really  get  to 
understand  the  South." 

That  night  we  started  out  for  a  dance  given  by  the  Celita 
Linda  Club,  a  group  of  Mexican  girls  who  belonged  to  the 
YWCA.  We  had  not  danced  since  the  rounds  and  squares 
with  the  migratory  workers.  In  high  spirits  we  shagged  after 
Tex  as  he  strolled  along  the  street  to  the  YWCA  building. 

Small,  dark  Mexican  girls  led  us  to  the  starlit  and  lamplit 
roof  garden.  Plump,  poker-faced  mothers  holding  babies 
watched  their  daughters  carefully  as  they  went  through 
various  stages  of  the  shag,  the  big  apple  and  trucking.  The 
Mexican  mothers  did  not  once  change  their  stolid  expression, 
but  the  young  daughters  laughed  and  danced  eagerly. 

We  soon  fell  into  step  with  them. 

Pretty  little  Mary  Lou  Gonzales  led  George  into  the 
kitchen  for  a  drink  of  water.  A  small  group  of  the  Mexican 
girls  were  there.  They  told  George  they  worked  in  a  factory 
making  gunnysacks  for  cotton  picking.  They  told  him  about 
their  strike  a  year  ago.  The  factory  owner,  a  Jew,  had  im- 
ported Negroes  to  work  as  scabs  during  the  strike  and  had 
hired  thugs  to  beat  up  the  strikers. 

"But  Negroes  and  Jews  are  discriminated  against  too,"  said 
Mary  Lou.  "The  owners  try  to  make  the  Mexicans  hate  the 
Negroes  and  the  Negroes  to  hate  us.  But  if  we  could  work 
together  we  would  gain  much  more." 

George  returned  to  the  dance  floor  with  Mary  Lou.  Until 
midnight  and  the  strains  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  we  danced  and 
talked  and  had  a  good  time.  The  Mexican  mothers  col- 
lected their  daughters  and  went  home. 

Tex  and  Jim  Anderson  left  for  Nashville,  Tennessee,  and 
we  promised  to  meet  them  there.  That  day  we  went  down 
to  Galveston,  lay  on  the  beach  and  swam  in  the  warm  waters 


252  The  "Argonauts" 

of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.   We  rode  the  roller  coaster  and 
looped  the  loop  until  we  felt  all  mixed  up  inside. 

War  talk  was  everywhere.  The  talk  came  to  life  in  the 
persons  of  the  soldiers  from  near-by  forts.  Around  Fort 
Crockett  in  Galveston,  we  saw  a  sign : 

DOWN  WITH  HITLER,  MUSSOLINI  AND  THE 
GALVESTON    SCHOOL  BOARD  !  ! 


Chapter  9  "THE  SOUTH,  SUH  .  . 


^"Elevation— 10  feet." 

We  tried  to  remember  our  exultation  after  we  had  climbed 
12,000  feet  over  Loveland  Pass  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  We 
could  not  remember.  We  could  feel  only  the  depressing  low- 
land heat,  the  murky  still  air  and  the  unhealthy  dampness 
of  Texas  on  the  Gulf  Coast. 

The  prairie  land  had  become  swamps  and  rice  fields. 
We  passed  a  skinny  brown  cow  grazing  knee  deep  amid  the 
marshes.  We  sped  toward  Louisiana,  a  new  state,  where 
we  might  find  breathing  easier,  where  we  might  throw  off 
sullen  and  despondent  tempers.  We  felt  gloom  in  this  land, 
and  it  was  like  some  contagious  disease  affecting  all  of  us 
and  making  us  mean  in  mood. 

An  old  Ford  bounced  along  in  front  of  us.  When  we  ap- 
proached a  road  gang  of  Negroes  and  whites  swinging  picks 
into  the  earth,  we  saw  several  pairs  of  hands  throw  out 
some  white  papers  from  the  old  Ford.  We  looked  back  and 

253 


254  The  "Argonauts" 

saw  a  tall  brawny  Negro  pause,  wipe  his  face  with  his  sleeve, 
look  at  one  of  the  white  papers  and  toss  it  away. 

A  curve  in  the  road  blotted  out  the  road  gang,  and  we 
turned  around.  Mel  drew  up  alongside  the  jalopy.  Six 
elderly  women  wearing  black  hats  and  black  dresses  threw 
the  pamphlets  at  us. 

"Hallelujah!"  one  called  as  we  passed  them. 

The  Free  Tract  Society  published  the  pamphlets,  and  the 
distributing  black  ladies  seemed  to  be  the  South  End  Gospel 
Society  of  Beaumont. 

We  read  the  tracts  on  "conversion"  and  "salvation,"  and  a 
piece  about  war  reprinted  from  The  Revealer  edited  by 
Gerald  B.  Winrod  of  Wichita,  Kansas.  Back  in  the  Mid- 
west we  had  heard  about  Winrod. 

We  began  to  feel  uneasy  about  the  South.  Like  many 
Northerners,  we  had  a  preconceived  picture  of  this  part  of 
our  country.  The  South  End  Gospel  Society  surprised  us. 
The  depressing  atmosphere  caught  us  of!  guard.  The  land 
did  not  fit  the  picture  in  our  minds.  Where  was  the  vast 
stretch  of  cotton  land  with  the  colorful  plantation  mansions  ? 

The  Louisiana  state  line  brought  no  change,  and  we 
stayed  sullen.  We  bumped  over  the  ruts  and  cracks  in  the 
highway — Huey  Long's  contributions  to  his  people. 

Weeping  willows  turning  brown  in  the  autumn  sun  hung 
over  water  ditches  on  either  side  of  the  road.  We  passed 
long  fields  of  rice  and  little  shack  towns  built  for  the  Louisi- 
ana State  Rice  Milling  Company. 

Roadside  billboards  invited  us  to  visit  lottery  clubs,  to 
match  our  skill  at  pinochle  with  the  experts,  to  stop  for  the 
night  at  "Billie's  Best  Boarding  House."  Rows  of  weather- 
beaten  signs  informed  us  "Bets  of  All  Kinds  Accepted,"  and 
"Direct  Wires  to  All  Tracks."  Every  half-mile  "Hostesses" 
at  roadhouses  lay  in  wait. 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  255 

We  twisted  through  the  swamp  land,  cutting  into  droves 
of  giant  mosquitoes  and  miscellaneous  bugs.  The  insects 
covered  the  windows  and  body  of  the  car,  shutting  out  the 
swamps  from  our  sight. 

The  blue  waters  of  Lake  Charles  appeared  like  a  mirage. 
Clean  white  homes  and  neat  lawns  on  the  lakefront  didn't 
seem  to  belong  here,  on  the  edge  of  the  huge  swamp.  We 
crossed  the  bridge,  staring  incredulously  as  freshly  painted 
river  boats  drifted  by.  We  might  have  been  on  one  of  Lillian 
Bond's  moving  picture  sets  of  the  old  South. 

An  open  truck  laden  with  bales  of  cotton  preceded  us  as 
we  left  the  colorful  set  behind  and  headed  again  into  reality. 
Fuzzy  bits  of  white  protruded  from  the  sides  of  the  truck. 
Cotton  ...  at  last,  the  real  South  .  .  . 

Near  Lafayette,  we  stopped  to  fix  a  flat  tire.  Helen  wan- 
dered down  a  side  road  about  half  a  mile,  returning  in  time 
to  see  Mel  jacking  down  the  car.  Breathing  heavily,  as  if  she 
had  been  running,  she  looked  quickly  at  each  of  us. 

"I  saw  a  plantation,"  she  gasped.  "I've  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it — a  big  white  house  for  the  landowner,  and  be- 
hind it  rows  of  shacks  for  the  Negroes."  She  spoke  haltingly, 
her  eyes  wide  and  unsmiling.  "One  room,  no  doors  or  win- 
dows, walls  plastered  with  funny  papers.  Imagine!  Dick 
Tracy  and  Terry  and  the  Pirates  being  used  to  keep  out  the 
rain  and  wind.  It  was  awful." 

"Didn't  the  people  try  to  chase  you  away?"  asked  Joe. 

"No,  they  just  stared  at  me.  I  tried  to  talk  to  them  but  they 
wouldn't  answer.  One  house  had  eight  little  Negro  kids, 
dressed  in  rags,  thin  and  emaciated.  A  pregnant  woman 
looked  at  me  with  eyes  I'll  never  forget.  It  was  awful,"  she 
repeated. 

It  was  awful  then,  but  we  were  to  see  miles  of  these 
houses,  of  people  such  as  these.  In  California,  we  had  seen 


256  The  "Argonauts" 

people  living  in  filth  and  disease.  But  to  our  minds,  that 
was  "temporary  housing."  Migrants  picked  up  and  moved. 
The  people  in  these  plantation  shacks  lived  there  perma- 
nently, all  year  around.  A  one-room  house  for  a  large 
family,  too  many  sick,  naked  children,  funny  papers  on  the 
walls,  faces  full  of  misery  and  terror,  a  mattress  on  the 
floor  for  father,  mother  and  six  kids. 

A  plump,  jovial  and  loud-spoken  garage  owner  named 
Long  patched  our  tire  in  Lafayette.  Huey  Long,  framed  in 
red,  white  and  blue,  hung  over  the  doorway. 

"Related?"  Mel  asked  jerking  a  thumb  at  the  picture  of 
the  deceased  "Kingfish." 

"Naw,"  the  garage  owner  yelled  above  his  own  pound- 
ing of  the  tire  rim,  "but  his  picture  stays  as  long  as  I  stay!" 

"Was  he  popular  out  here?" 

"Popular?  I'll  say,"  returned  the  minor  Long.  "People 
around  here  still  think  of  Huey  as  God.  He  was  the  com- 
mon folks'  man,  not  like  the  crooks  we  got  now!" 

"Crooks?" 

Round  Mr.  Long  roared  into  a  laugh.  Then  he  looked  at 
us  slyly. 

"It's  like  this.  Huey  would  take  a  nickel  in  graft  and 
give  us  back  a  dime.  And  he'd  tell  us  about  that  nickel. 
Those  crooks  in  there  now  take  the  whole  fifteen  cents,  and 
they  don't  tell  us  a  damn  thing." 

He  charged  us  twenty-two  cents  for  the  same  gasoline 
we  had  purchased  in  Texas  for  thirteen  cents. 

"Eight-cent  tax,"  said  he.  "That's  sharing  the  wealth." 
He  put  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  laughed  loudly. 

Modern  store  fronts  lined  Lafayette's  Main  Street.  We 
drove  quickly  through  the  Negro  quarter  with  its  dilapi- 
dated wooden  huts.  Barefoot  schoolchildren  filled  the 
streets,  on  their  way  home  for  lunch.  On  the  outskirts  of 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  257 

town  we  stopped  for  our  own  lunch.  George  admired  our 
tasty  twenty-five  cent  "fresh  vegetable"  plates  until  the 
waitress  said,  "They're  all  canned,  buddy." 

Sugar  fields  replaced  rice  on  our  way  to  New  Orleans. 
As  far  as  we  could  see  ahead,  stalks  of  cane  ten  feet  high 
stood  in  closely  planted  rows.  The  "caners"  swung  their  flat 
machetes,  cutting  the  stalks  about  a  foot  of!  the  ground  and 
tossing  them  into  waiting  trucks.  Both  men  wearing  straw 
hats  and  women  with  Quaker  bonnets  to  keep  off  the  sun 
worked  in  the  fields,  and  once  we  saw  a  young  boy,  his 
machete  gleaming  in  the  sun,  keeping  pace  with  the  older 
workers. 

Groups  of  brick  buildings  along  the  way  taught  us  how 
the  sugar  cane  was  processed.  A  large  notice — "Delgado 
Albanio  Plantation" — warned  us  to  "keep  off."  The  land 
took  on  a  pattern — fields  of  sugar  cane,  huge  tanks  and  vats, 
syrup  compressors,  distilling  and  drying  and  bleaching 
plants.  Large  tank  cars,  waiting  to  carry  the  sugar  all  over 
the  country,  ended  the  pattern  until  the  next  large  sugar 
field. 

Old  towns  with  narrow  streets  and  worm-eaten  houses 
continually  broke  the  pattern.  As  we  neared  the  "Largest 
City  in  the  South,"  we  stopped  in  one  of  the  old  towns  to  buy 
cigarettes.  Joe  entered  a  large  general  store. 

The  white  clerk  scowled  at  him.  "You  can't  get  served 
here,  bud.  This  store's  for  niggers'!" 

Joe  backed  out  of  the  store  and  bumped  into  an  old  Negro 
woman  in  a  broad  yellow  hat  and  long  black  skirt.  A  corn 
cob  pipe  hung  from  the  side  of  her  mouth. 

"Excuse  me,  lady,"  said  Joe. 

The  old  lady  took  the  pipe  out  of  her  mouth  and  stared 
after  him.  White  men  don't  apologize  to  Negroes  down 
South,  nor  do  they  refer  to  colored  women  as  "ladies." 


258  The  "Argonauts" 

Pinheads  of  light  lay  across  the  river  as  we  crossed  the 
Long-Allen  Bridge  into  New  Orleans.  A  heavy  mist 
obscured  the  water  below,  but  the  whistles  and  hoots  of  the 
boats  told  us  we  had  crossed  the  Mississippi  River  for  the 
second  time. 

We  were  wet;  our  clothes  were  soaked  with  perspiration. 
Now  the  humidity,  the  gloom  and  discomfort  of  our  day's 
trek  from  one  part  of  the  Gulf  Coast  to  another  seemed  to 
become  concentrated  in  New  Orleans.  We  could  not  brush 
the  large  black  mosquitoes  off  our  arms  and  legs;  we  had  to 
pick  them  off.  We  later  found  out  they  were  Anopheles 
mosquitoes,  carriers  of  malaria.  The  biggest  Coca-Cola  sign 
we  had  ever  seen  greeted  us  as  we  made  for  Canal  Street, 
the  main  thoroughfare  in  the  city.  Wide  as  an  average  block 
is  long,  the  street  stood  in  strange  contrast  to  all  the  other 
narrow,  crooked  side  streets.  Trains  ran  through  the  cen- 
ter of  the  city.  We  saw  more  noisy  grimy  freight  trains  here 
than  in  all  the  Rocky  Mountain  states.  Their  smoke  sifted 
through  the  humid  air  as  if  to  choke  and  stifle  life  itself. 

The  white-clad  inhabitants  took  all  this  calmly.  We  could 
see  their  coats  and  dresses  clinging  stickily  to  their  skins,  but 
they  didn't  seem  to  mind.  We  did.  Mel  swore  under  his 
breath  as  he  tried  to  park  our  car  on  one  of  the  narrow  side 
streets.  The  rest  of  us  grumbled  because  he  took  so  long. 

NAMES  .  .  . 

Ruth  Parker 

Book  Store — 122  Chartres  Street 

It  took  us  half  an  hour  to  find  the  place.  We  walked  down 
the  dirty  cobblestone  streets.  Bars  and  saloons  lined  the 
blocks  and  took  up  almost  every  corner.  Street  guides  in 
official  white  caps  clutched  at  our  arms,  offering  to  show  us 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  259 

the  town's  high  spots,  where  "beer  costs  a  jit  and  you  can  get 
good  women  cheap." 

Ruth  Parker's  store  was  dark  and  still. 

Mel  whistled  and  walked  closer  to  the  store  window. 
"Look  at  that!"  He  pointed  to  a  round  hole  the  size  of  a 
penny,  drilled  through  the  glass. 

"It's  a  bullet  hole!"  said  Mel. 

We  made  a  bee-line  for  our  car  and  started  to  search 
for  tourist  cabins.  The  sign  outside  the  first  "motel"  said 
"Rooms — $i."  The  manager  looked  into  our  car,  saw  Helen 
and  Lillian.  He  shook  his  head,  showing  two  front  gold 
teeth  in  an  oily  smile. 

"You  don't  want  to  stay  here  tonight,"  he  said.  "You've 
already  got  a  mixed  crowd." 

We  found  another  camp. 

"And  I  thought  housing  was  cheap  in  the  South,"  moaned 
Helen  when  George  plunked  down  four  silver  dollars, 
souvenirs  of  the  West,  for  the  two-room  cabin. 

The  short,  bald-headed  camp  manager  explained  the  rea- 
son for  the  high  rates. 

"The  owner  of  the  largest  hotel  in  town  is  Seymour  Weiss, 
one  of  Huey's  politicians.  He  forces  us  to  charge  high  prices 
for  these  cabins,  so  we  won't  compete  with  the  hotel."  The 
manager  paused  and  spat  tobacco  juice  into  a  white  spittoon. 
"But  he'll  get  his,"  he  continued.  "He's  going  to  spend 
some  time  in  a  government  institution,  and  it  won't  be  a 
hotel!"  (On  January  6,  1940,  Seymour  Weiss  was  convicted 
by  a  federal  grand  jury.) 

Next  morning,  we  again  started  out  to  find  Ruth  Parker. 
Newsboys  on  every  corner  shouted  headlines  about  federal 
indictments  of  Louisiana  politicians.  We  began  to  learn 
about  machine  politics  in  the  state.  When  Huey  Long  had 
been  killed,  the  national  Democratic  machine  began  to  buy 


260  The  "Argonauts" 

back  the  votes.  Result — "The  Second  Louisiana  Purchase." 

On  everything  we  bought,  from  lunches  to  shirts,  we  had 
to  pay  a  "luxury  tax."  The  taxes  and  federal  relief  funds 
were  used  to  build  up  machine  politics.  We  began  to  hear 
the  names  of  Maestri,  Weiss  and  Leche  coupled  with  com- 
plaints from  the  people  we  met. 

The  store  on  Chartres  Street  was  open.  Ruth  Parker, 
young  and  quiet-mannered,  with  deep  brown  eyes  and  hair, 
solemnly  told  us  about  that  bullet  hole. 

"You  see,"  she  explained  softly,  "New  Orleans  is  one  of 
the  biggest  shipping  ports  in  the  country.  The  National 
Maritime  Union  is  one  of  the  strongest  unions  here.  Most  of 
the  members  of  the  old  International  Seamen's  Union — 
that's  an  A.  F.  of  L.  outfit— switched  to  the  NMU  and 
threw  out  the  ISU  thugs.  Well,  those  thugs  know  the  NMU 
boys  buy  books  at  our  place.  They've  shot  at  us  and  tried  to 
bomb  the  store.  Now  the  landlord  is  making  us  move,  be- 
cause he  thinks  his  place  will  be  blown  to  pieces." 

A  tall  slim  man  in  a  neatly  pressed  suit  entered  the  store. 
"Here's  one  of  the  NMU  boys  now,"  said  Ruth.  "I'll  get 
him  to  tell  you  the  whole  story." 

He  was  introduced  to  us  as  Tim.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of 
Ruth's  desk,  rubbing  his  right  leg  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  "These  clothes  make  me  feel  uncomfortable,"  he  said. 
"I'd  like  to  be  back  in  my  old  dungarees." 

"Isn't  there  any  work?"  asked  George. 

"Well,  the  war  in  Europe  has  beached  a  lot  of  the  guys. 
They  say  it's  only  temporary.  In  the  meantime,  we  walk 
around  with  nothing  to  do." 

"I  was  just  telling  them,"  said  Ruth,  "about  the  little  warn- 
ing we  got  from  our  ISU  friends."  She  motioned  toward 
the  window  pane. 

Tim  grunted.   "Those  goons,"  he  said,  and  told  us  the 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  261 

story  of  the  A.  F.  of  L.  in  New  Orleans.  Their  Central 
Trades  Council  had  elected  Mayor  Bob  Maestri  as  an  hon- 
orary member.  According  to  Tim's  story,  Maestri  never 
hesitated  to  call  out  the  troops  or  police  to  break  a  strike, 
but  he  never  moved  a  finger  to  investigate  the  murders  of 
union  organizers. 

"Murders?" 

Tim  told  us  about  Phil  Carey,  secretary  of  the  NMU  in 
New  Orleans,  who  had  been  murdered  two  weeks  before. 
The  young  labor  leader  had  been  sitting  with  some  friends 
in  his  car  parked  on  one  of  the  city's  main  streets.  Three 
ISU  thugs  came  over,  dragged  Carey  from  the  car  and  threw 
him  to  the  ground.  A  crowd  gathered,  but  one  of  the  thugs 
held  them  of!  with  a  gun  while  the  other  two  beat  Carey 
with  chains.  Then  they  shot  him  dead. 

"For  a  whole  week,"  said  Tim  quietly,  "the  police  didn't 
do  a  thing  to  find  the  murderers,  although  their  pictures 
were  identified  by  at  least  ten  persons.  One  of  the  ISU 
officials  was  positively  identified,  but  he  skipped  town.  So 
nothing's  being  done  about  Phil's  death." 


We  wandered  down  to  the  end  of  Canal  Street  and 
watched  the  Mississippi  River  move  slowly  by.  A  seaman 
sat  on  a  post  near  the  waterfront. 

"Thas  ri',"  he  said,  in  a  slow  almost  incoherent  drawl. 
"Ah'm  beached  by  the  wah." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Dunno.  The  gov'nment  ought  to  do  somethin'  to  take 
care  of  us.  We  can't  go  'round  like  this  for  the  whole  wah." 

We  wanted  to  go  down  to  the  docks,  but  the  war  had 
created  a  new  system;  we  needed  official  passes.  The  ship- 
pers couldn't  afTord  to  take  chances. 


262  The  "Argonauts" 

"Times  is  pretty  bad  down  here,"  the  seaman  continued. 
"The  cops  pick  us  up  on  any  old  excuse — 'vagrancy  charges,' 
mostly  because  we're  NMU.  They  have  a  lot  of  work  to  do 
around  the  prisons  and  city  buildings.  So  they  get  their 
work  done  free.  Boy,  I  wish  that  darn  wah  would  end!" 

We  saw  more  signs  of  war  in  the  city.  On  the  main  street 
corners  army  recruiting  stations  had  been  set  up. 

One  day,  while  the  others  were  interviewing  social  workers 
and  union  leaders,  George  went  shopping  for  some  clothes. 
He  didn't  have  anything  left  to  wear.  His  last  pair  of  socks 
had  stiffened,  Joe  had  "borrowed"  his  last  shirt. 

"Hey,  bud!    How  about  joinin'  the  reg'lar  guys?" 

George  was  startled  out  of  his  reverie  on  socks,  shirts  and 
shorts  and  looked  at  the  young  soldier  smiling  at  him  from 
the  recruiting  station. 

"Good  grub,  clean  beds,  healthful  exercise  and  twenty-one 
dollars  a  month  to  start,"  said  the  army  man.  "Better'n  walk- 
in'  the  streets  hungry.  .  .  ." 

"Why?"  asked  George. 

"Become  a  man!    Defend  your  country!" 

"I'm  a  man  already,"  replied  George.  "And  I  thought  we 
already  had  an  army  to  defend  our  country." 

"Listen,  buddy,"  said  the  young  soldier,  "the  war  over  in 
Europe  is  sure  to  spread  to  our  shores  unless  we  get  a  bigger 
army." 

"Why  did  you  join  up?"  George  asked  quizzically. 

The  soldier  stopped  waving  his  arms,  and  his  face  re- 
laxed. "Why  not?"  he  replied,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "My 
dad's  a  cropper  near  Clarksburg.  There  were  nine  other 
kids  in  the  family.  I  run  away.  No  use  gettin'  into  a  rut  on 
twenty  acres." 

"But  why  did  you  join  the  army?" 

"Oh,  I'd  bummed  all  over  the  South,  workin'  when  I 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  263 

could  find  somethin'  to  do.  But  the  cards  were  stacked 
against  me.  It's  like  I  say — I  got  three  meals  a  day  and 
money  in  my  pockets.  C'mon,  join  up!  Don't  be  a  sap  and 
go  hungry.  It  ain't  worth  it." 

George  shook  his  head  and  continued  to  a  large  depart- 
ment store.  He  bought  a  blazing  red  flannel  shirt,  socks  and 
underwear.  That  shirt  was  something! 

"Flannel?"  Helen  inquired  when  George  showed  it  to 
her.  "Flannel  in  this  weather?" 

"Sure,"  George  answered.  "Don't  you  know  flannel 
absorbs  the  perspiration?" 

Mel  tried  on  George's  new  pair  of  socks. 

"I  want  a  flannel  shirt  too,"  said  Joe. 

So  George  and  Joe  went  shopping. 

"...  if  Hitlerism  and  communism  ain't  wiped  off  the 
face  of  the  earth,  the  damn  niggers  will  take  over  this 
country  .  .  ." 

George  and  Joe  stopped  to  listen  to  the  street  corner 
speaker  who  looked  like  the  moving  picture  version  of  a 
Southern  Colonel. 

"Then  think  of  our  women  and  children,"  continued  the 
Colonel.  "We'll  lose  all  our  colonies  and  the  red  Bolsheviki 
will  run  the  earth.  We're  God-fearing  people  down  here,  and 
it's  high  time  we  got  into  that  fight  and  wiped  Hitlerism 
and  communism  off  the  face  of  the  earth." 

That  brought  George  and  Joe  back  to  the  point  the  Colonel 
had  started  from.  They  entered  the  large  department  store 
and  bought  Joe  a  blazing  purple  flannel  shirt. 

On  their  way  back  they  decided  to  ask  people  about  the 
war.  Did  the  young  soldier  and  the  Colonel  represent  pub- 
lic opinion  in  New  Orleans  ? 

"No,"  said  a  sixteen-year-old  newsboy,  "it's  like  those  gang 
wars  you  read  about  in  the  magazines.  Both  sides  fighting 


264  The  "Argonauts" 

over  the  loot.  I've  got  a  big  brother,  and  he  don't  want  to 
go  to  any  old  war  in  Europe." 

"No,"  said  an  unemployed  Italian  carpenter,  "there's  plenty 
to  fight  about  in  this  country.  They  ought  to  build  houses 
for  people.  I  don't  have  no  work,  people  need  houses  .  .  . 
we  got  plenty  to  do  here." 

"No,"  said  a  social  worker,  "we've  got  sick  people  in  this 
country.  We  need  money  to  cure  pellagra  and  other  poverty 
diseases  in  the  South.  We've  got  plenty  to  do  in  our  own 
back  yard  without  becoming  involved  in  some  European 
war." 

Feeling  much  better,  Joe  and  George  decked  themselves 
out  in  the  purple  and  red  shirts. 

In  the  meantime,  Mel  and  Helen  timidly  approached  a 
narrow  hallway  leading  to  the  NMU  office,  at  the  address 
Tim  had  given  us. 

Mel  halted.  "You'd  better  not  go  up  with  me,"  he  said 
uneasily.  "I  don't  see  any  other  women  around." 

Helen  laughed.  "That's  silly.  I  used  to  work  for  a  ship 
maintenance  workers'  union.  Come  on."  She  preceded  him 
upstairs  to  a  smoke-filled  hall  crowded  with  both  white  and 
colored  men.  Helen  and  Mel  walked  into  the  hubbub  of 
talk  and  activity.  A  perspiring  red-faced  man  advised  them 
to  find  a  Mrs.  Duffy,  wife  of  the  NMU  organizer,  and  gave 
them  her  address. 

In  a  newly  remodeled  house  in  the  old  French  quarter, 
they  found  Mrs.  Duffy,  a  trim  and  efficient  little  woman. 
Her  apartment  smelled  of  paint  and  varnish.  The  window 
shades  were  pulled  down  to  keep  out  the  sun  and  heat.  A 
small  cove  in  the  wall  held  a  large  cot. 

The  organizer's  wife  sat  at  her  desk  with  Helen  and  Mel 
on  either  side.  Letters  and  papers  were  piled  high  before 
her.  "I'm  doing  the  union's  office  work  here  for  the  pres- 


"1 'he  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  265 

ent,"  she  said.  "But  we're  going  to  move  into  new  head- 
quarters soon." 

She  sorted  the  letters  rapidly  as  she  talked.  "We  have  the 
backing  of  every  man  that  sets  foot  on  the  waterfront,"  she 
explained.  "The  shipowners  try  to  force  the  men  to  join  the 
International  Seamen's  Union.  One  of  our  men  who  re- 
fused to  pay  dues  to  the  ISU  had  his  eye  taken  out  with  a 
bale  hook." 

The  phone  rang,  she  answered,  excused  herself  and  made 
two  calls.  Then  she  continued  exactly  where  she  had  left 
off. 

"But  things  are  changing  rapidly,"  she  said.  "Last  summer 
I  couldn't  come  home  without  finding  detectives  waiting  for 
me.  Now  we're  the  ones  who  are  making  demands  in  spite 
of  all  the  force  and  violence  and  murders  they  bring  down 
upon  us.  At  the  moment,  with  the  war  in  Europe,  we're 
trying  to  get  $25,000  insurance  for  each  man  going  into  the 
war  zones.  We've  just  won  a  25  per  cent  wage  increase  for 
them." 

"How  do  they  feel  about  the  war?" 

She  tapped  the  letter  opener  on  the  desk.  "Seamen  are  for 
strict  neutrality.  Ask  any  of  them,  they'll  tell  you." 

As  Mel  and  Helen  were  leaving,  she  called:  "Don't  be 
pessimistic  about  the  South.  Wherever  you  find  labor  strong 
and  organized,  you'll  find  hope  for  real  democracy." 

Young  Gordon  Mclntyre,  Director  of  the  Farmers  Edu- 
cational and  Co-operative  Union,  and  his  secretary,  Peggy 
Dallet,  took  Joe  up  to  union  headquarters. 

On  the  way,  Gordon  explained  that  the  union  tried  to 
organize  the  small  farmer  and  agricultural  worker  against 
the  big  plantation-owning  companies.  They  got  the  small 
farmers  to  buy  and  sell  through  co-operatives  and  the  agri- 
cultural workers  to  organize  for  higher  wages  in  sugar  and 


266  The  "Argonauts" 

cotton  fields.  When  they  arrived  at  the  union,  a  middle- 
aged  priest  with  a  soft  ruddy  face  and  close-cropped  white 
hair  greeted  them. 

"Father  Coulombe,"  said  Gordon,  "this  is  Joe  Wershba, 
from  New  York,  who's  writing  a  book  about  America." 

The  Father  had  been  chewing  on  a  cigar.  He  took  it  out 
of  his  mouth  and  shook  hands  with  Joe. 

"I  need  a  boy  who  can  write  and  take  shorthand,"  he 
said,  speaking  with  a  gentle  French  accent.  "I  need  some- 
one who  can  take  down  testimony  in  court.  They're  always 
misrepresenting  and  misquoting  me." 

"In  court?"  Joe  looked  surprised. 

Gordon  smiled.  "Father  Coulombe  is  one  of  our  best 
union  organizers,"  he  said,  and  proceeded  to  explain  that 
the  priest  had  a  parish  in  Bayou  La  Fourche  in  the  city  of 
Thibodaux,  southwest  of  New  Orleans. 

"If  I  am  to  be  a  true  priest,"  began  Father  Coulombe,  "I 
must  help  my  people  materially  as  well  as  spiritually.  In 
the  Bayou  area,  the  people  need  better  wages  in  order  to  live 
as  people  should.  But  the  big  sugar  companies  are  stubborn 
and  selfish.  I  couldn't  help  but  side  with  the  workers  in 
their  struggle  for  a  better  existence  on  this  earth.  There  were 
215  families  in  my  parish,  and  56  per  cent  of  them  couldn't 
read.  Children  couldn't  get  adequate  schooling,  with  70  per 
cent  of  the  white  and  90  per  cent  of  the  Negro  children  too 
poor  to  attend  school.  We  couldn't  get  enough  money  for 
the  school,  so  there  was  one  short  term  from  January  to  May 
in  a  school  that  had  only  one  room  and  two  teachers." 

"What  did  the  children  do  the  rest  of  the  time?"  asked 
Joe. 

The  priest  looked  significantly  at  Gordon  and  laughed 
shortly.  "They  worked  in  the  fields.  They  worked  in  the 
sugar  cane  fields  and  in  the  shrimp  factories." 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  267 

Gordon  continued  to  tell  the  priest's  story.  Father 
Coulombe  and  his  parishioners  began  to  put  up  a  fight.  They 
got  the  government  to  hold  a  wage  hearing  for  the  workers 
in  the  area,  and  wages  were  increased,  child  labor  forbidden. 
But  the  big  landowners  grew  wrathful.  They  brought  pres- 
sure to  bear  on  the  hierarchy  of  the  Church. 

"I  was  demoted  by  the  Church  three  times,"  the  priest 
remarked,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "But  I'm  not  going 
to  stop  working  with  my  children."  He  reached  for  his 
broad-brimmed  black  felt  hat.  "I  could  use  a  young  man  to 
take  shorthand  notes  on  all  my  speeches."  He  looked  at  Joe. 

"Maybe  I'll  study  shorthand  and  come  back  here,"  said 
Joe. 

"I'll  wait  for  you,"  said  Father  Coulombe. 

The  area  surrounding  New  Orleans  was  different  from 
any  other  in  the  whole  country.  As  in  La  Fourche  parish, 
where  Father  Coulombe  watched  over  his  "children,"  there 
were  parishes  where  the  inhabitants  retained  all  their  seven- 
teenth-century customs.  The  Cajuns  and  Creoles  still  dressed 
and  talked  like  the  original  Spanish  and  French  settlers. 

3 

"...  those  damn  niggers  .  .  ." 

We  had  the  name  of  a  young  Negro  boy,  chairman  of  the 
New  Orleans  section  of  the  Southern  Negro  Youth  Con- 
gress. At  eleven  o'clock  at  night  we  drove  to  Ray  Tillman's 
home  in  the  Negro  quarter  of  New  Orleans.  The  streets 
were  dark  and  unpaved.  We  parked  the  car  and  looked  for 
the  house  number  by  lighting  matches.  A  slightly  built 
Negro  lad  dressed  in  pajamas  answered  our  timid  ring  at 
his  door. 

"Yes,  I'm  Ray  Tillman,"  he  said. 

When  we  told  him  why  we  had  come,  he  expressed  doubt 


268  The  "Argonauts" 

about  the  girls  coming  up  to  his  house.  White  girls  don't 
visit  Negroes  at  night.  He  offered  to  come  down  to  our  car 
to  talk.  But  his  aunt  objected.  She  wouldn't  let  Ray  go 
downstairs  with  strangers.  Too  many  things  happened  to 
Negroes  in  the  dead  of  night.  Her  home  was  good  enough 
for  anybody,  white  or  black.  If  all  homes  were  like  that,  she 
told  us,  the  world  would  have  less  misery. 

We  all  came  upstairs  to  the  simple  clean  apartment.  Ray 
put  on  some  clothes  and  we  all  sat  about  the  round  table  in 
the  kitchen.  Across  from  us,  a  china  closet  held  a  worn  set 
of  dishes  and  a  small  vase  filled  with  violets. 

Ray  told  us  about  Negro  youth  in  the  South.  "It's  twice 
as  hard  for  the  Negro  young  person  today,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Not  only  is  he  a  part  of  the  four  or  five  million  unemployed 
youth,  but  he's  discriminated  against  because  of  his  race. 
The  Negro  pays  high  rents  but  is  compelled  to  live  in  the 
worst  slums.  He  has  the  hardest  time  to  get  a  little  educa- 
tion. He  can't  vote.  You  see,"  he  continued  seriously,  "we 
don't  look  at  our  problem  as  different  or  apart  from  the 
problem  of  white  youth  or  poor  white  folks.  Our  problem 
is  essentially  the  same.  But  there  are  people  who  pit  white 
against  black  deliberately.  For  instance,  if  the  white  worker 
in  a  large  factory  goes  on  strike,  the  owner  hires  Negroes 
to  scab  on  the  whites.  This  makes  the  antagonism  sharper. 
But  that  picture  is  changing  today.  The  white  youth  are 
beginning  to  realize  that  their  problems  of  getting  jobs 
cannot  be  separated  from  those  of  Negro  youth.  That's  why 
you  see  the  Southern  Negro  Youth  Congress  working  so 
closely  with  groups  like  the  YWCA  and  YMCA  and  the 
American  Youth  Congress." 

Ray  drew  a  long  breath  and  waited  for  more  questions. 

"What  does  the  Southern  Negro  Youth  Congress  work 
for  concretely?"  inquired  Lillian. 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  269 

"We  want  equal  educational  opportunities  and  equal  job 
opportunities.  We  want  the  right  to  vote.  We  can't  say  that 
America  has  real  democracy  when  only  10,000  out  of 
11,000,000  Negroes  can  vote  in  the  South.  Legally,  I  guess 
we  have  the  right  to  vote,"  he  declared.  "Practically,  we 
don't.  When  a  Negro  goes  to  the  polls  to  register,  he  is 
asked  to  fill  out  an  application  form.  When  registration  has 
been  closed,  he  is  told  he  hasn't  filled  out  the  form  correctly. 
In  other  states,  Georgia  for  instance,  the  Negro  has  to  pay  a 
cumulative  poll  tax.  In  order  to  vote,  that  means  he  has  to 
pay  the  tax  for  every  year  since  he  reached  the  age  of  twenty- 
one.  And  then  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  is  beginning  to  ride  again 
in  the  South,  stopping  those  few  Negroes  who  attempt  to 
go  to  the  polls. 

"Along  the  lakefront,"  continued  Ray,  "the  Negroes  have 
a  Jim  Crow  beach,  Seabrook,  next  to  the  white  beach.  When 
the  WPA  improved  the  Negro  beach,  property  values  went 
up  in  the  neighborhood.  So  some  of  the  politicians  moved 
the  Negro  beach  into  the  most  alligator-infested  area  of  the 
lake.  We  protested  so  strongly  they  had  to  give  Seabrook 
back  to  us." 

When  we  left  Ray,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we 
had  nothing  to  say  to  each  other  about  what  he  had  told  us. 
He  had  spoken  quietly  and  sincerely  about  his  problems. 
The  case  he  presented  seemed  clear  to  us,  and  nothing  we 
might  say  could  add  to  or  detract  from  it. 

We  really  saw  the  color  line  in  New  Orleans.  Up  to  this 
point  we  had  seen  it  faintly  and  occasionally.  Now  we  saw 
it  drawn  boldly  in  every  restaurant,  trolley  car  and  theater, 
in  housing,  work  and  food.  And  it  still  shocked  us,  because 
in  spite  of  everything  we  had  heard  in  New  York  and 
everything  we  had  seen  in  the  South,  we  still  thought  of 


270  The  "Argonauts" 

our  country's  history  and  its  famous  documents  .  .  .  "people 
born  free  and  equal." 

We  walked  over  to  Dillard  University  for  Negroes.  Hand- 
some white  buildings  were  set  back  on  wide  green  lawns. 
The  Rosenwald  Foundation,  the  Methodist  Church  and  the 
General  Education  Board  supported  the  school  for  Negro 
boys  and  girls.  We  stopped  some  young  students  on  the 
campus  and  talked  with  them. 

Young  Franklin,  nineteen  years  old  and  a  junior  at 
Dillard,  wanted  to  be  an  actor. 

"Honest,"  he  said,  "I  played  in  an  opera  once."  He  told 
us  a  story  about  that  opera.  When  Lawrence  Tibbett  had 
come  to  New  Orleans  to  play  Aida,  a  number  of  Negro 
boys  from  Dillard  were  hired  for  the  cast  in  the  slave  dance. 
After  the  opera,  the  boys  had  asked  Tibbett  to  speak  to  them 
about  music.  The  famous  baritone  invited  them  all  to  his 
dressing  room  and  talked  with  them  for  a  long  time. 

"Boy!  Were  those  whites  surprised!"  young  Franklin 
chuckled.  "They're  still  talking  about  it  to  this  very  day." 

A  light-skinned,  slim,  seventeen-year-old  boy  wanted  to 
be  a  preacher.  His  father  was  a  tenant  on  a  large  plantation, 
and  he  had  been  sent  to  school  on  a  scholarship.  He  told  us 
about  religion. 

"I  think  the  trouble  with  religion  is  that  it  cares  too  much 
for  the  less  important  moral  virtues  of  man  and  ignores  the 
more  important  virtues  of  economic  and  social  problems. 
I  don't  think  a  man  can  be  a  good  Christian  without  helping 
the  well-being  of  his  people." 

"Then  why  do  you  want  to  be  a  preacher?"  asked  Joe. 
"Why  don't  you  become  a  union  leader  or  a  lawyer?" 

"Because  the  church,"  he  said,  "is  the  only  free  place 
the  Negro  has  in  the  South.  You  can't  talk  freely  at  a 
political  meeting  or  at  a  union  meeting.  But  you  can  in 


"Tkt  South,  Sub  .  .  ."  271 

church.  I  want  to  talk  to  Negroes  freely.  The  whites  can't 
come  into  the  church  to  lynch  preachers  or  put  them  in 
jail." 

4 

There  seemed  to  be  one  political  issue  in  the  state — graft. 
Candidates  announced  their  aspirations  to  public  office  with 
a  uniform  slogan :  "I  will  not  take  graft." 

New  Orleans  people  referred  to  their  Mayor  as  Bob 
"Redlight"  Maestri;  it  was  stated  openly  that  he  owned 
houses  of  prostitution  in  the  city.  Only  occasionally  did 
people  get  together  to  pin  the  politicians  down  to  concrete 
issues.  Young  Frank  Chavez,  secretary  of  the  Progressive 
Democrats,  was  one  of  these  people. 

In  a  small  and  dimly  lit  French  restaurant,  we  tasted  the 
pride  of  New  Orleans — Creole  cooking — and  listened  to 
Frank  explain  the  sour  and  corrupt  set-up  of  politics  in 
Louisiana.  "Carpetbaggers,"  said  Frank  Chavez,  "were 
called  racketeers  by  Louisiana  historians."  But  the  carpet- 
baggers had  nothing  on  the  current  political  crew  in  office. 

"Maestri  was  never  elected  by  the  people  of  this  city," 
declared  Frank.  "Governor  Long,  Huey's  brother,  called 
off  the  scheduled  election  and  appointed  Maestri.  He  said 
there  was  no  sense  in  spending  money  for  an  election  when 
Maestri  was  sure  to  win." 

He  told  us  more:  "The  State  Charity  Hospital  had  been 
completed  when  some  of  the  politicians  decided  to  move  it 
so  that  the  contractors  could  get  more  work.  They  moved  it 
twice,  finally  placing  it  next  to  the  gas  tanks.  It  sank  because 
of  the  cheap  construction  materials.  They  propped  it  up 
with  boards  and  planks.  One  scandal  after  another  followed. 
There  weren't  enough  beds,  and  patients  with  different 


272  The  "Argonauts" 

diseases  were  put  together  in  one  bed.   Others  were  made 
to  sleep  on  the  floors  and  in  the  hallways." 

The  Progressive  Democrats,  Frank  explained,  advanced  a 
program  for  clean  government,  social  security,  a  state  public 
works  program  to  meet  the  slack  created  by  the  federal  lay- 
offs on  WPA,  seed  and  crop-loss  aid  to  the  farmers,  and 
against  the  infamous  "Leche  money,"  the  name  given  to  the 
sales-tax  tokens. 

"To  buck  the  machines  is  a  pretty  tough  job,"  Frank  con- 
tinued. "You  see,  they  continue  Huey's  practice  of  holding 
signed  and  undated  resignations  of  every  public  office- 
holder. Whenever  an  official  does  something  they  don't 
like,  they  put  a  date  on  the  resignation  and  turn  it  over  to 
the  papers.  That's  the  first  he  usually  hears  of  it." 

Politics  in  Louisiana  certainly  seemed  to  match  the  murky, 
unhealthy  atmosphere. 

The  rains  came  during  our  last  few  days  in  New  Orleans. 
The  hot  sun  shining  through  the  murky  air  would  suddenly 
disappear  and  the  clouds  would  send  down  warm  showers. 
Then  the  sun  would  come  again  and  the  air  would  grow 
thicker.  Our  bodies  dripped  with  moisture.  Here  the  hos- 
pitals were  full  of  tuberculosis  cases,  and  thousands  more 
walked  the  streets  with  it.  Our  clothes  would  become  soaked, 
and  light  drafts  would  make  us  shiver.  We  all  caught  colds. 
In  the  early  afternoon,  the  malaria  mosquitoes  would  come 
and  we  would  squirm  and  swear,  until  we  ached  to  leave 
New  Orleans. 

We  needed  money  to  leave,  and  in  order  to  get  money,  we 
had  to  buckle  down  to  our  typewriters  and  send  more  mate- 
rial to  the  magic  office  in  New  York  City,  where  a  man 
would  read  what  we  wrote  and  send  us  checks  for  it.  We 
divided  our  forces :  Joe  and  Lillian  stayed  in  the  hot,  sticky 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  273 

cabins  over  the  typewriters;  the  others  saw  more  of  New 
Orleans. 

Helen  found  out  about  college  students  in  New  Orleans. 
We  had  read  in  the  papers  that  400  students  at  Newcomb 
College,  practically  the  entire  student  body,  had  signed  a 
petition  with  the  slogan :  "NO  WAR  FOR  us." 

And  Helen  talked  with  Miss  Wisner,  head  of  the  Social 
Work  School  at  Tulane  University,  about  college  students. 

"Our  hope  today,"  said  Miss  Wisner,  "is  the  younger 
generation  coming  to  the  school  of  social  work  from  all  the 
Southern  states." 

When  Helen  told  her  how  New  Orleans  depressed  us, 
Miss  Wisner  defended  her  city  vigorously.  "It's  not  that 
bad,"  she  said.  "We  have  one  of  the  best  Negro  hospitals  in 
the  South  here.  Invaluable  work  is  being  carried  on  in  the 
medical  centers  on  tropical  diseases.  Of  course,  many  things 
haven't  been  developed  yet — public  recreation  for  one,  and 
housing  for  another.  But  really,  the  place  has  its  good 
points.  .  .  ." 

One  night  some  friends  of  Tim's  agreed  to  put  up  Joe 
and  George  for  the  night  and  help  us  save  on  rents.  We  all 
walked  through  the  French  quarter,  looking  for  the  address. 
Down  Royal  and  Bourbon  Streets  and  over  to  Jackson  Park, 
we  passed  the  oldest  apartment  houses  in  North  America, 
still  standing.  Street  lamps  illuminated  shadowed  and 
shuttered  doorways.  Once  a  bright  ray  of  light  broke 
through  as  a  shutter  was  pulled  up  and  a  feminine  voice 
asked : 

"Doing  anything  tonight,  gentlemen?    Cheap.  .  .  ." 

Cheap.  Decrepit,  French-styled  homes  with  rusty  and 
sometimes  freshly  painted  iron  balconies  lined  the  narrow, 
crooked  streets.  At  the  dim  south  end  of  Bourbon  Street, 
we  stopped  to  stare  at  the  Saint  Louis  Cathedral,  its  tall 


274  The  "Argonauts" 

spires  reaching  magnificently  above  the  historic  slums.  The 
small  statue  of  Saint  Louis  in  the  garden  at  the  front  en- 
trance threw  a  giant  shadow  on  the  wall  of  the  cathedral. 

We  found  the  old  French  house  where  Joe  and  George 
were  to  stay.  That  night  they  slept  in  the  old  slave  quarters 
in  the  backyard.  Chains  bolted  to  the  thick  cement  walls 
lay  across  the  floor.  Light  and  air  came  through  (or  did  not 
come  through)  a  small  opening  about  the  size  of  a  child's 
head  near  the  ceiling.  Washing  and  toilet  facilities  were 
at  the  end  of  the  yard. 

The  morning  mail  brought  the  results  of  the  "Bring 
Wershba  Back  Campaign."  Joe's  school  chums  had  collected 
pennies  and  nickels  on  the  campus;  the  campaign  was  going 
strong,  and  they  sent  us  enough  money  to  take  us  to 
Memphis.  We  never  felt  happier  to  leave  any  city. 

Only  one  thing  could  ever  bring  us  back  to  New  Orleans 
— the  cassata.  We  had  discovered  it  when  we  had  dinner  one 
night  in  an  Italian  restaurant.  We  might  call  it  "ice  cream 
cake"  (translation  not  literal).  It  was  made  of  smooth 
vanilla  ice  cream  on  the  rim,  an  intriguing  layer  of  frozen 
whipped  cream  flavored  with  pistachio  and  sprinkled  with 
nuts.  A  section  of  creamy  ices  lay  at  the  bottom,  strewn  with 
chopped  cherries,  and  a  big  slice  of  fluffy  cake  held  it  all. 

If  we  ever  return  to  New  Orleans,  the  cassata  and  only 
the  cassata  will  be  the  cause. 

We  sped  toward  Jackson  over  wet  roads  at  seventy-five 
miles  an  hour,  past  cotton  fields,  past  small  plots  of  green 
grazing  land,  past  the  new  consolidated  school  building  sur- 
rounded by  broken-down  huts.  Mel  pushed  down  on  the 
gas  pedal  as  we  all  strained  toward  the  state  of  Mississippi. 
Every  once  in  a  while  a  large  white  colonial  house  on  a 
neatly  combed  green  lawn  would  break  the  repetition  of 
cotton  fields  and  desolate  shacks. 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  275 

As  we  came  into  Brookhaven,  Mississippi,  we  noticed  a 
long,  red-brick  building  with  the  name  of  a  Northern  gar- 
ment firm.  At  a  corner  luncheonette,  the  counterman  told 
us  about  the  factory  as  he  prepared  five  hamburgers.  "They 
came  from  New  York  a  couple  of  years  back.  Cheaper  to 
manufacture  clothes  down  here,  what  with  low  wages  and 
the  town  so  anxious  to  have  them,  giving  them  the  place 
tax-free." 

"How  are  chances  for  getting  jobs  there?"  asked  Mel. 

"Well,  she  employs  about  six  hundred  people,  but  wages 
are  so  low  you  can't  hardly  make  a  living." 

"Have  they  ever  tried  to  organize  a  union?" 

The  counterman  turned  over  the  hamburgers  and  gave 
them  a  sharp  slap  with  the  skillet  before  replying.  "Huh! 
Not  in  this  town  with  this  company." 

He  slid  the  meat  patties  between  the  buns  and  onto  the 
plates.  "Coffee?"  We  nodded.  "It  ain't  Christian,  the 
misery  here.  I  don't  know  what's  happening  any  more, 
hungry  people,  meanness  all  over  the  world,  war  in  Europe. 
...  It  ain't  Christian."  He  watched  Joe  wolfing  down  the 
hamburger  in  large  bites.  "I've  got  a  boy  about  your  age. 
When  I  think  of  him  going  off  to  war,  I  get  cold  all  over. 
I  fought  in  the  last  war,  had  to  kill  kids  like  you.  Ah,  I  don't 
know."  He  shook  his  head  and  sighed.  "I  don't  know  as  a 
man  can  really  tell  what's  going  on  any  more.  The  papers 
are  full  of  this  war,  but  you  can't  believe  what  you  read.  All 
I  know  is  it  ain't  Christian  to  kill  kids." 

All  talk  now  turned  to  the  war.  We  might  start  on  another 
subject,  but  we  could  not  shake  off  the  thought  of  war.  We 
didn't  want  war.  Other  people  didn't  want  war.  But  it  was 
there  and  coming  closer,  and  in  the  state  of  Mississippi,  on 
top  of  all  the  suffering  and  poverty,  was  the  fear  of  war, 
the  hatred  of  a  gun  and  a  cannon.  In  Mississippi  money 


276  The  "Argonauts" 

spent  for  armaments  would  keep  families  alive  for  years  and 
build  schools  where  the  rate  of  illiteracy  is  the  highest  in 
the  country. 

A  row  of  decaying  wooden  shacks  a  small  distance  off  the 
road  near  Terry  caught  our  attention.  We  stopped  and 
kicked  our  way  through  the  brush.  From  one  of  the  door- 
less  shacks,  an  old  man  with  gray  unkempt  hair  and  a  limp 
emerged  carrying  a  pail.  He  nodded,  and  we  started  to  ask 
questions.  But  the  old  man  told  us  he  had  to  go  down  the 
road  a  piece  for  some  water  for  his  wife  and  small  grandson, 
both  of  whom  lay  sick  inside.  We  peered  into  the  shack.  On 
a  mattress  spread  on  the  floor  lay  an  old  woman  and  a  child 
covered  with  a  dirty  quilt.  The  old  man  advised  us  to  see 
Jess  a  couple  of  houses  down. 

Jess  was  huddled  over  the  motor  of  a  rusty  Willard  car. 
Three  little  girls  wearing  pink  cotton  slips  had  been  watch- 
ing their  father  intently,  but  as  we  approached  they  scam- 
pered into  the  house.  Jess  dropped  a  wrench,  brushed  his 
hands  against  his  trousers  and  greeted  us.  He  was  about 
thirty-five,  with  a  slow,  easy  way  of  talking  and  a  heavy 
stubble. 

Jess  told  us  he  worked  in  the  near-by  lumber  mill  and  that 
his  house  belonged  to  the  company.  "We  pay  a  dollar  a 
week  rent  for  it,"  he  said  slowly,  his  eyes  fastened  on  his  car. 
"Over  at  the  mill  we  get  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  for  ten  hours 
work."  He  rested  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  the  fender 
behind  him  and  leaned  against  the  jalopy.  "I've  been  thinkin' 
of  pickin'  up  and  leavin'  for  California.  I  hear  there's  jobs 
out  there,  but  I  don't  know's  I  want  to  take  the  chance. 
I've  got  three  kids  now  and  one  more  on  the  way."  The  old 
fellow  who  had  the  sick  wife  and  grandson  sauntered  over 
and  stood  against  the  back  fender  of  the  car. 

"Half  the  people  in  the  county  would  have  just  plain 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  277 

starved  without  WPA.  Sure  thing,"  he  nodded  at  our  ques- 
tion, "the  whites  and  colored  work  together  on  WPA.  No, 
there  ain't  no  hard  feelin's.  Why  should  there  be?  Colored 
have  to  eat  same  as  white  folks." 

His  three  little  girls  came  out  of  the  house  wearing  dresses 
but  still  without  shoes.  When  George  adjusted  his  camera 
and  asked  them  to  pose  for  a  picture,  they  started  to  run 
away.  After  a  while  they  returned  slowly,  crept  behind  their 
father  and  peeked  at  us  curiously. 

The  old  man  thoughtfully  scratched  his  leg.  "My  son 
works  in  the  other  mill,"  he  said,  "but  when  the  mill  shuts 
down,  he  don't  work.  Some  of  the  fellas  over  there  wanted 
to  start  a  union,  and  I  told  my  son  to  go  with  'em.  But  he 
won't  do  it."  He  scratched  more  vigorously. 

"Unions  are  all  right,"  Jess  said  slowly.  "They  tried  once 
to  start  a  union,  but  then  some  official  came  down  and  said 
there  had  to  be  one  for  whites  and  a  different  union  for 
blacks.  I  dunno  what  happened  to  it,  but  they  didn't  get 
very  far." 

"How  do  people  vote  around  here?"  asked  Mel. 

"Most  of  the  folks  don't,"  replied  Jess  in  his  soft  drawl. 
"They  can't  afford  the  poll  tax;  two  dollars  it  costs.  They 
can't  afford  to  vote." 

"That's  right."  The  old  man  spat  into  the  road,  hitched 
his  trousers  and  started  back  toward  his  own  house.  "Glad 
you  folks  stopped  by,  enjoyed  talkin'  with  all  of  ya." 

"You  people  writin'  all  this  in  a  book?"  questioned  Jess. 

"That's  right,"  Lillian  said. 

"Wa-al,  may  be  you  can't  understand  this  .  .  .  but  don't 
use  my  own  name  in  that  book.  Jest  make  up  a  name.  The 
company  might  get  to  know  what  we've  said,  and  they  won't 
like  it."  He  lifted  the  smallest  of  his  daughters  on  his  knee. 


278  The  "Argonauts" 

"Can't  tell  what  might  happen  if  they  know  I  told  you  all 
this." 

We  returned  to  our  car,  and  Jess  again  bent  over  his  old 
motor. 

"You  know,"  Helen  declared  as  Mel  drummed  up  the 
motor  and  drove  smoothly  into  the  heart  of  Mississippi, 
"I  don't  know  how  much  more  of  all  this  I  can  stand." 

"Suppose  you  had  to  live  that  way,"  returned  George. 
"Suppose  you  were  stuck  right  in  the  middle  of  it  all  and 
couldn't  get  out?" 

"I'm  not  thinking  so  much  of  myself,"  said  Helen.  "I 
mean  all  of  us,  how  much  more  of  it  can  we  take?  Will 
everything  be  this  way?  In  Alabama,  Georgia,  Ten- 
nessee ...  ?" 

"And  will  people  look  at  us  the  same  way  all  over  the 
South?"  added  Mel.  "I  know  what  Helen  means — just  the 
look  in  these  people's  eyes  makes  me  feel  low." 


Jackson,  the  capital  of  Mississippi,  is  a  typical  American 
city — Sears  Roebuck  and  Thorn  McAn  Shoes,  Greyhound 
Bus  and  Paramount  Theatre,  Walgreen's  and  Dr.  Pepper's 
famous  drink — all  had  come  to  Jackson  to  clothe,  feed  and 
entertain  people  the  same  way  they  did  in  New  York  and 
San  Francisco. 

"But  Dot  Horie,  a  friend  of  mine,  came  from  Jackson," 
protested  Lillian.  "She's  different.  Jackson  must  be  different 
in  some  ways." 

Millstein's  Department  Store  in  the  center  of  town  looked 
different,  so  we  caught  Mr.  Millstein  as  he  was  about  to 
leave  for  the  day.  He  was  big  and  paunchy,  and  he  chewed 
on  a  short  cigar  stump  as  he  talked.  "Fifteen  years  I've  been 
here,"  he  said,  "and  now  competition  is  choking  me.  Chain 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  279 

stores — all  you  see  is  chain  stores.  Years  ago,  when  I  came 
here,  a  man  could  start  a  little  business  and  make  a  good 
living.  Now  the  big  chain  stores  are  ruining  our  business." 
He  shifted  in  his  swivel  chair,  and  a  bell  rang  sharply 
through  the  store  announcing  closing  time. 

While  Mr.  Millstein  was  complaining  to  four  of  us  about 
monopolies  crowding  him  out  of  business,  Mel  sauntered 
down  the  main  street  of  the  city.  "Peanuts,  wet  and  dry! 
Peanuts,  wet  and  dry!"  A  husky  middle-aged  man  standing 
on  the  street  corner  pushed  a  bag  at  Mel. 

"What  are  wet  peanuts?"  asked  Mel. 

"Peanuts  soaked  in  salt  water.  I  raise  them  on  my  farm 
and  come  into  town  evenings  to  sell  them.  Ain't  much  doing 
on  my  few  acres."  The  husky  farmer  told  this  to  Mel 
mechanically,  not  smiling. 

"What  do  you  do  when  you're  not  working?" 

"I'm  on  a  WPA  road  gang."  He  jacked  himself  onto  the 
fender  of  a  car  and  continued  to  shout.  "Peanuts,  wet  and 
dry!" 

"What  do  you  think  of  WPA?"  Mel  persisted. 

"It's  okay.  Peanuts,  wet  and  dry!  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  vote  for  Roosevelt  in  1936?" 

"Say,"  the  peanut  vender  roared,  sliding  down  from  his 
perch  on  the  car  fender,  "who  the  hell  are  you?  And  what 
business  is  it  of  yours  who  I  vote  for?" 

"I'm  .  .  ."  Mel  began. 

"What  right  have  you  got  to  go  around  and  ask  people 
about  their  own  business?  I've  got  a  mind  to  call  the  police!" 

"Well,"  said  Mel  weakly,  "good-by." 

We  all  met  again  and  walked  down  the  street  looking  for 
a  cheap  place  to  eat.  We  passed  the  Century  Theatre  with 
one  entrance  for  "White"  and  a  different  entrance  in  the 
alley  for  "Colored."  At  the  end  of  the  street  stood  the  state 


280  The  "Argonauts" 

capitol,  the  dedication  carved  in  the  stone:    "To  liberty, 
equality  and  democracy  for  all." 

In  a  small  restaurant  we  ordered  twenty-five-cent  dinners 
of  fried  chicken.  "Do  you  know,"  Joe  asked  the  pretty  young 
waitress,  "that  school  kids  in  this  state  have  to  buy  their 
own  books?" 

The  waitress,  whose  name  was  Sara,  had  run  away  from 
home  when  she  was  fifteen.  "Don't  feel  sorry  for  those  kids," 
she  said.  "How  about  all  those  who  never  get  a  chance  to 
step  inside  a  school?"  She  called  over  her  partner,  named 
Pat,  who  had  run  away  from  home  too.  Neither  Pat  nor 
Sara  had  ever  started  high  school.  Both  had  poor  homes, 
no  nice  clothes,  no  opportunity  to  do  what  they  wanted.  So 
both  had  run  away  from  different  cities  and  ended  up 
together  as  partners  in  Jackson. 

Determined  to  hit  Memphis  that  night,  we  piled  into  the 
car.  The  rain  caught  up  with  us  again.  About  a  hundred 
miles  from  our  mark,  we  stopped  for  gas  and  coffee.  The 
Beer  Barrel  Pol\a  blared  from  a  nickelodeon.  We  drank  the 
coffee  made  with  chicory,  Southern  style.  Lackadaisically 
we  watched  a  tall  truck  driver  insert  another  coin  in  the 
nickelodeon  as  soon  as  the  song  had  finished.  Five  rounds 
of  the  Beer  Barrel  Pol\a  together  with  the  bitter  coffee  sent 
us  reeling  back  to  the  car  where  we  fell  weakly  into  the 
corners  and  slept.  Mel  drove  steadily  through  the  rain,  on 
to  Memphis. 

At  the  Newspaper  Guild  convention,  we  had  worn  cotton 
buds  with  streamers  reading  "On  to  Memphis."  We  dug  the 
grayish  bedraggled  buds  out  of  our  luggage  and  put  them 
on  our  lapels.  At  midnight  we  reached  Memphis,  hired  the 
first  tourist  cabins  we  saw  and  fell  wearily  into  beds  that 
were  damp  and  warm  from  the  weather. 
In  the  morning  the  air  was  still  heavy  and  murky.  Slosh- 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .   "  281 

ing  through  mud  puddles,  we  made  directly  for  the  post 
office.  No  mail.  No  money.  We  had  seventeen  dollars  in 
our  treasury,  enough  to  take  us  to  Nashville. 
We  consulted  the  NAMES  book. 

Harry  Martin 

Memphis  Commercial- Appeal 

Always  talking  about  Southern  hospitality 

"Harry's  reviewing  the  Folies  Bergere  at  the  Orpheum," 
informed  the  copy  boy  at  the  newspaper  office. 

"Let's  buy  a  pack  of  cigarettes,"  suggested  Mel  as  we  left 
the  building.  George,  Helen  and  Joe  vetoed  the  proposal. 
Mel,  backed  by  Lillian,  insisted.  He'd  roll  his  own,  but  the 
cigarette  machine  had  been  broken  back  in  Texas. 

"No,"  said  George,  "in  a  democratic  vote,  your  motion  has 
been  defeated  by  the  majority." 

Mel  and  Lillian  got  to  the  car  first  and  locked  themselves 
inside.  "We  don't  move  until  we  get  cigarettes,"  Mel  an- 
nounced dramatically.  "This  is  a  lock-in." 

"We're  on  strike,"  added  Lillian. 

The  majority,  aware  of  its  democratic  rights,  circled  the 
block  and  returned  to  find  Mel,  Lillian  and  the  car  gone. 
They  walked  toward  the  center  of  town  and  over  to  the 
lobby  of  the  Orpheum  where  the  two  rebels  grinned  at  them 
triumphantly.  "We  hid  the  car.  No  cigarettes,  no  car,"  said 
Mel.  "Don't  think  I'm  trying  to  belittle  democracy.  It's  for 
the  good  and  safety  of  the  group  that  I  get  my  cigarettes." 
The  majority  looked  at  his  frugal  waistline,  about  twice  as 
narrow  as  when  he  had  left.  Every  large  city  we  came  to,  we 
weighed  Mel,  because  he  was  the  only  one  who  was  getting 
thinner.  Now  the  majority  weighed  Mel,  finding  that  he 


282  The  "Argonauts" 

had  lost  eighteen  pounds  since  July   15.    They  relented 
and  recast  their  votes  for  the  cigarettes. 

While  waiting  for  Harry,  we  kept  the  lone  ticket-taker 
company.  "I'd  sure  like  to  go  to  New  York,"  he  declared. 
"I'd  like  to  go  to  college  and  study  to  be  an  engineer,  but — " 
he  sighed,  "I  can't  afford  it."  He  was  twenty  years  old.  He 
would  be  eligible  for  a  war.  How  did  he  feel  about  it?  He 
coughed,  a  rasping  shaking  cough  when  he  laughed,  and 
started  to  answer  the  question.  Finally  he  said,  "I  don't  have 
to  worry  about  that.  They  wouldn't  take  me  to  war.  I've 
got  t.  b.  I'm  safe." 

When  Harry  Martin  came  out  of  the  show,  he  gave  us 
some  more  NAMES,  told  us  he  had  to  fly  to  Chicago  that  night 
for  a  Guild  meeting  and  hurried  away  to  review  two  more 
shows.  We  began  the  search  for  some  hospitality,  but  not 
finding  any,  decided  to  learn  about  politics  in  the  state. 

"Crump  is  boss  of  this  town  and  this  state,"  one  of  the 
NAMES,  a  schoolteacher,  told  us.  She  asked  us  not  to  publish 
the  name,  because  she  would  lose  her  job.  Huge  outdoor 
signs  over  the  city  advertised  Mr.  Crump's  interests  as  an 
insurance  broker  and  investment  manager  but  said  nothing 
about  his  political  activities.  So  the  schoolteacher  gave  us 
that  information. 

Boss  Crump  had  once  held  the  offices  of  Mayor  and  Con- 
gressman from  this  district.  Now  he  was  the  power  behind 
all  important  offices  in  the  state.  Since  1905  he  had  won 
twenty  elections.  Later  we  were  to  read  how  he  ran  for 
Mayor,  won  the  office  and  after  two  minutes  turned  over  the 
job  to  one  of  his  satellites. 

John  Rust  lived  in  Memphis.  His  name  had  meant  little 
to  us  until  we  began  to  hear  tales  from  the  cotton  pickers 
about  his  monstrous  machine.  The  inventor  of  the  me- 
chanical cotton  picking  machine  was  not  at  home,  so  we 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  283 

interviewed  his  wife,  a  stocky  black-haired  woman  about 
thirty-five  years  old.  In  a  large  room  with  two  desks,  we 
learned  about  the  cotton  picker.  Pictures  of  Rust  and  his 
brother  before  models  of  their  machine  covered  the  walls. 

Two  million  cotton  pickers  will  be  thrown  out  of  work 
when  and  if  the  cotton  picker  is  placed  on  the  market  on  an 
extensive  scale.  The  Rusts  didn't  like  the  idea  of  their  inven- 
tion putting  so  many  people  out  of  work;  so  they  established 
the  Rust  Foundation,  proposing  to  educate  the  tenants  and 
pickers  for  other  work.  But  the  picker  sold  for  $2,500  with  a 
tractor.  Only  the  rich  farmers,  the  big  planters,  could  buy  it. 
The  big  farmer  could  sell  his  cotton  at  a  far  lower  price  than 
the  small  farmer,  because  his  costs  would  not  include  wages 
for  pickers.  Mrs.  Rust  spoke  seriously  to  us.  "That  would 
tend  to  drive  the  small  farmer  out  of  business,  and  the  big 
farmers  would  get  bigger,  growing  into  monopolies  as  they 
gobbled  up  more  and  more  small  farmers  who  could  not 
afford  to  buy  the  mechanical  picker." 

Therefore,  the  Rust  Foundation  proposed  to  prevent  all 
these  dire  results.  It  called  for  a  diversification  of  farming 
so  that  the  South  would  not  be  dependent  on  cotton  alone. 
It  proposed  co-operative  farms  where  the  displaced  pickers 
and  tenants  could  work  the  land  together  or  share  the, 
machine  with  each  other.  "But  the  only  way  we  can  ever 
solve  this  contradiction  of  a  wonderful  invention  bringing 
such  things  as  unemployment,"  concluded  Mrs.  Rust  with  a 
sigh,  "will  be  when  we  have  a  socialist  society.  Somehow 
new  inventions  do  all  the  wrong  things  in  our  present 
society." 

Arkansas  lay  across  the  river  from  Memphis.  Where  the 
Wolf  joined  the  Mississippi,  a  long,  tall  bridge  spanned  the 
water.  We  stood  on  the  eastern  bank  and  wondered  what 
lay  on  the  western  side.  The  rain  started  again.  River  boats 


284  The  "Argonauts" 

laden  with  lumber,  cotton  and  coal  were  anchored  at  shore. 
The  levees  along  the  bank  recalled  the  floods  we  had  read 
about  in  the  papers. 

Before  leaving,  we  decided  to  visit  Arkansas  and  add 
another  state  to  our  already  large  collection.  Determining 
first  that  we  did  not  have  to  pay  a  toll,  we  crossed  the  bridge 
and  looked  at  Arkansas.  Stevedores,  like  those  in  the  state 
across  the  bridge,  loaded  river  boats  with  cotton  bales  and 
large  packing  crates.  On  this  side  of  the  bank  too,  boatfuls 
of  cotton  and  coal  waited.  Disappointed,  we  returned  to 
Tennessee  in  less  than  five  minutes. 

The  rain  followed  us  through  the  state.  Sixty  miles  from 
Nashville  we  stopped  for  hot  coffee  and  sandwiches.  We  all 
had  colds.  The  tea  room  looked  cheerful  and  bright  as  we 
came  out  of  the  rainy  midday  darkness.  The  room  was 
crowded  and  filled  with  talk  and  smoke.  A  heavy  man,  his 
hat  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  equally  heavy 
woman  sat  opposite  us  placidly  chewing  corn  on  the  cob. 
Three  truck  drivers  at  the  table  on  our  other  side  were 
lunching  over  juicy  steaks,  cutting  and  eating  noisily,  and 
talking  at  the  same  time.  "I  still  don't  like  this  special  session 
of  Congress,"  the  smallest  of  the  three  truck  drivers  said, 
between  mouthfuls.  "Once  we  start  selling  to  them  armies, 
we're  gonna  have  to  send  our  own  armies  over  to  collect." 

We  ordered  cheese  sandwiches  and  coffee.  "Making  up 
for  the  Civil  War,"  grumbled  George  as  he  paid  the  exorbi- 
tant bill. 

The  rain  came  down  harder  as  we  pushed  farther  inland. 
We  put  on  our  coats  and  huddled  together  in  the  car.  The 
dampness  seemed  to  push  our  colds  farther  down  our  throats. 
We  crossed  the  Tennessee  River  and  came  through  squalid 
slums  into  smoky  Nashville.  We  headed  immediately  for 
the  Presbyterian  Building,  where  the  offices  of  the  League 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  285 

of  Young  Southerners  were  located.  It  was  late  Saturday 
afternoon.  The  office  was  closed.  We  had  one  other  NAME 
in  Nashville — Arthur  G.  Price,  Jr.  We  didn't  know  who 
or  what  he  was.  We  were  broke  in  a  strange  city  and  had  to 
wait  for  a  check  from  our  publisher.  If  this  one  NAME  could 
not  help  us.  ...  We  called  up  and  he  told  us  to  come  right 
over.  It  took  us  about  an  hour  to  find  the  address.  A  young 
Negro  boy  greeted  us  eagerly.  "Well,  there  are  five  of  you. 
Come  in."  Arthur  took  our  coats,  led  us  into  the  large  living 
room  and  introduced  us  to  his  father. 

"All  five  of  you  from  New  York?"  questioned  the  elder 
Price.  "My!  Have  you  had  dinner  yet?  Well,  do  you  like 
steak?  I'll  run  out  and  get  it  while  you  wash  up.  Where 
are  you  staying?  Why  don't  you  stay  here ?  We  have  a  large 
house,  plenty  of  room."  Just  like  that  were  we  fed  and 
housed.  We  had  found  real  Southern  hospitality. 

"Arthur,"  began  George  after  we  had  washed  and  put  on 
clean  clothes,  "can  you  tell — " 

"Don't  call  me  Arthur,"  said  our  young  Negro  friend. 
"Everybody  calls  me  Peter." 

"Okay,  Peter,  we'd  like  to  know  something  about  Negro 
young  people  down  here.  What  do  they  do  for  jobs?" 

Peter  turned  on  the  table  lamp,  for  the  room  was  growing 
dark  rapidly.  He  couldn't  have  been  more  than  twenty  years 
old,  yet  deep  lines  had  formed  in  his  brow.  He  was  light- 
skinned,  with  close-cropped  hair  and  a  slow  easy  way  of 
speaking.  He  told  us  his  father  worked  in  the  Negro  bank, 
and  that  he  went  to  Fisk  University.  Of  the  150,000  people 
in  Nashville,  50,000  were  Negroes.  "The  Negroes  work  in 
the  fertilizer  plants  and  in  the  building  trades  where  they 
belong  to  a  union  separate  from  the  white  union.  They  find 
jobs  as  porters  and  as  teachers  in  the  Negro  schools.  But 
they're  not  employed  in  the  textile  mills  around  here." 


286  The  "Argonauts" 

"Why  not?" 

Carefully  he  traced  the  rise  of  the  textile  industry  in  the 
South.  When  industry  developed  after  the  Civil  War,  both 
black  and  white  workers  were  employed  in  the  mills.  "But 
the  bosses  didn't  want  the  black  and  white  workers  to  have 
any  common  ground  for  unity,"  Peter  continued,  "so  they 
raised  the  barrier  of  color  by  hiring  only  white  workers. 
Now  they  threaten  the  white  workers  with  dismissal  if  the 
whites  try  to  organize  a  union,  and  they  say  they'll  replace 
them  with  black  workers.  In  this  way,  they  keep  alive  race 
hatred,  because  it's  useful  to  them." 

After  dinner,  Peter  took  us  to  the  home  of  Professor 
Addison  T.  (TufTy)  Cutler,  head  of  the  Economics  Depart- 
ment at  Fisk  University,  a  private  institution  where  both 
Negro  and  white  instructors  were  employed.  We  gathered 
around  a  roaring  fireplace  with  Tuffy  and  his  wife,  Ruth, 
who  looked  like  a  college  student — corduroy  skirt,  sweater 
rolled  to  elbows,  anklets  and  saddle  oxfords.  Others  who 
came  over  in  the  course  of  the  evening  included  Lewis 
Wade  Jones,  Negro  instructor  in  sociology,  Dave  Robison, 
the  music  librarian,  and  his  wife  Naomi,  and  Eli  Marx, 
psychology  instructor.  Judge,  the  Cutler's  Scotty  dog,  took 
up  the  last  available  inch  of  space  in  the  crowded  living 
room. 

There  was  no  color  line  here.  We  talked  about  it,  but  it 
did  not  exist  in  this  room.  We  were  a  dozen  human  beings 
with  common  interests.  And  we  felt,  as  we  listened  to  Lewis 
and  Peter  explain  the  problems  of  their  race,  that  we  were 
learning  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives  about  the  Negro  prob- 
lem as  a  human  problem.  Back  in  New  York,  we  all  had 
been  opposed  to  race  prejudice,  to  discrimination  against 
Negroes.  But  the  "Negro  problem"  had  been  something  in 
a  book,  a  theory  to  talk  about  and  understand.  Now  we 


"The  South,  Sub  .  .  ."  287 

began  to  know  the  Negro  as  a  human  being,  to  find  in  Lewis 
and  Peter  the  same  goodness  of  all  the  new  friends  we  were 
making  throughout  the  country. 

"I  never  rode  on  a  streetcar,"  declared  Peter,  "until  I  was 
fifteen.  My  father  was  once  insulted  by  a  streetcar  con- 
ductor, and  since  then  he's  never  been  on  one.  He  didn't  let 
us  ride  on  them  until  we  were  old  enough  to  decide  for 
ourselves  whether  we  wanted  to  or  not.  You  see,"  he  ex- 
plained, "when  whites  get  on  a  streetcar,  they  aren't  sup- 
posed to  sit  behind  a  Negro.  Once  I  was  riding  on  a  car, 
and  a  Negro  behind  me  got  off,  leaving  the  only  empty  seat 
in  the  car.  A  white  man  got  on  and  asked  me  to  move  back. 
I  wouldn't  do  it.  The  conductor  stopped  the  car  and  called 
a  cop,  and  he  told  me  to  move  back.  I  just  got  of?  the  car. 
I  won't  move  back  an  inch  for  any  of  them." 

We  talked  late  into  the  night  and  promised  to  come  back 
to  talk  some  more.  Next  day,  Sunday,  we  went  to  the  non- 
sectarian  services  at  the  Fisk  University  chapel.  White  and 
black  sat  side  by  side  listening  to  the  sermon  on  the  brother- 
hood of  man — "He  that  hateth  his  brothers  is  in  darkness 
and  walketh  in  darkness  .  .  ." 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days,  we  did  Nashville 
thoroughly.  Tex  Dobbs  and  Jim  Anderson  showed  us  the 
high  spots — spacious  Vanderbilt  University,  where  we 
talked  with  student  leaders  about  the  League  of  Young 
Southerners. 

Tex  took  us  to  the  movies,  and  the  Robisons  took  us  to 
dinner  in  what  used  to  be  Andrew  Jackson's  stable.  Peter 
Price  invited  us  to  a  dance  at  Fisk,  where  a  swing  band  kept 
us  stepping  with  the  students  until  midnight.  White  and 
black  don't  dance  together  in  the  South,  unless  they  are 
on  private  property.  Fisk  was  private  property.  We  danced 
with  Negroes  as  we  had  done  with  other  friends  at  many 


288  The  "Argonauts" 

college  dances  for  four  years.  We  met  students  who  wanted 
to  be  doctors,  teachers,  social  workers,  journalists  and  engi- 
neers. They  didn't  know  what  would  happen  after  they 
received  their  degrees,  but  meanwhile  they  were  studying 
and  hoping  ...  just  as  we  had  studied  and  hoped. 

We  liked  the  people  we  met  in  Nashville — so  well  that  we 
decided  to  use  the  city  as  a  base  for  our  trip  throughout  the 
deep  South.  When  our  publisher  sent  another  check  to  pull 
us  out  of  Nashville,  we  said  temporary  good-bys  to  the 
Cutlers,  Robisons  and  League  of  Young  Southerners  and 
headed  down  toward  Alabama  and  Georgia. 

As  Helen  got  into  the  car,  she  ripped  her  skirt  on  the  type- 
writer. We  stopped  in  the  center  of  town  while  she  looked 
up  a  local  seamstress,  Mrs.  Timberlake.  Six  middle-aged 
women  sat  about  the  small  shop  talking.  A  woman  wearing 
a  tall  hat  with  an  equally  tall  blue  feather  was  saying,  "I'd 
do  anything  to  keep  our  boys  in  America.  We  can't  let  them 
die  in  another  useless  war.  If  all  us  mothers  would  get 
together  and  say,  'We  won't  let  our  sons  be  killed,'  I  bet 
they'd  have  to  listen  to  us." 

Helen  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  the  war  in  Europe. 
"You're  a  stranger  here,  that  right?" 

"Right,"  said  Helen. 

"I  can  always  tell,"  said  the  lady  with  the  blue  feather, 
"because  I've  never  seen  you  here  before,  and  besides  you 
talk  different.  Well,"  she  cleared  her  throat,  "let  me  tell  you 
something.  The  biggest  liars  in  the  world  are  the  Nashville 
papers.  They  make  it  seem  like  we  was  all  taking  sides  in 
the  war  and  wanting  to  help  England.  You  can't  believe 
what  you  read  in  the  papers.  Let  me  tell  you,  we  mothers 
think  different."  She  looked  at  the  other  women  in  the 
room,  and  they  nodded. 

The  seamstress  came  over  to  help  Helen  with  her  skirt. 


"The  South,  Suh  .  .  ."  289 

"Will  you  have  your  tail  in  or  out?"  she  asked.  Without 
giving  Helen  a  chance  to  look  at  her  blouse,  she  tucked  the 
ends  into  the  skirt.  "You'd  better  keep  it  in;  you're  in  the 
South  now." 

The  lady  in  the  blue  hat  and  the  others  laughed  in  a 
friendly  way  as  Helen  hurried  out  to  meet  the  others. 


Chapter  10   "GOING  AGAINST 
THE  WIND" 


$  The  deep  South,  the  reality  in  the  stretch  of  land  between 
Nashville  and  Atlanta,  knocked  all  our  preconceived  ideas 
into  a  cocked  hat.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  our  ideas 
about  our  country  and  people  had  not  jibed  with  the  reality 
we  saw  and  experienced.  When  we  started  out  to  discover 
America,  we  had  an  idea  of  the  American  farmer  as  a 
rugged,  hearty  individual  working  the  land  he  owned.  In 
most  cases  we  found  him  poor  and  landless,  a  tenant  or 
sharecropper  or  migratory  worker.  We  had  a  concept  of 
American  opportunity  for  education  and  jobs,  of  the 
American  standard  of  living,  of  American  democracy. 
Everywhere  we  found  unemployment.  We  saw  homes  with- 
out electric  lights  and  toilets  and  beds.  We  remembered  the 
faces  of  hungry  people  in  Ohio,  California,  Texas.  We 
found  disease  and  illiteracy. 

Back  in  New  York  people  wrote  essays  and  editorials 
about  "hungry  people."  We  wondered  if  they  had  ever 
seen  them.  The  sight  of  hungry  people  had  shaken  us. 

290 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  291 

"Have  you  ever  been  hungry?"  John  Steinbeck  had  asked, 
and  that  thought  was  in  our  minds  when  we  saw  the  hungry 
people  in  America.  An  idea  of  a  hungry  person  was  dif- 
ferent from  the  reality,  and  we  had  never  experienced  the 
reality.  We  only  looked  at  it.  But  looking  and  thinking 
made  us  wonder.  Why  didn't  our  concepts  of  America,  the 
ideas  we  had  gleaned  from  books,  classrooms,  newspapers, 
radio  and  the  moving  pictures  jibe  with  the  reality? 

We  had  an  idea  that  the  South  was  a  flat,  sandy  wasteland 
broken  by  large  patches  of  cotton  and  swamps.  What  we 
saw  of  Arizona,  New  Mexico,  Texas  and  Louisiana  partly 
matched  that  picture.  But  Tennessee,  Georgia,  Alabama 
and  Kentucky  knocked  the  idea  out  of  our  heads.  We  found 
magnificent  land,  mountainous  and  forested  and  rich, 
equalling  and  often  surpassing  the  beauty  and  wealth  of  the 
Pacific  Coast  states. 

We  sped  in  a  direct  line  toward  Birmingham.  A  thick 
blanket  of  green  grass  covered  the  round  smooth  Tennessee 
hills.  Along  the  way  we  saw  the  "American  farmer"  and  his 
family,  standing  near  their  rotting  shacks.  The  men  stood 
silently,  their  round,  bony  shoulders  bent,  their  faces  long 
and  thin.  Their  wives  held  babies  on  their  arms  and  stared 
as  our  new  streamlined  car  passed  by.  Their  children  turned 
old  wrinkled  little  faces  in  our  direction. 

Which  was  out  of  place  in  this  beautiful  area,  the  rich  land 
or  the  poor  people  ?  At  long  intervals,  a  clean,  white  planta- 
tion mansion  arose  to  match  the  wealth  of  the  surrounding 
land.  The  main  road  took  us  close  to  these  spotless  colonial 
homes,  but  a  narrow  dirt  side  road  took  us  behind  the  scenes 
cursory  travelers  view.  Hidden  from  the  main  road,  the  real 
poverty  and  hunger  appeared,  the  faces  thinner  and  more 
despairing,  the  almost  naked  children  sitting  quietly  on  the 
green  grass,  the  decrepit  shacks  even  more  decrepit.  There 


292  The  "Argonauts" 

comes  a  point  when  any  description  of  all  this  must  take  the 
form  of  comparatives  and  superlatives.  The  bad  could  be 
seen  on  the  main  highway,  the  worst  lay  hidden  on  the  side 
roads. 

Back  on  the  state  highway,  Mel  slowed  the  car  as  we 
came  up  behind  two  dozen  cows  jogging  along  at  a  leisurely 
pace  near  the  Tennessee-Alabama  state  line.  A  young  boy 
on  a  bicycle  who  was  rounding  them  up  and  marching 
them  home,  maneuvered  the  cows  off  the  road  slowly  and 
without  concern. 

The  Alabama  boundary  line  changed  nothing  in  this 
panorama  of  contradiction,  of  natural  beauty  and  depressing 
poverty.  Cotton  fields  appeared.  We  saw  the  families  at 
work — mothers,  fathers,  girls  and  boys — dragging  faded 
gunny  sacks  thrown  around  their  bodies  as  they  moved 
from  one  plant  to  the  next. 

As  we  neared  Birmingham,  large  mills  and  factories 
appeared,  and  signs  announcing  the  T.V.A.  dams  dotted  the 
highway.  We  had  not  expected  to  find  industrial  activity  in 
Alabama,  for  our  idea  of  the  South  had  been  cotton.  We 
could  hardly  see  the  outline  of  the  buildings  through  the 
smoke  haze.  A  few  people  moved  slowly  and  silently 
through  the  dark  streets.  We  crawled  past  steel  mills,  slums 
and  huge  silent  factories.  A  lighted  restaurant  across  from 
the  post  office  reminded  us  we  had  not  eaten  since  noon. 

Mr.  George  Kontos,  as  round  as  he  was  tall,  owned  the 
restaurant  and  served  us  himself.  As  we  sat  down  to  our 
meat  and  cabbage,  he  watched  us  with  dark  beady  eyes  set 
deep  in  his  heavy  jowled  face,  and  told  us  his  story.  He  was 
known  as  the  "Lamb  Bone  King  of  Birmingham."  A  student 
of  world  affairs,  his  only  guide  was  an  old  bone  taken  from 
a  lamb.  With  this,  he  forecast  the  destinies  of  nations.  On 
the  wall  in  a  black  frame  hung  a  newspaper  article  about 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  293 

Mr.  Kontos.  It  told  how  the  Lamb  Bone  King  had  predicted 
the  Italian  invasion  of  Ethiopia,  the  Sino-Japanese  war,  the 
German  annexation  of  Austria  and  Czechoslovakia. 

"Have  you  predicted  anything  about  the  war  in  Europe?" 
asked  Joe.  "Who  will  win?" 

Mr.  Kontos  took  his  lamb  bone  and  held  it  up  to  the  light. 
Through  the  center  of  the  marrow,  he  explained,  he  could 
see  red  spots,  signifying  war.  "We  will  have  to  wait,"  he  de- 
clared in  his  difficult  English.  "The  lamb  bone  look  like 
America  go  into  the  war."  We  asked  how  and  why  we 
would  get  into  the  war,  and  how  we  could  keep  out.  Mr. 
Kontos  didn't  know;  all  he  knew  was  what  the  lamb  bone 
told  him. 

The  next  morning  we  rode  around  Birmingham.  Slums 
seemed  to  make  up  half  the  city,  ramshackle  wooden  houses, 
diseased  and  rotten.  There  were  white  slums  and  black 
slums,  and  the  black  were,  as  usual,  a  trifle  worse  than  the 
white.  Fire  in  one  of  these  wooden  shacks  would  destroy 
the  whole  area,  black  and  white.  The  real-estate  companies, 
we  learned,  maintained  uniformly  high  rents  on  all  these 
houses.  They  had  fought  all  attempts  to  put  up  housing 
projects,  and  in  one  instance  they  had  lost.  The  government 
housing  project  in  the  Negro  section  of  Birmingham  con- 
sisted of  a  number  of  pretty  brick  houses  built  in  circular 
fashion  to  form  a  court.  A  recreation  hall  for  meetings, 
dances  and  games  adjoined  the  court.  Rents  for  these  clean, 
well-built  homes  were  no  higher  than  rents  for  the  broken- 
down  shacks. 

"These  gov'nment  homes  sure  is  nice,"  a  frail  old  Negro 
lady  told  us  as  we  surveyed  the  project.  "Kind  of  hard  to 
pay  for,  though.  When  we  git  work,  it  ain't  so  bad.  But 
when  we  don't  work  reg'lar  .  .  ."  Her  sentence  petered  out 
and  she  shook  her  head. 


294  The  "Argonauts" 

"Housing"  had  been  an  idea  to  us,  an  item  in  the  federal 
budget,  an  appropriation  to  be  replaced  in  a  few  months  in 
President  Roosevelt's  budget  by  money  for  guns  and  battle- 
ships. 

The  NY  A  project  in  the  Slossfield  Health  center  was 
another  such  item.  Here,  on  the  site  of  a  former  dump, 
Negro  boys  and  girls  were  building  cots  and  chairs  and 
weaving  blankets  for  children  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
young  people  on  the  project  had  constructed  bedrooms, 
kitchen,  library  and  playroom  for  their  own  use.  The  girls 
were  trained  to  do  housework  and  the  boys  for  general  gar- 
den, maintenance  and  shop  jobs.  Many  Negro  families  tried 
to  get  their  unemployed  children  on  the  project,  but  there 
was  room  for  only  250  boys  and  girls.  "We  try  to  place  our 
young  people  in  regular  jobs,"  declared  Mrs.  Venice  Spraggs, 
state- wide  director  for  Negro  NYA  projects,  "but  it's  terribly 
difficult.  It's  relatively  easy  to  talk  about  education  and  cul- 
ture, but  I  say  we  must  support  that  culture  by  having  jobs 
for  our  young  people,  both  Negro  and  white."  Then  she  told 
us  how  Jim  Crow — the  segregation  of  Negroes  from  whites 
in  all  public  places — had  received  a  strong  blow  in  Birming- 
ham when  the  well-known  Negro  band  leader,  Jimmy 
Lunceford,  came  to  the  city.  Previously,  Negroes  had  not 
been  permitted  to  dance  in  the  municipal  hall,  but  the 
barrier  was  broken  when  Lunceford  came  to  town.  "I  went 
to  that  dance,"  she  recalled,  her  eyes  shining.  "It  was  mag- 
nificent. We  had  a  real  good  time.  It  was  really  a  great 
victory." 

Mrs.  Spraggs  gave  us  the  name  of  another  leader  of  the 
Southern  Negro  Youth  Congress  in  Birmingham — Hartford 
Knight.  As  we  neared  his  office,  in  one  of  the  main  buildings 
of  the  town,  a  group  of  young  men,  both  black  and  white, 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  295 

approached  us,  singing  new  words  to  an  old  tune:  "The 
CIO's  in  Dixie,  hurray!  hurray!" 

Knight  talked  with  us  about  Negroes  in  labor  unions. 
Formerly  a  miner,  he  was  the  regional  representative  of  the 
United  Mine  Workers  of  America.  His  short-cropped  hair 
revealed  a  high  forehead  under  tightly  drawn  skin  the  color 
of  dark  steel.  "Of  the  22,000  organized  members  of  the 
United  Mine  Workers  in  Alabama,"  he  declared  in  his 
strong  deep  voice,  "half  are  Negroes." 

"Are  both  Negro  and  white  workers  in  the  same  union?" 
asked  Mel.  "People  say  you  can't  organize  both  in  the  same 
union." 

"Which  people  say?"  Knight  smiled,  lifting  his  eyebrows. 
"I  know  that's  what  employers  say.  Keep  Negro  and  white 
workers  apart  and  they  can  be  played  off  against  each  other 
and  never  win  any  gains  from  the  bosses.  Well,  the  CIO 
showed  them.  We're  six  years  old  now.  The  CIO  doesn't 
stand  for  any  discrimination.  We  believe  wages  should  be 
paid  for  the  work  a  man  does,  not  for  the  color  of  his  skin. 
That's  why  the  mines  are  almost  100  per  cent  organized  in 
Alabama."  Through  the  window  of  his  office,  high  over 
Birmingham,  we  could  see  mills  blasting  smoke  from  the 
tall  stacks  to  the  sky.  "Yes,"  Knight  answered  our  question, 
"the  mine  companies  are  working  at  full  production  now, 
partly  as  a  result  of  the  European  war.  Steel  mills  now  are 
turning  out  plenty  more  than  they  have  in  the  past  few 
years." 

"Then  the  war  has  given  impetus  to  production,"  said 
George. 

Knight  smiled,  briefly,  but  not  without  bitterness.  "Our 
members  would  like  to  see  that  coal  and  steel  go  for  some- 
thing better  than  munitions.  We  don't  want  to  get  involved 
in  the  war.  You  know  what  John  L.  Lewis  said  on  Labor 


296  The  "Argonauts" 

Day :  'Labor  in  America  wants  no  war  nor  any  part  of  war.* 
Well,  Lewis  certainly  expressed  our  sentiments  there." 

2 

"It's  Great  To  Be  a  Georgian!" 

The  Georgia  Power  Company  slapped  that  slogan  on 
signs  throughout  the  state,  from  the  city  slum  districts  to  the 
outlying  fields  of  the  sharecroppers.  Behind  the  slogan  we 
discovered  things  that  made  us  wonder  why  it  was  so  great. 

Back  in  Nashville,  Tex  Dobbs  had  suggested  that  when 
we  were  in  Atlanta,  we  look  up  the  Georgia  Fact  Finding 
Commission,  which  informed  the  citizens  about  their  state. 
The  Commission  studied  education,  religion,  agriculture 
and  the  like,  and  the  findings — sharp  hard  facts — were  pub- 
lished. No  Georgian  should  have  been  angered  by  the 
information.  It  came  from  committees  of  experts  in  all  fields 
surveyed.  The  Commission,  moreover,  was  backed  by  a 
large  number  of  organizations,  such  as  the  Georgia  Congress 
of  Parents  and  Teachers,  the  Rotarians,  Kiwanis,  Lions, 
American  Association  of  University  Women,  the  Federated 
Church  Women,  Federation  of  Business  and  Professional 
Women's  Clubs,  the  League  of  Women  Voters.  The  find- 
ings ran  something  like  this: 

Education:  Georgia  spends  less  per  pupil  than  any  state 
in  the  union  except  Arkansas.  Half  the  white  pupils  go 
through  the  fourth  grade  only.  Half  the  Negro  pupils  go 
through  two  years  of  grammar  school  only.  The  school  year 
is  shorter  for  Negro  children.  Teachers  in  Negro  schools 
receive  half  the  pay  of  teachers  in  white  schools. 

Agriculture:  Georgia  ranks  third  among  states  in  farm 
population,  second  in  farm  tenancy,  thirty-ninth  in  gross 
income  per  farm.  The  per  capita  income  of  the  average  rural 
dweller  is  $147  a  year. 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  297 

Religion:  Georgia  stands  among  the  top  states  in  church 
membership.  Preachers'  salaries  and  the  value  of  church 
property  average  about  half  the  national  figure. 

Politics:  One-third  of  the  population  does  not  have  the 
right  to  vote.  One  party,  the  Democratic,  runs  the  elections. 
The  poor,  both  black  and  white,  can't  vote  because  of  the 
poll  tax. 

We  found  out  about  the  Fact  Finding  movement  from 
one  of  the  persons  engaged  in  the  work,  Mrs.  Gershin.  "I 
don't  know  whether  you  Northerners  can  understand,"  she 
said  laughingly,  "but  if  Yankees  had  made  these  same  find- 
ings, the  Georgians  would  have  become  infuriated. 
Southerners  won't  take  criticism  from  Northerners,  but 
they'll  listen  to  other  Southerners.  Our  Committee  is  com- 
posed of  Southerners,  and  we're  making  the  state  take  our 
criticism." 

We  returned  to  our  car  late  at  night,  prepared  to  leave 
Atlanta.  We  found  the  handles  on  every  door  smashed. 
Evidently,  someone  had  tried  to  break  into  the  automobile, 
and  failing,  had  wrecked  the  handles  in  vengeance.  We 
couldn't  unlock  the  doors.  Disconsolate,  we  stood  and 
looked  at  our  car.  A  young  Negro  came  down  the  street. 
"What's  wrong,  boy?"  he  inquired  pleasantly. 

"Someone  tried  to  break  into  the  car.  Instead  he  broke  all 
our  handles,"  said  Mel. 

"Maybe  I  can  help  you,"  the  young  Negro  replied.  "I'm 
a  mechanic  when  I'm  lucky  enough  to  get  work."  Picking 
up  a  piece  of  wire  from  the  street,  he  formed  a  loop  and  tried 
to  catch  the  inside  handle. 

A  number  of  young  white  fellows  gathered  around.  The 
mechanic  was  the  only  Negro  present.  One  of  the  whites, 
thinking  he  had  discovered  the  method  to  open  the  car, 


298  The  "Argonauts" 

tried  to  grab  the  wire  out  of  the  young  Negro's  hand. 
"Hold  on  a  minute,  boy,"  said  the  Negro,  "I  almost  got  it 
now."  He  had  opened  the  ventilator  and  thrust  his  arm 
to  the  elbow  through  the  opening.  With  a  grin  on  his  face, 
he  turned  his  head.  "You  whites  may  be  smart,  but  us 
black  folks  is  wise." 

The  white  youths  laughed.  We  had  heard  a  lot  about 
animosity  between  black  and  white.  But  no  arguments 
started.  Working  skillfully,  the  Negro  looped  the  wire 
around  the  inside  handle.  He  tugged  hard  and  the  door 
opened.  The  small  crowd  cheered  him.  "Nice  work,  boy," 
a  white  youth  remarked  as  he  patted  the  Negro  on  the 
shoulder. 

George  dug  into  his  pocket  and  offered  some  money  to 
the  mechanic  who  accepted  with  thanks.  We  climbed  into 
the  car  and  headed  north  toward  Chattanooga.  "I  think 
that  business  about  Negroes  and  whites  hating  each  other 
naturally  is  a  lot  of  hokum,"  Mel  said  quietly,  as  he  looked 
straight  ahead  at  the  road. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we  reached  Calhoun, 
Georgia,  found  a  tourist  home  and  woke  the  landlady. 
Good-naturedly,  she  showed  us  to  our  rooms.  Next  morn- 
ing, she  woke  us.  "You  young  folks  better  get  up.  Your 
breakfast  will  get  cold." 

Over  the  eggs  and  grits,  she  talked  about  her  work.  "It's 
kind  of  hard  makin'  both  ends  meet,"  she  said.  "It  takes  a 
lot  of  money  to  send  two  boys  through  college  the  way 
Fmdoin'." 

"This  looks  like  a  tremendous  house,"  said  Joe  as  he 
struggled  to  down  a  large  mouthful.  "Was  it  built  especially 
for  tourists?" 

The  landlady  laughed.  "No,  indeed.  This  used  to  be  a 
plantation  house  from  the  old  days,  before  the  War." 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  299 

"Do  people  still  talk  much  about  the  Civil  War?"  asked 
Mel. 

"Quite  a  bit,  mostly  the  old  folks  though.  Have  you  read 
that  book  about  the  South,  Gone  With  the  Wind?"  She 
began  to  gather  up  the  dishes.  "Now  there's  a  fine  book, 
shows  you  the  way  the  South  used  to  be  in  the  good  old 
days.  The  people  who  used  to  own  this  plantation  house — 
they  were  rich  folks — used  to  tell  me  when  I  was  just  a 
little  girl  how  the  War  destroyed  everythin'  that  was  good 
in  the  South."  She  sighed.  "War  always  destroys  good 
things.  It  looks  like  they're  startin'  a  real  war  over  in 
Europe  now."  She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "I  don't  want 
to  see  my  two  boys  go  to  war." 

We  left  Calhoun  and  sped  north.  Cotton  bedspreads, 
aprons  and  tablecloths  began  to  appear  strung  out  on  lines. 
We  stopped  at  a  small  shack  near  the  roadside.  A  line  of 
bedspreads  stretched  from  one  end  of  the  house  to  the 
other.  Inside,  a  boy  about  thirteen  stood  behind  a  rudely 
rigged-up  counter.  He  told  us  he  took  care  of  the  "stoh" 
while  his  father  and  mother  worked  in  the  near-by  cotton 
mills.  His  name  was  Lee.  School  closed  early  so  that  Lee 
and  other  children  might  help  their  parents.  Lee  also 
looked  after  the  adjoining  one-acre  cotton  farm.  His  par- 
ents together  earned  less  than  ten  dollars  a  week  in  the 
mill.  His  thin  pale  face  had  brightened  when  we  entered. 
"I'm  sorta  gen'l  manager  'round  here,"  he  said.  "D'ya 
wanta  buy  some  stuff  ?"  We  bought  some  aprons  and  a 
jacket.  The  bill  totaled  $1.25.  "That  jacket  would  cost 
three  or  foh'  dollahs  up  No'th,"  the  lad  told  us. 

Into  Chattanooga,  Tennessee — "city  above  the  clouds" — 
we  rolled.  Huge  signs  on  the  roadways  marked  the  paths 
to  the  sites  of  the  famous  Civil  War  battles.  Now  only 
peace  seemed  to  rule  over  the  bronze-colored  Tennessee 


300  The  "Argonauts" 

hills.  History  had  to  be  bought  here;  the  battlefields  could 
be  seen  only  by  those  with  the  price  of  admission. 

We  drove  steadily  north.  A  mile  out  of  the  small  coun- 
try town  of  Monteagle,  we  came  to  a  large  farmhouse 
which  had  been  converted  into  a  school.  Set  deep  in  Ten- 
nessee hills,  almost  hidden  by  thick  trees,  this  was  no  or- 
dinary schoolhouse.  It  was  the  famous  Highlander  Folk 
School. 

The  term  was  finished  when  we  got  to  Highlander,  but 
a  few  of  the  teachers  and  students  were  still  there.  They 
showed  us  around  the  big  farmhouse — a  comfortable  library 
with  thousands  of  books,  a  big  eating  hall,  a  clean  well- 
equipped  kitchen  and  rows  of  cots  in  the  mountain-aired 
dormitories.  From  all  over  the  South,  from  San  Antonio  to 
Lexington,  Kentucky  and  up  to  High  Point,  North  Caro- 
lina, labor  unions  sent  their  members  to  Highlander.  The 
school  taught  workers  how  to  organize  unions  and  become 
leaders. 

"We  were  expecting  you,"  said  Bill  Buttrick  softly.  "We 
heard  you  were  traveling  around  and  expected  you  to  drop 
in."  He  was  young,  slender,  soft-spoken.  He  had  studied 
at  Asheville,  Duke  and  Brookwood  Labor  College,  and 
now  he  taught  at  Highlander.  Others  who  welcomed  us 
included  Claudia  Lewis,  the  nursery-school  director,  who 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Oregon;  Mary  Lawrence,  a  tall 
girl  with  a  shock  of  blonde  hair  that  kept  falling  across  her 
forehead,  a  graduate  of  Duke  and  now  a  Highlander  com- 
munity worker;  pretty  Rosanne  Walker,  a  Vassar  graduate, 
who  was  studying  trade  unionism. 

"You  sort  of  surprised  us,"  said  Rosanne.  "We  thought 
you  might  be  Dies  Committee  investigators." 

"Has  he  been  around  to  bother  you?"  asked  Helen. 

"Sure.    His  committee  workers  didn't  announce  them- 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  301 

selves  though.  They  just  snooped  around  looking  for  'reds' 
and  of  course  finding  everything  we  do  is  'red.' " 

"That's  because  we're  developing  some  of  the  finest  labor 
leaders  in  the  South,"  Bill  explained.  "Dies  is  just  a  front 
for  the  bosses  who  hate  labor  unions.  He  does  the  smear 
work  for  them." 

These  were  the  people  we  had  once  seen  in  a  moving 
picture  called  People  of  the  Cumberland,  showing  the  activi- 
ties at  Highlander.  It  was  a  new  type  of  school,  where 
students  attended  informal  classes  and  discussed  their  prob- 
lems under  the  leadership  of  an  instructor.  Besides  going 
to  regular  classes,  the  Southern  workers  also  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  visit  union  meetings  near  by.  They  studied  music 
as  well  as  picket  lines  and  spent  plenty  of  time  folk  dancing, 
hiking,  playing  baseball. 

"But  why  a  school  only  for  Southerners?" 

Mary  Lawrence  laughed  and  threw  back  her  head  to  keep 
the  blonde  hair  out  of  her  eyes.  "You  Northerners,"  she  said, 
"must  learn  that  Southerners  want  their  own  people  telling 
them  what's  right  and  what's  wrong.  That's  the  main  pur- 
pose of  this  school — to  turn  out  Southern  labor  leaders." 

And  that  was  a  major  lesson  we  learned  throughout  the 
South.  The  rumblings  of  change  from  Atlanta  to  Houston 
demanded  articulation  by  young  and  courageous  leaders, 
Southern  leaders.  Most  of  those  at  Highlander  were  no 
older  than  ourselves. 

3 

Outside  of  Crossville,  a  group  of  brick  farmhouses  con- 
trasted sharply  with  the  shabby  wooden  shacks  we  had  seen 
throughout  the  state.  We  stopped  and  investigated.  Mr. 
Wakefield,  an  occupant  of  one  of  the  pretty  houses,  showed 
us  about.  "We  rent  these  homes  from  the  Farm  Security 


302  The  "Argonauts" 

Administration,"  he  said.  "We  pay  ten  dollars  a  month 
rent.  It  sure  feels  good  to  be  rid  of  our  old  worm-eaten 
shanties."  Equipped  with  a  large  fireplace  in  the  spacious 
living  room,  a  refrigerator,  a  gas  stove  and  electricity,  the 
house  was  the  city-dweller's  concept  of  what  life  in  the 
country  ought  to  be  like. 

Mr.  Wakefield  looked  around  the  room  with  an  expres- 
sion of  mixed  worry  and  satisfaction.  "I'd  sure  hate  to 
move  out,  but  even  that  ten  dollars  is  hard  to  pay  when 
the  mills  shut  down  and  I  can't  get  work.  Most  folks  roun' 
here  go  back  to  the  Revolution."  He  grinned  quizzically. 
"But  sayin'  your  folks  come  from  the  first  Americans  don' 
help  any  when  you  try  to  buy  bread  in  the  store  or  when 
you  can't  pay  the  rent." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  reached  Knoxville,  a  clean- 
looking  college  town.  With  a  nostalgic  twinge,  we  read 
the  large  posters  announcing  the  football  schedule.  We  saw 
the  University  of  Tennessee,  the  buildings  bounded  by  ten- 
nis courts  crowded  with  white-clad  players.  Students  in 
bright-colored  skirts  and  slacks,  blouses  and  jackets  pa- 
raded in  twos  and  threes  across  the  campus. 

A  battered  coupe  packed  with  seven  college  boys  pulled 
up  alongside  our  car  as  we  waited  for  a  traffic  light  to 
change. 

"H'ya,  New  York!"  one  of  the  students  wearing  a  bright 
green  sweater  called. 

"How's  Tennessee  going  to  do  on  the  gridiron?"  Joe 
called  back. 

"Rose  Bowl  for  us!"  the  other  responded  gaily,  as  his  tin 
lizzie  moved  forward  with  the  change  of  lights. 

"There  they  go  again,"  Joe  remarked,  "always  forgetting 
the  threat  of  Brooklyn  College's  powerhouse  team." 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  303 

"Ohio  U  should  be  knocking  them  over  this  year,"  Mel 
said,  gazing  dreamily  ahead  at  the  road. 

Soon,  dense  power  lines  supported  by  large  metal  poles 
began  to  line  the  roadside.  Wires  stretched  from  the  power 
lines  to  small,  infrequent  farmhouses  off  the  main  road. 
We  followed  the  maze  of  wires  into  Norris,  a  little  city 
where  we  could  distinguish  the  outlines  of  Norris  Dam 
beyond.  Although  the  dam  did  not  equal  the  immensity  of 
Grand  Coulee,  the  finished  product  seemed  to  be  much 
larger  than  the  still  incomplete  Coulee  back  in  the  North- 
west. Both  would  bring  electrical  power  and  irrigation  to 
millions  of  people.  Behind  the  massive  spillways  of  the 
dam,  tiny  speedboats  darted  around  in  the  river  carrying 
cargoes  of  pleasure-seeking  tourists.  We  could  see  where 
the  huge  rocky  hills  surrounding  the  dam  had  been  care- 
fully blasted  away,  leaving  a  basin  to  hold  the  river  in 
check. 

We  went  down  into  the  powerhouse.  In  the  anteroom  of 
the  lobby,  two  drinking  fountains  had  been  built  into 
opposite  walls.  Above  one  fountain,  the  word  WHITE  had 
been  chiseled  in  the  marble.  Above  the  opposite  fountain 
was  the  word  COLORED  ...  at  Norris  Dam  .  .  .  built  and 
owned  by  the  government  of  the  United  States. 

We  stepped  into  the  power  room  where  a  giant  generator 
monopolized  the  floor  space.  The  huge  tank-like  machine 
converted  water  power  into  electrical  power  for  the  farmers 
and  cities  in  the  area.  Science  performed  these  miracles  for 
men.  If  men  could  achieve  the  greatness  of  a  Norris  Dam, 
could  they  not  overcome  the  smallness  of  Jim  Crow? 

As  we  drew  away  from  Tennessee,  we  expected  to  see 
Kentucky  border  signs.  Instead  we  found  Virginia.  A 
little  mile-long  chunk  of  the  state  had  got  itself  mixed  up 
with  its  neighbors  here.  At  a  gas  station,  where  ten-cent 


304  The  "Argonauts'9 

cigarettes  cost  a  dime,  tax  free,  we  bought  five  packs.  This 
was  the  only  distinguishing  characteristic  of  Virginia. 

"It  would  make  us  folks  mighty  mad  if  we  had  to  pay 
some  more  taxes  on  tobacco,"  declared  the  station  attend- 
ant, "seein'  as  how  we  grow  so  much  of  the  stuff  in  this 
state.  Even  on  that  ten-cent  pack  you're  payin'  about  six 
cents  in  federal  taxes.  How'd  ya  like  to  be  payin'  four 
cents  a  pack?" 

Some  towns  in  Kentucky  reminded  us  of  Price,  Utah,  and 
Kit  Carson,  Colorado.  Wide  streets,  low-built  houses,  cars 
parked  slanting  toward  the  curb,  and  many  idle  men 
lounging  on  the  corners  gave  a  town  like  Middlesboro  a 
Western  air.  Tourist  homes,  large  colonial  models  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  supplanted  the  cabins  of  the  West. 

As  we  headed  toward  Harlan,  we  found  ourselves  in 
mountainous  and  hilly  land.  A  few  miles  below  Harlan 
we  came  upon  a  construction  gang  tearing  down  part  of  a 
mountain  side.  A  pile  of  limestone  in  the  middle  of  the 
highway  halted  all  cars.  Mel  immediately  went  to  sleep 
in  the  front  seat  while  the  rest  of  us  threw  stones  into  the 
stream  far  below.  A  dozen  young  fellows  in  khaki  uniform 
watched  us.  One  of  them  laughed  as  Joe  wound  up  for  a 
far  throw.  "You  ain't  a  Brooklyn  Dodger  now,  are  you?" 
he  called. 

"Nope,  but  I'm  from  Brooklyn,"  said  Joe.  "You  guys 
CCC?" 

A  blond-haired  youth  nodded,  waving  an  arm  in  the 
direction  of  one  of  the  mountains.  "Camp  right  up  there. 
It  stinks;  don't  come  there." 

"Why'd  you  join  then?" 

"I  was  a  miner.  Guess  all  of  us  were.  Nothing  doing. 
We  had  to  eat.  That's  why." 

"So  you  joined  the  army,"  said  Joe. 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  305 

"Oh,  no  we  didn't,"  replied  the  blond  youth.  "We  joined 
the  CCC,  and  that  ain't  the  army  as  far  as  I'm  concerned. 
My  dad  taught  me  how  to  shoot  a  gun,  and  I  don't  need 
no  fancy  officers  showin'  me  how  to  kill  folks.  Only  killin' 
I'm  interested  in  is  for  my  enemies.  And  right  now  I  ain't 
got  none." 

"If  they  try  militarizin'  the  CCC,"  another  boy  added, 
"I'm  gettin'  out." 

By  this  time  the  road  gang  had  cleared  a  passage  for  cars. 
We  woke  Mel  and  drove  toward  Harlan. 

We  knew  something  of  Harlan  and  Harlan  County's 
reputation.  From  the  coal  mines  of  Kentucky  to  the  fruit 
orchards  of  California,  from  the  news  columns  of  the  labor 
papers  to  the  files  of  the  Congressional  Record,  that  reputa- 
tion was  "Bloody  Harlan!" 

We  paraded  warily  down  the  main  street,  five  abreast. 
We  saw  no  women,  and  the  men  lining  the  curbs  and 
lounging  on  porches  stared  at  us  sullenly.  Harlan — scene  of 
bloody  encounters  between  coal  companies  and  workers 
who  tried  to  organize.  Harlan — scene  of  long  and  bitter 
family  feuds. 

A  large  building  with  a  sign  on  it  attracted  our  attention: 
LEWALLEN  HOTEL-WELCOME  COAL  OPER- 
ATORS. On  the  porch,  three  stout  men  smoking  cigars  sat 
tipped  back  in  chairs,  their  feet  resting  on  the  rail.  Across 
the  way,  a  smaller  building  had  a  sign  too:  UNITED 
MINE  WORKERS,  CIO. 

"Don't  look  now,"  George  whispered  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  mouth,  "but  they're  taking  our  pictures  with  a  movie 
camera!"  Slowly  we  shifted  our  gaze  to  the  porch  of  the 
hotel.  One  of  the  men  had  a  camera  focused  on  us.  Lillian 
cleared  her  throat  noisily.  "Well,  where'll  we  go  first,  Lew- 
alien  Hotel  or  Mine  Workers?" 


306  The  "Argonauts" 

George  looked  quickly  toward  the  hotel  porch,  where  the 
camera  was  still  focused  in  our  direction.  "Uh,  is  it  neces- 
sary to  get  both  sides  of  the  question  here?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mel.  "C'mon  let's  talk  to  one  of  the  fat 
guys  first.  Then  we  can  see  the  union." 

We  wheeled  around  and  walked  straight  toward  the 
camera.  The  man  who  had  been  taking  our  pictures  went 
inside  as  we  approached.  We  halted  at  the  porch  of  the 
hotel.  The  three  stout  men  puffed  on  their  cigars  and 
looked  at  us  without  changing  expression. 

"We're  strangers,"  began  Mel,  addressing  himself  to  all 
three.  "Can  we  get  some  information  about  this  town?" 

The  three  fat  men  rocked  back  and  forth  on  their  chairs. 
The  middle  one,  fatter  than  the  others,  shifted  the  cigar  to 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  before  replying.  "Whad'ya  want 
to  know?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  anything  about  the  town.  What  sort  of  town  it  is, 
what  the  young  people  do.  .  .  ."  replied  Mel  slowly. 

"You  from  New  York  ?  Says  so  on  your  car." 

"That's  right." 

"There's  nothin'  here  that's  your  business.  We  don't 
like  outsiders  poking  their  noses  in  our  affairs."  The  fat- 
test of  the  trio  said  this  slowly  without  abetting  the  constant 
rocking  of  his  chair.  Then  he  stopped  and  stood  up.  The 
chair  fell  over.  "Understand?"  he  asked  quietly,  his  finger- 
tips stuck  inside  his  belt.  The  other  two  rocking  back  and 
forth  watched  us  carefully. 

We  turned  around  and  walked  directly  into  the  building 
of  the  United  Mine  Workers,  CIO.  George  J.  Titler, 
strong  and  steely-looking,  restored  our  confidence.  We 
found  him  in  the  hot  and  littered  union  office.  He  was  the 
vice-president  of  the  State  Council  of  the  CIO  and  secre- 
tary of  the  district.  "That  Lewallen  Hotel  is  the  coal 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  307 

operators'  hang-out,"  he  said  in  a  slight  Scotch  accent. 
"They  don't  like  strangers  coming  into  town.  Afraid 
they'll  organize  the  union.  They  take  all  strangers'  pictures 
and  keep  them  on  record." 

Coal  miners,  thin  and  shabbily  dressed,  crowded  into  the 
small  office  as  we  talked.  We  heard  them  telling  the  union 
officials  about  their  grievances  against  the  coal  companies 
and  asking  whether  the  union  had  news  of  any  jobs  in  the 
mines.  Paul  K.  Reed,  an  international  representative  of  the 
Mine  Workers  Union,  sat  near  by,  talking  busily. 

"The  operators  own  the  Lewallen  Hotel,"  Titler  added, 
"and  they  own  all  the  newspapers  around  here.  Two  coal 
operators  are  the  heads  of  the  Republican  and  Democratic 
machines.  The  only  things  they  don't  own  around  here 
are  the  Union,  Paul  Reed  and  me." 

"Do  you  have  a  lot  of  trouble?"  Helen  asked  hesitatingly. 

"Well,  things  have  been  pretty  quiet,"  Titler  replied. 
"We  haven't  had  a  killing  in  ten  days." 

"Ten  days?" 

"Well,  maybe  eleven." 

We  thought  Titler  was  ribbing  us  in  real  cowboy  style 
but  the  men  in  the  messy  office  smiled  at  our  ignorance. 
"Guess  you  kids  don't  know  about  the  mountain  gun-law 
we  got  up  here,"  Titler  said.  "Someone  in  a  family  gets 
mad  at  someone  else  and  before  you  know  it  there's  a 
first-class  feud  going  on  and  .  .  .  well,  someone's  liable 
to  get  killed." 

"You  mean  Hatfield-McCoy  stuff?"  Joe  asked  incredu- 
lously. 

"Well,  that  was  in  West  Virginia.  Some  of  the  Hatfields, 
three  or  four  of  'em,  are  in  the  union  now.  They  haven't 
been  feudin'  since  they  joined  the  union." 

"But  now  you  take  the  Balls  and  the  Turners,"  one  of  the 


308  The  "Argonauts" 

men  put  in,  "why,  there's  twenty-five  Turners  a-lyin'  in  the 
cemetery  on  account  o'  that  feudin'." 

"Undertaking  is  one  of  the  big  businesses  in  Harlan 
County,"  Titler  continued.  "There's  a  lot  of  hot-headed- 
ness  in  these  mountains.  Lot  of  moonshining  goes  on. 
Some  of  the  stuff  they  turn  out  makes  you  blind.  The  rest 
of  it  makes  you  want  to  fight.  Those  mountain  feuds  last 
real  long  too.  Sometimes  ten  or  fifteen  years." 

Another  man  chimed  in:  "There  were  nine  dead  once't 
in  the  courthouse.  Yes,  sir!  Just  shot  it  out  over  a  lawsuit." 

"Does  that  hurt  your  union  organizing?"  George  asked. 

"Guess  it  does,  in  a  way,"  the  union  leader  answered. 
"Besides,  Harlan's  always  been  a  haven  for  scabs.  Miners 
in  other  states  who  didn't  want  to  fight  for  the  union  used 
to  come  running  down  here.  That  goes  back  a  couple  of 
generations.  Then  the  coal  operators  used  to  hire  regular 
gunmen  and  strikebreakers.  Lots  of  times  they'd  use  guys 
from  this  area — fellows  who  were  sent  up  for  moonshining 
or  killings.  Many  of  them  were  indicted  dozens  of  times 
and  never  tried.  Conditions  have  changed  for  the  better 
now.  But  there's  still  room  for  improvement." 

The  CIO  was  organizing  in  Harlan,  despite  the  coal 
owners'  terror.  "Some  of  them  are  co-operating,"  Titler  ex- 
plained, "but  others  are  bucking  like  a  mule,  trying  to 
keep  the  clutches  of  the  NLRB  off  them."  He  dug  his 
fingers  into  the  air  mockingly.  "Right  now,  the  coal  mines 
in  the  Appalachian  area  are  up  to  capacity.  But  active  union 
men  are  kept  out  in  lots  of  places.  The  companies  hire  the 
mountaineers  and  try  to  poison  their  minds  against  us." 

A  few  months  before  we  came  to  Harlan,  Governor 
Chandler  had  sent  down  the  state  troops  during  a  strike, 
opened  the  mines  and  forced  the  men  to  go  to  work,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  union  contracts  were  still  in  the  stage 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  309 

of  negotiations.  Then  in  July,  the  national  guardsmen 
fired  their  guns  point  blank  into  the  picket  lines.  Several 
men  were  killed,  among  them  a  national  guardsman. 
Others  were  wounded. 

The  coal  miners  were  men  of  hardy  stock.  Their  ances- 
tors were  the  English,  Scotch  and  Irish  who  settled  Amer- 
ica. From  North  and  South  Carolina  they  came,  pushed 
always  toward  the  frontier,  following  the  trail  blazed  by 
Daniel  Boone. 

"Now  take  a  look  at  Alex  Hampden  there,"  Titler  pointed 
to  a  young  fellow  who  grinned,  showing  prominent  buck 
teeth.  "There's  one  of  your  original  hill-billies,"  Titler  con- 
tinued. "He'd  shoot  you  dead  in  your  tracks  if  you  crossed 
him  and  wouldn't  think  much  of  it."  Hampden  grinned 
again,  his  big  buck  teeth  giving  him  an  air  of  childish  inno- 
cence. We  thought  Titler  was  pulling  our  leg  just  a  little 
too  much,  but  we  didn't  know  for  sure. 

We  returned  to  our  car,  looking  back  at  the  Lewallen 
Hotel.  The  three  stout  men  still  sat  on  the  porch  rocking. 

4 

Over  the  winding  roads  of  Kentucky's  mountains  we 
returned,  and  by  nightfall  we  had  spent  our  last  dollar  for 
gasoline  near  Knoxville.  Penniless,  we  drove  again  into 
Nashville. 

Early  the  next  morning  we  sat  about  Ruth  and  Tuffy 
Cutler's  living  room.  Judge  sat  mournfully  in  the  center 
of  the  room.  Equally  sad,  Ruth  and  Tuffy  sat  on  either 
side  of  the  Scotty  dog,  and  Dave  and  Naomi  Robison 
flanked  the  five  of  us.  We  wanted  to  leave  Nashville,  but 
we  had  not  heard  from  our  publisher.  Our  car  needed  two 
tires,  and  we  needed  money  before  we  could  leave.  So  we 
worried,  and  the  Cutlers  and  Robisons  helped  us  worry. 


310  The  "Argonauts" 

"Well,  let's  wash  the  car,"  Mel  suggested.  "No  sense  in 
sitting  around."  The  car  hadn't  been  washed  since  we  left 
Los  Angeles.  We  all  tripped  after  Mel,  following  his  direc- 
tions. After  working  three  hours,  we  had  our  pride  and 
joy  spotless  inside  and  outside.  We  were  all  ready.  .  .  . 
Then  it  started  to  rain,  and  we  had  no  place  to  shelter  the 
car. 

"That  settles  it,"  Lillian  muttered.  "I'm  going  to  call  up 
our  publisher!"  She  headed  for  the  Robison's  house  across 
the  street. 

"No,"  said  George,  "it's  not  fair  to  do  a  thing  like  that 
to  the  Robison's  telephone  bill." 

"Reverse  the  charges,"  suggested  Helen  calmly. 

"Person-to-Person  call  .  .  ."  We  had  $3.25  worth  of  time 
to  relay  our  message.  "Hello?"  said  Lillian  in  a  shaking 
voice.  "Yes,  we're  all  right  .  .  .  but  stranded  again  .  .  . 
another  fifty  dollars  .  .  .  two  tires  ...  all  we've  got  left 
are  some  tax  tokens  ...  by  airmail  today?  Swell!  Thanks! 
.  .  ."  We  all  relaxed.  "Uh  ...  by  the  way  .  .  .  sorry  we 
had  to  reverse  the  charges  on  this  call.  .  .  ." 

Before  reaching  the  Virginia  state  line,  we  came  upon 
a  dingy  black  truck.  Through  a  small  iron  grate  in  the 
rear  door  of  the  truck,  arms  with  black-striped  sleeves  hung 
out.  Black  and  white  faces  peered  at  us  from  behind  the 
bars.  Helen  smiled  and  waved  to  them.  They  just  stared 
back  at  her.  Then  a  young  Negro  smiled  and  waved  back, 
and  the  others  followed  suit  vigorously.  More  faces  ap- 
peared at  the  opening  to  see  who  was  waving  at  a  chain 
gang  in  the  South.  We  drew  alongside  the  truck  and 
passed  it.  In  the  front  a  shriveled  driver  hugged  the  wheel. 
Next  to  him  sat  a  paunchy,  hard-faced  guard,  cigar  droop- 
ing from  his  lips,  with  a  rifle  propped  upright  between  his 
knees.  It  was  not  a  movie  scene.  There  were  no  cameras. 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  311 

We  drove  swiftly,  entering  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  head- 
ing away  from  the  South,  to  the  land  where  Damn  Yankee 
was  two  words  instead  of  one.  The  Valley  was  like  a  scene 
in  technicolor. 

It  was  Friday,  October  13.  That  should  have  made  us 
cautious,  but  we  were  less  than  five  hundred  miles  from 
home  and  didn't  want  to  be  sensible.  Near  Blacksburg,  a 
young  boy  in  a  uniform  asked  us  for  a  ride.  We  had  sworn 
of!  hitchhikers  since  we  brought  Bob  Stone  to  his  Uncle  in 
Stockton.  It  had  been  a  case  of  talking  with  hitchhikers  or 
disabling  our  car,  and  we  needed  the  car.  But  this  one  was 
different;  he  had  a  uniform.  Besides,  we  would  be  return- 
ing the  car  in  a  few  days  to  Gladys.  He  was  standing  on  a 
corner,  holding  a  duffle  bag  in  one  hand  and  asking  for  a 
ride  with  a  free  thumb.  We  stopped  the  car,  piled  the 
basket  from  Mexico  with  the  breakable  pottery  on  Lillian's 
lap,  and  called  to  him.  He  tipped  his  cap,  revealing  a  close 
military  trim,  and  squeezed  into  the  rear  seat. 

"Jimmy  Ball's  my  name,"  he  said.   We  told  him  ours. 

"What  school  do  you  attend?"  asked  Helen  politely. 

"VPI— Virginia  Polytechnic  Institute." 

"Oh!    Brother  Rat!"   We  knew  our  movies. 

"No,"  he  frowned,  "you're  thinking  of  VMI  in  Lexing- 
ton. They're  our  rivals.  Their  uniforms  are  all  gray — all 
for  the  South.  We're  half  and  half,  dark  blue  jackets  for 
the  North  and  gray  trousers  with  a  dark  blue  stripe  for 
the  South.  You  know,  when  Rats  come  to  VPI  or  VMI 
from  the  North  or  from  the  East,  the  upper  classmen  ask 
them:  'Mister,  who  won  the  Civil  War?'  And  they  have  to 
answer:  'The  South,' or  else!!  I'm  not  a  Southerner  myself ; 
I'm  a  Westerner,  born  in  Cheyenne,  Wyoming.  I  guess 
that's  why  I'm  a  liberal." 

He  explained  that  his  fellow  students  called  him  a  liberal 


312  The  "Argonauts" 

because  he  talked  about  politics.  We  wondered  how  a 
military  student  felt  about  the  war.  "I'm  really  against 
war,"  Jimmy  replied.  "I  want  a  job  when  I  get  out  of 
school.  I'm  not  taking  military  to  learn  how  to  kill  other 
people.  I  want  to  be  a  chemical  engineer." 

He  removed  his  trim  military  cap  and  took  a  pack  of 
cigarettes  from  it,  after  which  he  replaced  his  cap.  Offering 
the  cigarettes  around,  he  continued,  "My  uncle's  a  major  in 
the  army.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  I've  been  going  to 
military  schools.  But  just  because  a  fellow  goes  to  military 
school  doesn't  mean  he  wants  to  be  a  soldier." 

George  drew  out  a  union  songbook  given  to  us  at  the 
Highlander  Folk  School.  We  began  to  sing  the  words 
written  to  the  tunes  of  old  ballads,  hymns  and  spirituals. 
Jimmy  knew  some  of  the  tunes  and  helped  us  sing. 

"Unions  are  okay,  I  think,"  he  answered  in  reply  to  our 
question.  "People  have  the  right  to  go  on  strike  and  organ- 
ize for  better  wages.  I'm  not  in  favor  of  all  this  labor 
violence." 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  we  reached  Lexington,  home 
of  Jimmy's  rivals,  VMI,  as  well  as  of  Washington  and  Lee 
University.  By  this  time  we  were  firm  partisans  of  VPI. 
We  walked  down  the  street  six  abreast,  our  arms  locked, 
singing  at  the  top  of  our  voices  the  VPI  battle-cry: 

Oh,  we  don't  give  a  damn 

For  the  whole  town  of  Lexington! 

Jimmy  insisted  that  we  all  have  ice-cream  sodas  "on  me." 
We  accepted.  We  appropriated  the  whole  counter  and 
clinked  our  glasses  in  a  toast  to  VPI. 

We  entered  Washington  on  a  bright,  cool  and  shiny  day. 
Our  capital  was  a  mass  of  white  stone  buildings,  a  city  of 
activity  and  importance.  But  behind  the  cold  stone  lay  the 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  3 1 3 

government  of,  by  and  for  the  people  we  had  seen  during 
the  past  three  months.  We  hurried  over  to  the  buildings 
under  the  Capitol  Dome — Congress.  Here  the  representa- 
tives of  the  Eddie  Wagners,  Herb  Marches,  Bert  Fosters, 
Ted  Langs,  Clara  Walldows,  Ray  Tillmans  and  millions  of 
others  were  supposed  to  voice  the  needs  and  wishes  of  the 
people.  Everything  we  had  seen  and  heard  from  Atlanta 
to  Grand  Coulee,  from  New  York  to  Brawley,  would  be 
found  within  these  white  stone  walls. 

War.  This  was  on  the  people's  minds.  Keep  out  of  if. 
This  was  their  desire. 

President  Roosevelt  had  called  a  special  session  of  Con- 
gress to  amend  the  Neutrality  Act.  The  President  of  the 
United  States  said  it  was  unfair  to  England  and  France  to 
refuse  them  aid.  In  the  newspapers  we  had  read  lengthy 
stories  about  the  heated  debates  in  the  Senate  Chamber. 

The  Senate  was  in  session  when  we  came  to  see  the  fire- 
works. The  gallery  was  packed.  Vice-President  Garner, 
presiding  officer  of  the  Senate,  was  not  in  the  chair.  Six 
Senators  were  in  the  Chamber: 

Rush  D.  Holt  (D),  West  Virginia,  was  poring  over  a 
thick  volume  on  his  desk,  completely  uninterested  in  the  dis- 
cussion on  the  floor. 

Arthur  H.  Vandenberg  (R),  Michigan,  marched  up  to 
the  presiding  officer's  dais  and  conferred  with  the  person 
in  the  chair. 

Robert  M.  La  Follette,  Jr.  (Prog),  Wisconsin,  entered, 
stayed  for  a  few  minutes,  left  and  reappeared. 

George  W.  Norris  (Prog  R),  Nebraska,  was  sitting  with 
his  head  supported  by  a  hand,  his  eyes  closed. 

Alben  W.  Barkley  (D),  Kentucky,  was  talking  to  the 
person  in  the  seat  next  to  his. 

Ernest  M.  Lundeen  (F-L),  Minnesota,  was  speaking  on 


314  The  "Argonauts" 

the  floor,  but  nobody  in  the  Chamber  was  listening.  Only 
the  spectators  in  the  gallery  leaned  forward  to  catch  his 
words. 

The  peace  of  America  was  at  stake.  People  all  over 
America  were  concerned  and  worried.  The  greatest  de- 
liberative body  in  the  world — one  Senator  talking  and  the 
other  five  not  even  bothering  to  listen.  Senator  Lundeen 
spoke  for  a  long  time,  saying  over  and  over  again  that  we 
must  keep  America  out  of  war,  recounting  the  war  debts 
of  the  Allies  to  the  United  States,  insisting  that  war  loans 
would  involve  us  in  the  European  war.  .  .  .  His  words 
echoed  strangely  in  the  almost  empty  Chamber.  Ninety 
vacant  seats  mocked  his  plea. 

A  short  plump  Senator  entered  the  Chamber.  We  looked 
at  the  "program"  which  the  usher  had  given  to  us,  describ- 
ing the  members  of  the  Senate  and  their  seats  in  the 
Chamber.  We  could  not  identify  the  newcomer,  who  had 
asked  Lundeen  to  yield  the  floor.  Lundeen  yielded. 

"Has  the  Senator  thought  that  if  we  aid  the  Allies  we 
might  be  able  to  get  some  of  their  possessions  in  the  West- 
ern Hemisphere — say  Bermuda  or  Labrador?" 

The  galleries  sat  up  shocked.  Talk  of  war  continued; 
nobody  mentioned  peace.  "Of  course  we've  got  to  help  the 
Allies  win,  because  their  fight  is  our  fight."  That  was  the 
tone  of  the  discussion.  People  had  told  us  again  and  again 
they  wanted  to  stay  out  of  war.  The  Special  Session  of 
Congress  was  revising  the  Neutrality  Act  to  aid  the  Allies. 
Six  Senators,  all  of  whom  had  decided  beforehand  how 
they  would  vote.  Next  day,  the  newspapers  carried  lead 
stories  about  the  "heated  debate"  in  the  session  we  had 
witnessed. 

Sunday  afternoon,  October  15,  we  set  out  on  the  last  lap 


"Going  Against  the  Wind"  315 

of  our  journey,  from  Washington  to  New  York.  We  met 
the  holiday  traffic  and  moved  impatiently  and  slowly  to- 
ward home.  Maryland.  Two  hours  to  get  out  of  Philadel- 
phia. One  little  black  bug  in  a  long,  long  string  of  little 
black,  green,  gray  and  blue  enamel  bugs.  For  two  hours  we 
fretted  as  we  traveled  at  a  snail's  pace  through  Jersey  City. 

George  struck  up  an  argument.  "Not  another  mile  do  I 
ride,"  he  insisted,  "unless  you  agree  to  drive  me  home!" 

"Do  you  mean  we  have  to  take  you  all  the  way  to  the 
Bronx?"  demanded  Helen. 

George  was  adamant.  "All  the  way  to  the  Bronx,"  he 
said. 

Mel  objected.  "I'm  tired.  I  can't  drive  all  the  way  from 
the  Bronx  to  Brooklyn  tonight."  He  looked  down  at  the 
speedometer  which  gave  us  credit  for  15,150  miles. 

"Why  can't  you  take  the  subway?"  asked  Lillian.  "I 
should  think  you'd  want  to  ride  in  a  good  old  subway 
again." 

George  had  our  last  half  dollar,  and  we  needed  it  to  get 
through  the  Holland  Tunnel.  "Well?"  he  asked. 

"All  the  way  from  the  Bronx  to  Brooklyn?"  Joe  groaned. 

All  the  way.  .  .  .  We  voted  it  so. 

From  the  New  Jersey  approach  to  the  Holland  Tunnel 
we  could  see  the  dark  silhouette  of  our  famous  skyline.  A 
high  tension  held  us,  silencing  all  talk.  Mel  broke  the  quiet 
with  a  request  for  money  to  pay  the  toll  for  the  Tunnel. 
With  a  loud  sigh,  George  took  out  the  now  well-thumbed 
little  notebook  and  wrote: 

October  75 
Holland  Tunnel 0 


Chapter  11     'WHERE  DO  WE  GO 
FROM  HERE?" 


Coast  to  Coast,  and  vice  versa,  we  saw  15,150 
miles  worth  of  America.  Maybe  we  saw  the  wrong  things. 
Maybe  we  looked  for  shadows  instead  of  the  sun.  But  we 
think  we  saw  America,  and  if  we  found  shadows,  it  was 
because  people  like  ourselves,  from  Lancaster  to  Seattle, 
were  living  under  them.  Yet  the  shadows  did  not  obscure 
the  sun.  Our  extracurricular  course  in  America  taught  us 
to  love  our  land  and  her  people. 

Our  country  was  too  good  to  be  buried  in  books.  More- 
over, some  of  the  things  we  saw  were  never  printed  in 
books,  and  we  never  saw  some  of  the  things  the  books 
printed.  If  we  found  shadows,  we  didn't  have  to  look  too 
much  for  them.  The  shadows  were  there.  We  couldn't 
help  seeing  them,  especially  those  familiar  shadows  cover- 
ing the  five  of  us  now,  back  home. 

We  want  the  sun  to  shine  brightly  over  America.  We 
have  a  stake  in  light;  we  fear  the  darkness  of  war  and  no 
jobs.  The  boys  and  girls  we  met  in  the  migratory  camps 
and  on  the  street  corners  had  that  same  stake,  that  same 
fear. 

316 


ff  Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  317 

We  were  five  who  got  a  break.  That  made  us  different 
from  the  boy  who  asked  for  a  dime  near  the  glorious  Rocky 
Mountains.  We  remembered  the  fear  and  humiliation  in 
his  eyes.  We  remembered  because  our  fear  was  different 
only  in  degree;  we  had  something  and  he  had  nothing  at 
all.  John  Steinbeck  later  talked  to  us  about  this,  and  we 
felt  it  deeply.  We  knew  we  had  a  stake  in  common  with 
21,200,000  young  people. 

Thomas  Mann  writes  long  and  fine-sounding  prose  to 
prove  that  the  dignity  of  man  is  a  precious  thing.  We  think 
the  dignity  of  youth  is  even  more  precious,  because  when 
that  is  destroyed  or  perverted,  the  dignity  of  man  is  broken 
from  the  start. 

We  were  five  who  got  a  break  that  made  us  different 
from  the  boy  who  asked  us  for  a  dime.  He  didn't  want  us 
to  feel  sorry  for  him.  Feeling  sorry  for  yourself  is  not  a 
pleasant  occupation.  He  needed  a  break.  Four  million  un- 
employed youths  needed  a  break,  not  for  three  months,  but 
a  break  that  would  last  until  they  got  a  chance  to  grow  old. 

A  blond  youth  in  the  Northwest  had  told  us :  "Either  we 
starve  or  get  killed  in  a  war.  That's  a  crazy  reason  to  be 
born  in  the  first  place." 

He  wasn't  being  melodramatic.  He  was  saying  some- 
thing we  all  felt.  So  we  five  got  a  break.  A  warm-hearted 
publisher  gambled  on  us  with  enough  money  to  take  us 
around  the  country.  Newspaper  Guildsmen,  a  Southern 
youth  leader,  a  star  reporter,  a  young  Negro  waiter,  a 
political  figure  in  Seattle — hundreds  of  people  in  thirty-six 
states  helped  us  by  talking,  explaining  and  arguing,  feeding 
and  housing,  giving  us  our  break.  Some  of  them  we'll 
never  see  again.  Others  have  become  our  friends. 

But  our  stake  is  with  the  21,200,000  youths  in  America 


318  The  "Argonauts" 

who  need  jobs  instead  of  guns.  We  came  home  knowing 
this. 

A  famous  newspaper  columnist  met  us  and  said:  "The 
trouble  with  you  young  people  is  that  you  haven't  got 
enough  self-confidence."  We  started  to  protest,  because  ac- 
tually we  think  we're  pretty  good.  Immediately  the 
columnist,  who  makes  a  living  coining  puns,  witticisms 
and  terse  bits  of  sophisticated  philosophy,  said:  "I  know, 
I  know.  Self-confidence  is  based  on  achievement,  not  possi- 
bilities." 

We  don't  know  whether  he  really  meant  that,  but  our 
look  at  America  proved  it  for  us.  We  saw  a  country  full  of 
immense  and  wonderful  possibilities,  but  we  saw  too  many 
people  without  self-confidence,  without  the  dignity  of 
youth.  Human  beings  must  be  appreciated,  must  be  given 
a  chance  to  achieve  and  give  something  to  America;  other- 
wise they  can't  even  bluff  their  way  into  self-confidence. 
We  felt  that  we  were  living  in  a  century  of  unlimited  pos- 
sibilities. Anything  could  happen.  But  could  we  make  the 
good  things  happen? 

Maybe  we  saw  too  many  shadows.  Maybe  if  we  had  dis- 
regarded the  shadows,  we  five  would  have  a  better  chance 
for  "success."  If  we  forgot  the  automobile  workers'  picket 
line  in  Cleveland  or  the  two  young  boys  in  the  Visalia 
Migratory  Camp  or  the  attack  on  the  Communists  in  San 
Antonio,  our  trip  might  go  over  in  a  big  way  with  some 
influential  editors.  We  know  some  people  don't  like  too 
much  truth. 

But  we  remember  the  face  of  the  woman  in  the  baggy 
green  sweater  carrying  her  baby  on  the  Cleveland  picket 
line. 

We  remember  the  thin,  long-haired  children  sitting  on 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  319 

the  curbstone,  their  bare  feet  resting  on  the  hot  road  in  the 
Pennsylvania  mountain  town. 

We  remember  Herb  March,  black-eyed  leader  of  the 
packinghouse  workers  in  Chicago,  who  had  been  shot  by 
thugs  .  .  .  the  reporters  and  advertising  men  striking 
against  Hearst  for  ten  months,  twelve  months,  fifteen 
months  .  .  .  the  sprawling  Carnegie-Illinois  steel  mill  .  .  . 
EVERYTHING  FOR  INDUSTRY. 

We  remember  the  goodness  of  Doug,  the  star  reporter 
who  wanted  to  live  in  Mexico  .  .  .  the  two  girls  at  the 
market  in  Kansas  City  who  had  different  religions  but 
were  still  good  friends  .  .  .  the  dead  land  in  Kansas  chok- 
ing all  life  out  of  farmers  and  their  crops  .  .  .  the  grocery 
boy  who  never  had  a  chance  to  go  to  school  .  .  .  Mayor 
Scott  drinking  Coca-Colas  and  expounding  the  virtues  of  re- 
lief cuts  .  .  .  dark  and  chunky  Ted  Lang  searching  the 
skies  for  rain  clouds,  and  his  son  learning  to  hate  the  Jews. 

We  still  feel  the  power  and  hardness  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains .  .  .  the  gold  and  purple  and  silver  in  the  sunrises 
and  sunsets  ...  we  remember  the  boy  farmers  learning  to 
work  the  land  together  .  .  .  and  the  eight  hundred  miners' 
families  on  relief  in  the  middle  of  Utah. 

We  remember  Hey  wood  Broun,  shambling  to  the  rostrum 
in  the  Guild  convention  hall,  as  kind  as  he  was  big  .  .  . 
San  Francisco,  the  roller  coaster  town,  where  everything 
seemed  to  have  life  and  energy  ...  we  remember  wishing 
we  might  stay  there  and  work. 

We  remember  how  we  followed  the  Redwood  trail  and 
marveled  ...  we  still  grow  silent  when  we  think  of  the 
tall  thick  trees  in  the  night  .  .  .  the  Washington  Common- 
wealth Federation,  with  a  constructive  program  for  peace 
and  jobs  and  old-age  pensions  .  .  .  magic  Hollywood  .  .  . 


320  The  "Argonauts" 

John  Steinbeck  who  talked  and  drank  rum  with  us,  who 
told  us  nonsense  doesn't  matter  but  people  do.  ... 

We  remember  the  200,000  landless  farmers  in  California 
.  .  .  the  migratory  camps  that  gave  them  a  chance  to 
breathe  and  to  bathe  and  to  talk  about  their  troubles  .  .  . 
Dan  Harris  who  would  never  stop  fighting  injustice  .  .  . 
coarse  and  contemptuous  Clint  Merritt  who  writhed  every 
time  a  fruit  picker  ate  one  of  his  round  luscious  peaches 
.  .  .  the  Associated  Farmers.  .  .  . 

The  war  in  Europe  started,  and  we  began  to  hear  the 
chant  of  the  people  .  .  .  KEEP  OUT  .  .  .  "It's  a  rich 
man's  war  and  a  poor  man's  fight,"  said  young  Evan  who 
wanted  to  farm  a  piece  of  land  some  day. 

We  remember  the  miserable  huts  in  Brawley  .  .  .  the 
drive  to  squash  civil  liberties  in  San  Antonio,  starting  with 
little  Emma,  the  communist,  whom  they  wanted  to  put  in 
a  concentration  camp. 

We  remember  Malcolm  Dobbs,  the  young  minister  who 
wanted  to  help  thousands  of  young  Southerners  .  .  .  the 
right  to  vote  .  .  .  the  right  to  a  job  ...  the  right  to  live 
.  .  .  New  Orleans,  hot  and  sticky,  corrupt  and  dirty  .  .  . 
the  bullet  hole  in  the  book-store  window  and  the  murder  of 
the  young  seaman  .  .  .  Peter  Price  who  opened  his  home 
to  us  ...  "It's  great  to  be  a  Georgian"  when  mobs  lynch 
Negroes,  when  the  KKK  rides  to  stop  Negroes  from  voting 
.  .  .  Bloody  Harlan  and  the  three  paunchy  men  rocking  on 
the  porch. 

These  pictures  are  too  vivid  in  our  minds;  we  can't  forget. 

And  we  can't  forget  our  beautiful  country,  a  living  and 
growing  America,  where  the  sun  shines  hot  and  the  land  is 
rich.  We  saw  a  wonderful  people,  kind  and  good  to  five 
strangers  from  New  York.  We  learned  that  peoples  don't 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  321 

really  hate  each  other.  No,  the  shadows  did  not  obscure  the 
sun. 

But  we  can't  forget  the  shadows. 

The  fear  of  war  and  unemployment  followed  us  back  to 
New  York.  We  have  a  stake  in  light,  a  fear  of  the  dark- 
ness of  war  and  hunger.  Our  lives  depend  on  this  stake,  on 
the  defeat  of  the  darkness.  Because  we  saw  that  we  were 
not  alone,  we  fixed  this  stake  on  certain  specific  things. 
Whether  we  want  it  so  or  not,  we  know  that  politics  and 
labor  unions  and  the  difference  between  war  and  peace  are 
bound  up  with  our  stake. 

We  grew  up  on  this  trip.  We  learned  disillusionment; 
but  we  did  not  become  cynical.  We  discovered  America, 
and  we  drew  from  its  people  the  lesson  that  great  things 
still  remain  to  be  done  before  the  dignity  of  both  youth 
and  man  is  victorious.  Above  all,  we  learned  that  this  dig- 
nity is  possible,  because  we  became  confident  in  the  ability 
of  the  Eddie  Wagners  and  Tex  Dobbses  and  Hartford 
Knights  to  achieve  it. 

Mel,  the  only  one  with  a  driver's  license,  lost  twenty 
pounds  in  the  course  of  this  trip.  But  he  gained  something 
that  cannot  be  measured  in  pounds — the  realization  that 
there  were  thousands  of  Mels  in  America. 

Thousands  of  Mels,  Lillians,  Joes,  Helens,  Georges  .  .  . 
in  a  land  that  is  wonderful  and  tantalizing.  Our  country, 
we  are  sure,  has  the  best  in  mountains  and  stars  and  ocean 
coasts,  even  though  we  have  never  seen  more  than  the 
borderlines  of  another.  Under  those  stars  and  on  those 
magic  coasts,  thousands  of  people  like  ourselves  feel  the 
same  things  we  do.  That  realization  gives  us  reason  for 
strength  and  confidence. 

Thousands  of  Joes  halfway  through  college  can't  buy 
new  suits  or  take  out  a  girl.  The  Joes  face  an  old  problem: 


322  The  "Argonauts" 

"Shall  I  try  to  continue  with  school  or  shall  I  try  to  get  a 
job?  How  can  I  continue  with  school?  How  can  I  get 
a  job?" 

Thousands  of  Georges,  trained  for  one  thing,  find  them- 
selves doing  another,  and  their  hopes  and  dreams  begin  to 
fade.  Outwardly  the  Georges  are  full  of  fun  and  high  hopes. 
Sometimes  the  fun  is  forced,  because  the  hopes  are  dead. 

Thousands  of  Lillians,  their  aims  for  a  spot  in  the  news- 
paper offices  still  unshaken,  keep  applying  and  plugging 
and  punching.  They  repeat  "it's  going  to  be  different  with 
me,"  until  they  start  to  wonder  if  it's  worthwhile.  One 
year,  two,  three  .  .  .  until  the  punches  grow  feeble  and 
often  the  count  of  ten  is  reached,  and  they're  out. 

Thousands  of  Mels  keep  pleading  with  bursars,  quitting 
school  and  going  back.  They  think  of  the  girl  waiting  back 
home.  Sometimes  the  furnace  tending  before  classes  and 
the  waiting  on  tables  in  between  and  the  errands  at  night 
get  them  too  tired  to  think. 

Thousands  of  Helens,  wandering  from  job  to  job,  still 
want  to  go  back  to  school  and  get  the  coveted  degree. 
Maybe  it  won't  help,  but  then,  maybe  it  will.  And  they  go 
to  all  the  agencies  and  contacts  and  people  who  might 
help,  day  after  day,  for  a  job,  that's  all. 

But  we  had  something  else.  A  sure  bet  on  our  union,  the 
American  Newspaper  Guild.  An  unshakable  faith  in  the 
people  of  our  country — we  saw  them  with  our  own  eyes — 
and  their  ability  to  achieve  their  rightful  dignity.  Proof 
that  our  country  needs  the  21,200,000,  including  ourselves. 
An  idea — garnered  from  the  Young  Southerners,  California 
Youth  Legislature,  Negro  Youth  Congress,  American  Youth 
Congress — of  what  we  could  do  about  it  all. 

That  idea  brought  us  back  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  on  the 
week  end  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  birthday,  to  the  National 


ff  Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  323 

Citizenship  Institute,  where  5,000  young  people  from  all 
over  the  country  gathered  to  ask  their  government  for  jobs, 
peace,  civil  liberties.  .  .  . 

Tex  Dobbs  was  there,  leading  hundreds  of  boys  and  girls 
from  Tennessee,  Oklahoma,  Alabama,  Georgia,  the  Caro- 
linas  and  Texas.  Lois  Crozier,  who  had  told  us  back  in 
Hollywood  that  she  would  never  give  up  her  work  in  the 
Youth  Legislature,  greeted  us  with  all  the  warmth  and 
enthusiasm  of  her  being.  The  little  Mexican  girl  who  had 
danced  with  George  at  the  Celita  Linda  shindig  in  Houston, 
Lillian  Miller  from  Cleveland — all  the  young  people  we 
had  seen  on  their  home  ground.  And  the  people  we  knew 
at  home — Joe  Cadden,  round-faced  leader  of  the  American 
Youth  Congress,  Leslie  Gould,  who  was  writing  a  book 
about  youth.  Now  they  came,  with  us,  to  ask  for  the  things 
we  felt  and  needed. 

In  the  pouring  rain,  we  stood  on  the  White  House  lawn 
waiting  for  the  President  of  the  United  States  to  address  us. 
A  tall  blond-haired  boy,  student  at  Union  Theological 
Seminary,  stood  before  a  microphone.  He  was  hatless,  and 
his  brown  faded  overcoat  seemed  all  too  short  for  his  long 
lanky  body.  He  was  Jack  McMichael,  National  Chairman 
of  the  American  Youth  Congress. 

A  few  days  before,  we  had  read  a  newspaper  story. 

BRITAIN  HINTS 

ROOSEVELT  WILL 

SUPPORT  ALLIES 

OFFICIAL  SAYS  PRESIDENT  WANTS  TO 

JOIN  CRUSADE;  SEES  u.  s.  IN  WAR 
Jack  McMichael  asked  Us  to  sing  "America  the  Beautiful." 


324  The  "Argonauts" 

Our  voices,  5,000  strong,  echoed  over  the  nation's  capital. 

"...  and  crown  thy  good  with  brotherhood  from  sea  to 
shining  sea!" 

Then  the  young  leader  introduced  us  to  President  Roose- 
velt. .  .  .  February  10,  1940,  12:30  P.M. 

Deep  in  the  dreams  of  Americans,  Jack  began,  in 
his  strong  Georgia  drawl,  is  the  picture  of  a  land  of  the 
free  and  a  home  of  the  brave.  A  land  free  of  the  misery 
of  war  and  oppression,  a  people  brave  in  their  conquest 
of  the  social  frontier.  Toward  the  day-by-day  realiza- 
tion of  that  dream,  America's  youth  marches  arm  in 
arm  with  the  rank  and  file  of  our  citizenry. 

Education,  vocational  training,  employment  at  a  liv- 
ing wage — for  all,  preservation  of  the  civil  liberties 
proclaimed  in  the  Bill  of  Rights — peace — these  are  our 
simple  aims.  .  .  . 

In  this  spirit,  young  people  in  thousands,  from  factory, 
farm,  school  and  church — people  with  jobs,  without 
jobs — have  streamed  into  Washington  at  the  call  of 
the  American  Youth  Congress  for  this  Citizenship  Insti- 
tute. They  are  here  to  discuss  their  problems  and  to  tell 
you,  Mr.  President,  and  the  Congress,  their  needs  and 
desires.  America's  twenty-one  million  youth  are  ready 
to  fight — but  determined  to  do  their  fighting  at  home — 
against  indifference,  intolerance  and  greed — for  jobs, 
civil  liberties  and  peace. 

President  Roosevelt  gave  us  his  answer. 

He  welcomed  us  with  his  inimitable  smile,  a  cheerful 
cordial  smile. 

"Don't  seek  or  expect  a  panacea— a  grand  new  law  that 
will  give  you  a  handout.  .  .  ." 

The  crowd  stiffened. 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  325 

It  was  not  long  ago  that  we  looked  to  President  Roosevelt 
as  our  spokesman.  In  his  opening  address  to  Congress,  he 
had  said: 

The  unemployment  problem  today  has  become  very 
definitely  a  problem  of  youth  as  well  as  of  age.  As  each 
year  has  gone  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  boys  and 
girls  have  come  of  working  age.  They  now  form  an 
army  of  unused  youth.  They  must  be  an  especial  con- 
cern of  democratic  government. 

We  must  continue,  above  all  things,  to  look  for  a 
solution  of  their  special  problems.  For  they,  looking 
ahead  to  live,  are  entitled  to  action  on  our  part  and  not 
merely  to  admonitions  of  optimism  or  lectures  on  eco- 
nomic laws. 

But  to  the  5,000  young  people  standing  in  the  rain  before 
the  White  House,  President  Roosevelt  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten this  speech.  He  gave  us  a  lecture  on  the  statistics  of 
his  administration,  on  "economic  laws." 

He  said  he  did  not  think  "that  your  opportunities  for 
employment  are  any  worse  today  than  they  were  for  young 
people  ten  or  twenty  years  ago." 

He  warned  us  "not  as  a  group  to  pass  resolutions  on  sub- 
jects which  you  have  not  thought  through  and  on  which 
you  cannot  possibly  have  complete  knowledge." 

He  told  us  we  couldn't  possibly  understand  the  intricacies 
of  military  preparations. 

Silently,  the  crowd  received  the  speech.  Stunned,  the  boys 
and  girls  whose  aims  were  simple — jobs,  peace,  civil  liber- 
ties— disbanded  in  the  rain. 

"Don't  expect  handouts  .  .  ." 

We  didn't  want  handouts.  We  did  want  help.  The  two 
girls  at  the  Kansas  City  Market  stall,  Melba,  the  NYA 


326  The  "Argonauts" 

worker  who  had  been  named  after  a  box  of  talcum  powder, 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  farmers  who  had  been  pushed 
off  their  lands  to  the  strange  cruel  coast  of  the  West,  the 
wandering  Iowa  boy  who  could  not  find  any  work  at  home 
— they  all  needed  help,  but  they  never  asked  for  handouts. 
Some  of  them  had  come  to  the  nation's  capital  to  hear  the 
President  while  millions  like  them  stayed  at  home. 

All  of  us  heard  that  conditions  today  were  no  worse  than 
they  were  twenty  years  ago.  What  did  this  statement  give 
to  the  thin  grocery  boy  in  Jefferson  City  who  told  us  wist- 
fully he  wished  he  might  have  been  able  to  finish  high 
school? 

On  the  afternoon  following  the  President's  lecture,  the 
5,000  delegates  congregated  in  the  Labor  Auditorium  to 
hear  John  L.  Lewis.  We  gathered  quietly,  still  shocked  by 
the  cold  wet  reception  on  the  White  House  lawn. 

The  big  labor  leader  leaned  over  the  rostrum,  his  large 
head  thrust  forward,  the  thick  long  hair  unruffled  and 
bushy  black  eyebrows  outlining  eyes  that  seemed  to  seek 
out  every  individual  in  the  hall.  .  .  . 

How  many  years,  how  many  years  can  you  stand  to 
be  without  a  job?  And  how  many  years  of  interrup- 
tions to  your  normal  plans  will  you  enjoy?  How  many 
years  can  you  defer  your  projected  imagination?  How 
many  years  must  you  wonder  and  hope  that  you  will 
have  an  opportunity  here  in  your  native  land  to  live  the 
normal  life  of  a  normal  citizen? 

His  deep  voice  boomed  out  for  more  than  an  hour,  not 
speaking  down  to  us,  but  speaking  with  us. 

The  5,000  stamped  and  cheered  and  whistled  as  Lewis 
voiced  our  own  thoughts  and  feelings. 

The  President  of  the  United  States  had  told  us  any  resolu- 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?9  327 

tions  we  might  adopt  on  the  question  of  war  would  be 
"twaddle." 

Dorothy  Thompson,  the  successful  columnist,  was  writ- 
ing: "Either  those  kids  are  phonies  or  they're  idiots."  She 
was  not  worried  about  getting  a  job  or  going  to  war.  But 
21,200,000  were  worried.  Plenty  worried. 

...  I  wonder  if  the  President  could  call  the  resolution 
adopted  by  the  United  Mine  Workers  of  America 
"twaddle.".  .  .  These  resolutions  are  symbolic  of  what 
is  in  the  hearts,  not  only  of  the  young  men  and  women 
of  America,  but  of  practically  every  citizen.  They  rep- 
resent the  constant  and  conscious  and  subconscious  of 
present  fears  that,  in  some  way,  the  politicians  and 
statesmen  of  this  country  and  the  warring  world  will 
in  some  fashion  drag  our  country  into  their  war.  .  .  . 

The  5,000  young  pilgrims  shouted  their  agreement  with 
these  words.  We  five  thought  of  the  constant  fears,  the 
conscious  and  subconscious  fears  that  had  followed  us 
back  to  New  York  from  the  little  cottage  in  the  Arvin 
Federal  Migratory  Camp  near  Bakersfield.  There  Fred 
Ross  had  announced  to  us  that  England  had  declared  war. 
The  cotton  and  peach  pickers,  the  Mexican  student  whose 
cousin  had  died  for  Loyalist  Spain,  the  cowhand  in  John 
Garner's  home  town,  the  efficient,  hard-working  Mrs.  Duffy 
of  the  seamen's  union,  Hartford  Knight  and  the  lady  with 
the  blue  feather  in  Mrs.  Timberlake's  sewing  room — they 
all  had  the  same  fear. 

And  after  all  who  has  a  bigger,  greater  right  to  pro- 
test against  war  or  any  part  of  war,  or  the  diplomatic 
intrigues  of  war,  or  the  subtle  politics  preceding  war, 
than  the  young  men  who,  in  the  event  of  war,  would 
become  cannon  fodder? 


328  The  "Argonauts" 

I  do  not  know  what  the  future  of  the  American 
Youth  Congress  may  be,  or  what  resolutions  it  may 
adopt.  I  wish,  however,  to  give  you  this  message,  and 
I  give  it  to  you  as  Chairman  of  Labor's  Non-Partisan 
League,  not  identified  with  either  the  Republican  or 
the  Democratic  Party,  but  standing  always  for  the  rights 
and  principles  of  free  America,  for  the  support  of  its 
meritorious  institutions,  for  the  preservation  of  the  flag 
and  for  the  protection  of  the  homeland,  and  for  a  job 
and  civil  liberties.  And  while  other  people  may  be  con- 
demning you,  and  the  Republican  Party  saying  it 
doesn't  want  to  associate  with  you,  and  the  Democratic 
Party  through  its  titular  spokesman  saying  they  doubt 
you  know  what  you  are  thinking  about,  as  Chairman 
of  Labor's  Non-Partisan  League,  I  issue  an  invitation 
to  the  American  Youth  Congress  to  become  affiliated  or 
come  to  a  working  arrangement  with  Labor's  Non- 
Partisan  League  in  this  country. 

It  is  time  for  labor,  it  is  time  for  the  common  people, 
and  it  is  time  for  the  youth  of  America  to  get  together. 

We  stood  and  applauded  the  labor  leader  until  the  palms 
of  our  hands  were  numb.  In  the  ovation  given  by  the  5,000 
we  heard  again  the  voices  of  all  the  people  who  had  differ- 
ent versions  of  blond  Ross's  statement  in  Yakima  Valley: 
"Either  we  starve  or  get  killed  in  a  war.  That's  a  crazy 
reason  to  be  born  in  the  first  place." 

Eleanor  Roosevelt  was  there,  attending  every  session, 
often  sitting  on  the  floor  of  the  crowded  hall.  More  than 
one  young  person  there  knew  her  as  a  friend,  a  great  and 
courageous  friend.  Over  her  knitting,  she  listened  intently 
to  the  Missouri  sharecropper,  the  young  Negro  tobacco 
worker,  the  New  England  sales  clerk,  the  cocky  Harvard 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  329 

student.  She  disagreed  with  some  of  the  things  the  5,000 
had  to  say.  The  5,000  disagreed  with  her.  But  she  was  our 
friend.  Unlike  some  of  the  politicians  who  used  their  dis- 
agreements as  the  excuse  to  heap  epithets  and  abuse  upon 
the  Youth  Congress,  she  voiced  her  disagreements  with  us. 
She  stuck  by  us,  and  our  common  interests  in  jobs,  peace 
and  civil  liberties  grew  stronger. 

We  knew  that  young  people  all  over  the  country  loved 
Eleanor  Roosevelt.  It  was  not  sentimentality  that  prompted 
a  boyish  leader  from  the  South  to  say  he  felt  closer  to 
Mrs.  Roosevelt  than  he  did  to  his  own  mother. 

Then  the  name-calling  began  anew.  Dorothy  Thompson 
had  named  us  either  "phonies"  or  "idiots"  because  we  were 
beginning  to  see  a  way  to  get  the  jobs,  peace  and  civil  liber- 
ties we  were  talking  about. 

Others  called  us  communists  and  said  if  we  were  not 
communists,  why  did  we  not  purge  the  communists  from 
the  Congress? 

Frances  Williams,  poised  and  trim,  gave  her  report  on 
what  the  Congress  was  doing  to  defend  civil  liberties.  She 
spoke  in  a  low  even  voice. 

Yes,  there  are  communists  represented  in  the  Con- 
gress through  the  Young  Communist  League.  And 
they  are  there,  though  in  the  minority,  because  they  are 
part  of  the  youth  of  the  United  States;  they  are  willing 
to  work  to  get  better  wages,  jobs,  and  security  for  young 
Americans. 

And  because  we  in  the  American  Youth  Congress 
have  a  tremendous  job  to  do,  we  welcome  them  along 
with  the  representatives  of  all  youth  organizations  who 
would  rather  work  for  the  betterment  of  American 


330  The  "Argonauts" 

youth  than  sit  around  wringing  their  hands  or  spouting 
long,  pious  phrases. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  so  it  seems  to  many  of  our  elders, 
fortunately  not  all  of  our  elders,  that  youth  actually 
does  learn  from  history;  and  history  in  Italy,  Germany, 
Austria  and  more  recently  in  France  and  Canada,  has 
taught  us  that  the  opening  gun  in  the  war  on  civil  liber- 
ties has  begun  by  outlawing  the  communists,  suppress- 
ing their  literature  and  meetings. 

In  this  process,  both  in  France  and  Canada,  the  next 
step,  as  we  have  seen  too  recently,  has  been  the  suppres- 
sion of  all  groups  (suspected  of  communism)  and  this 
includes  the  entire  trade  union  movement,  thus  proving 
what  we  in  the  American  Youth  Congress  have  always 
maintained,  that  there  is  no  half-way  mark  for  civil 
liberties  in  a  democracy. 

Here  was  the  answer  of  American  youth  to  Clem  Smith 
and  Alexander  Boynton  of  San  Antonio  who  wanted  to 
put  the  communists  in  concentration  camps. 

And  what  was  to  be  the  answer  to  war? 

We  sat  in  the  Labor  Auditorium,  listening  to  the  political 
spokesmen  for  the  national  government.  Aubrey  Williams, 
National  Youth  Administrator,  who  had  said  to  us :  "We'll 
tell  'em  about  the  need  of  youth  for  more  NYA  funds," 
now  gave  us  a  grand  talk  on  militarism.  A  few  days  before, 
he  had  turned  over  the  lists  of  all  young  people  on  the 
NYA  to  the  army  for  recruiting  purposes. 

He  did  not  defend  his  act.  He  was  proud  of  it.  Young 
people,  he  said,  should  be  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  defend 
their  country  in  return  for  everything  the  government  had 
given  them. 

"I  fought  to  make  the  world  safe  for  democracy  in  1917," 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?1  331 

he  said.  "The  world  was  made  safe  for  democracy.  I'm  not 
sorry  I  went  to  war." 

The  5,000  laughed  at  him  bitterly  and  coldly. 

The  war  in  Europe  had  changed  our  former  friends,  and 
youth,  who  needed  someone  to  trust,  began  to  look  to 
labor. 

As  we  five  had  looked  to  our  union,  the  Guild,  in  San 
Francisco  on  a  small  scale,  now  all  the  girls  and  boys  in 
Washington  looked  steadily  to  organized  labor  for  help 
and  leadership.  John  L.  Lewis  had  shown  the  way  in  his 
speech.  He  talked  for  us.  If  labor  was  for  us,  we  would 
be  for  labor. 

And  the  slogan  of  the  Maritime  Union  of  the  Pacific  was 
repeated  again  and  again  in  the  Labor  Auditorium.  "The 
Yanks  Are  NOT  Coming"  was  becoming  youth's  slogan. 

The  5,000  drew  up  a  peace  message  to  the  youth  of  the 
whole  world. 

Barbed  wire  is  now  strung  between  the  countries  of 
the  world — barbed  wire  to  hold  back  the  power  of 
common  ideas,  common  needs  and  desires.  But  no 
barbed  wire  has  the  right  to  sunder  our  international 
fellowship,  or  to  alter  the  great  aims  which  we  jointly 
treasure.  Youth  is  not  youth's  enemy. 

Thus  we  look  with  horror  upon  the  inhumanity  of 
those  who  by  any  measures  seek  to  keep  youth  in  the 
trenches  or  to  drive  the  rest  of  us  there.  Some,  under 
the  banner  of  false  moral  issues,  attempt  to  present  the 
slaughter  of  youth  as  a  holy  crusade.  These  are  the  few 
who  have  never  scrupled  to  set  aside  the  needs  of  hu- 
manity in  the  interests  of  their  own  special  privilege 
and  profit.  They  sell  the  murderous  instruments  of 
war;  they  encourage  the  spread  of  war;  they  urge  loans 


332  The  "Argonauts" 

and  credits  to  warring  governments  so  that  a  million 
wasted  lives  may  replenish  their  coffers.  They  fill  our 
press,  they  poison  the  air  with  their  noxious  hysteria. . . . 

Heed  our  message,  young  people  of  neutral  countries. 
Let  us  prevent  the  spread  of  this  war,  let  us  help  our 
brothers  out  of  the  trenches — and  let's  not  help  our- 
selves in. 

.  .  .  Here  and  now  we  solemnly  renew  our  sacred 
pledge  to  the  youth  of  the  world;  we  swear  that  we  will 
not  rest  until  the  slaughter  of  our  generation  is  stopped. 
The  peoples  want  to  live  in  peace  and  security.  They 
shall  not  be  denied. 

We  remembered  how  young  Evan  had  looked  up  at  the 
blue  California  sky,  wishing  for  his  brother  to  call  for  him 
to  come  and  work  on  some  land.  "It's  a  rich  man's  war  and 
a  poor  man's  fight,"  he  had  said. 

The  youth  delegates  in  Washington  were  speaking  for 
millions  of  boys  like  Evan.  And  the  American  Youth  Con- 
gress gave  to  Evan  a  program  of  action.  We  remembered 
how  Evan  didn't  have  an  answer  to  George's  question, 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  But  the  Youth  Con- 
gress had  an  answer,  for  jobs,  peace,  civil  liberties. 

FOR  JOBS:  Campaign  for  the  passage  of  the  American 
Youth  Act,  introduced  by  Senator  Elbert  D.  Thomas, 
Chairman  of  the  subcommittee  on  Education  and  Labor. 
It  was  an  Act  for  young  people  between  the  ages  of  sixteen 
and  twenty-five.  It  provided  for  non-profit  works  projects 
for  which  youth  would  be  paid  regular  wages  equal  to  the 
prevailing  wage  rates  for  similar  work  in  the  locality.  It 
meant  thirty  dollars  a  month  for  students  in  colleges,  five 
dollars  a  week  for  high  school  students. 

It  meant  that  the  thin  grocery  boy  in  Jefferson  City,  Mis- 


ff  Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  333 

souri,  could  go  back  to  high  school  and  maybe  enter  a 
college  instead  of  facing  the  grocery  store  clerkship  for  a 
future. 

The  Act  provided  for  jobs  for  Nelson  Dallas,  for  the 
Chicago  boy  who  spent  his  last  few  cents  on  enough 
whisky  to  knock  him  senseless  for  a  few  days,  for  the  two 
pretty  girls  at  the  market  stalls  in  Kansas  City,  for  the  little 
Negro  girl  who  stood  wistfully  looking  at  the  jewelry  coun- 
ter in  the  Gary  five-and-ten,  for  her  friend  who  said,  "A  job 
is  the  thing  you  want  most,  and  it's  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get."  For  Ross  and  his  friends  who  owned  nothing 
but  a  few  tax  tokens  and  an  old  jalopy.  For  Jimmy  who 
wanted  to  go  back  to  his  native  Missouri  and  work.  For  all 
young  people,  irrespective  of  sex,  race,  color,  religion  or 
political  opinion.  For  the  five  Argonauts. 

FOR  PEACE  :  Campaign  to  Keep  America  Out  of  War  that 
would  reach  the  youth  of  other  countries,  that  would  pene- 
trate the  thick  stone  walls  of  Congress,  that  would  make 
every  individual  with  an  "interest"  or  a  "loan"  or  a  "mar- 
ket" realize  that  this  time  we  would  NOT  go.  That's  all, 
we  wouldn't  go. 

But  we  would  not  wait  until  they  tried  to  make  us  go. 
Already,  we  could  see  the  results  of  the  sharp  curtailment 
of  President  Roosevelt's  social  security  program.  We  never 
counted  how  many  farmers  and  miners  and  migratory 
workers  and  factory  women  had  said  to  us,  "Maybe  the 
gov'nment'll  help."  The  government  had  not  helped.  The 
government  had  destroyed  much  of  the  help  of  previous 
years.  We  saw  the  results  in  the  increased  competition  for 
jobs.  And  there  were  no  jobs. 

Now  the  government  talked  of  increasing  armament  pro- 
duction to  make  jobs  for  people.  But  social  security  expendi- 


334  The  "Argonauts" 

tures  were  cut  in  the  budget  which  President  Roosevelt 
gave  to  Congress  for  the  coming  year.  And  then  with  the 
famous  smile,  President  Roosevelt  and  Congress  appropri- 
ated millions  and  millions  of  dollars  for  more  uniforms 
and  airplanes  and  guns — for  what? 

There  are  many  things  we  didn't  know.  We  didn't  have 
many  of  the  answers.  But  we  were  not  alone  in  witnessing 
these  steps.  And  the  5,000  saw  these  as  steps  on  the  road  to 
war. 

So  the  American  Youth  Congress  and  organized  labor 
proposed  a  different  road  for  America.  In  one  terse  para- 
graph we  found  the  answer  to  the  question  marks  on  the 
faces  of  the  little  blond  kids  in  the  dirty  jungle  camps  of 
California,  of  the  pregnant  sharecropper's  wife  in  Louisi- 
ana, of  the  gaunt  dry  tenants  in  Tennessee,  of  the  young 
Negro  walking  down  the  Mississippi  road  alone  in  the  rain. 

More  expenditures  for  NYA,  WPA,  slum  clearance,  aid 
to  farmers,  health  programs,  public  works  and  old-age  pen- 
sions. Jobs  on  NYA  meant  a  break  for  youth.  Farm  aid 
meant  a  break  for  all  the  bony  men  who  tilled  the  earth. 
Slum  clearance  meant  a  break  for  all  the  people  in  the 
Hooverville  hovels  of  the  country. 

Why  couldn't  the  men  who  run  our  country  give  all 
these  people  a  break  instead  of  a  grave  in  Flanders  Fields? 

The  Youth  Congress  was  not  waiting  until  they  tried  to 
make  us  go  to  war. 

FOR  CIVIL  LIBERTIES:  In  every  community  in  the  country 
the  young  people  were  establishing  local  civil  liberties  com- 
mittees to  guard  against  all  attacks  on  Constitutional  rights. 
In  San  Antonio  they  would  keep  an  eye  on  the  Boyntons 
and  the  Smiths.  Little  Emma  had  a  right  to  speak.  If  her 
voice  were  silenced  youth's  might  be  next. 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  335 

This  was  our  future,  and  we  who  had  got  a  break,  found 
the  way  to  a  bigger  break,  not  for  five,  but  for  21,200,000. 

"Provinces  and  nations  can  be  signed  away,  but  youth 
and  honor  never."  The  real  La  Pasionaria  had  once  said 
that  to  the  people  of  Spain.  We  thought  of  it  as  a  testi- 
monial to  the  5,000  who  had  come  together  in  Washington 
for  the  Citizenship  Institute. 

We  came  home.  On  a  cold  winter  night  we  stood  on 
Times  Square  near  a  newsstand.  The  lights  sparkled 
from  the  ribbon  of  news  flashing  around  the  Times  build- 
ing. The  bright  chewing  gum  and  cigarette  ads  and  the 
huge  moving  picture  marquees  seemed  to  glow  warmly 
down  on  us. 

People  pushed  and  crowded  impatiently  in  the  hurry  of 
reaching  some  important  destination.  Not  even  the  high 
and  mighty  stone  skyscrapers  broke  the  sharp  wind  as  we 
stood  shivering  in  front  of  the  newsstand. 

NEWSPAPERS  FROM  OTHER  CITIES 

The  white  letters  on  the  blue  sign  covered  the  front  of 
the  stand,  behind  which  were  fixed  miniature  replicas  of 
the  trylon  and  perisphere,  symbols  of  the  New  York  World's 
Fair.  This  was  Broadway  and  Forty-sixth  Street,  cross- 
roads of  the  world.  Another  sign  on  one  side  of  the  stand 
announced  foreign  papers  in  blue  letters  on  a  bright  orange 
background. 

England  Switzerland 

Ireland  Scandinavia 

Scotland  Holland 

France  Russia 

Belgium  Roumania 


336  The  "Argonauts" 

"On  accounta  da  war,"  informed  Charles  Lerner  in  ear- 
muffs  and  heavy  frayed  overcoat  as  he  stamped  about  to 
keep  warm,  "we  don't  handle  foreign  papers  anymore." 
He  had  worked  at  the  stand  for  six  years  and  knew  his 
business.  "I'll  tell  ya  what  it  is.  Ya  see,  dere's  a  risk  bringin' 
foreign  papers  over  here.  French,  English,  Goiman  papers 
are  not  retoinable.  Suppose  a  ship  sinks  on  da  way  over 
here?"  He  shrugged.  "We  lose  money."  He  began  to  restack 
a  batch  of  papers  on  the  racks.  "Besides,  a  lotta  dose  papers 
don't  come  out  anymore.  Ya  know  what  happens  in  a  war." 

A  pretty  blonde  girl,  hatless  and  wearing  a  thin  reversible 
sport  coat,  came  over  to  the  stand.  Lerner  gave  her  a  paper, 
and  she  walked  quickly  away. 

"Reg'lar  customer,"  he  said.  "She  buys  a  paper  every 
day  from  up  North." 

We  looked  at  his  stock.  Houston  Chronicle,  Birmingham 
Age  Herald,  Philadelphia  Inquirer,  Los  Angeles  Times, 
San  Francisco  Chronicle,  Kansas  City  Star,  Chicago  Trib- 
une, St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch,  Pittsburgh  Press. 

Price  three  cents  at  home,  seven  or  ten  cents  in  New 
York.  Every  paper  carried  banner  headlines  on  the  war, 
the  same  as  the  New  York  papers. 

But  a  well-furred  lady  came  up  and  bought  a  Boston 
Daily  Record,  and  a  tall  middle-aged  man  the  San  Francisco 
Chronicle,  and  a  thin  boy  in  spectacles  the  Chicago 
Tribune. 

"I  know,"  said  plump,  blonde  Adele  Kruse  in  a  bright 
blue  coat.  She  was  eighteen  years  old  and  a  native  of 
Boston.  "But  I  like  to  read  news  from  home,  any  old  news 
as  long  as  it's  from  home."  She  had  come  to  New  York  to 
go  to  nursing  school.  "New  York  is  all  right,  but  I  like 
Boston  better." 

Another  young  girl,  with  sunken  cheeks  and  bright  eyes 


"Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here?"  337 

in  a  sad  pale  face,  bought  a  Caledonia  Record  from  St.  Johns- 
bury,  Vermont.  Her  father  mined  marble  up  there.  She 
had  come  to  New  York  to  try  to  find  a  job.  No  luck  yet. 

We  walked  down  Broadway.  From  all  over  America 
people  came  to  our  town  seeking  what  could  not  be  found 
in  their  own.  But  their  cities  and  towns  and  tiny  villages 
had  a  precious  something  they  would  never  find  in  New 
York.  They  bought  their  hometown  papers  for  the  "news 
from  home." 

That's  the  way  we  had  found  America.  The  things  in 
the  banner  headlines  touched  the  lives  of  all  the  people, 
giving  them  common  interests,  big  interests  in  jobs,  peace 
and  civil  liberties.  Yet  America  was  a  land  of  a  million 
differences  in  priceless  Lancasters  and  Kit  Carsons.  People 
lived  and  died  there,  doing  all  the  little  human  things  that 
never  made  the  headlines  but  made  people  good  and  ex- 
citing. We  want  to  see  the  sun  shine  brightly  all  over  this 
wonderful  America  of  Lancasters  and  Kit  Carsons.  On 
Forty-second  Street  we  passed  a  tall  cowboy  in  a  ten-gallon 
hat  and  high  boots  who  was  purchasing  a  ticket  for  the 
"French  Follies."  We  entered  the  subway  and  bought  early 
editions  of  the  next  morning's  papers. 

We  rode  home,  reading  the  HELP  WANTED  ads. 


FINANCIAL  REPORT  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS 


Revenue 


Car 


Food 

Lodging 

General 


Revenue 

Expenditures 
Down  Payment 
Gas,  Oil,  Grease 
Tolls,  Parking  Fees 
Conditioning,  Repairs 
Tires 


Cigarettes 

Literature  (newspapers) 

Telephone  &  Telegraph 

Postage 

Carfares 

Entertainment 

Camera 

Freight  Charges 

Medication 

Drug  Needs 

Laundry 

Miscellaneous 

338 


$859.40 


$20.46 

7.60 

10.26 

10.70 

11.50 

8.40 

2.64 

10.06 

34-25 
8.00 
8.45 

I2.II 


337-4° 
266.57 

1 11.00 


144-43 
$859.40 


Financial  Report  339 

SOURCE  OF  REVENUE 

Publisher  $300.00 

Publications: 

Nation  $30.00 

Hollywood  Tribune  15.00 

Kern  County  Labor  Journal          15.00  60.00 

Newspaper  Guilds: 

St.  Louis  $  9.70 

New  York  100.00 

Seattle  10.00 

San  Antonio  3.25  122.95 

Contributions  by  Friends  50.00 

Loans  by  Friends  25.00 

Raised  at  Party — net  9.45 

"Bring  Wershba  Back  Campaign"  8.00 

Individual  Contributions: 
Helen 
Lillian 
Mel 
Joe 
George 


VITAL  STATISTICS 

Number  of  days  on  trip  92 

Average  cost  per  person  $171.88 

Average  cost  per  person  excluding  down  payment  on 

car  151.88 

Average  cost  per  person  excluding  car  expense  104.40 

Average  cost  per  person  for  one  day,  excluding  car 

expense  1.13 

Average  cost  for  a  night's  lodging  for  one  person  .50 

Average  cost  for  food  per  day  for  one  person  .54 


340  The  "Argonauts" 

Average  number  of  cigarettes  smoked  in  one  day  per 

person  7 

Average  cost  of  running  and  maintaining  the  car,  tolls, 

parking  fees,  tires,  etc.  $.015  per  mile 

Average  cost  for  oil,  gasoline  and  grease  $.0115  per  mile 

Price  of  gasoline  ranged  as  low  as  $.12  and  $.13  per  gallon  for 

regular  and  as  high  as  $.27  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  and 

desert  states  in  the  West. 


This  book  has  been  produced 
wholly  under  union  conditions.  The  paper  was 
made,  fhe  type  set,  the  plates  electrotyped,  and 
Ihe  printing  and  binding  done  in  union  shops  affili- 
ated with  the  American  Federation  of  Labor.  All 
employees  of  Modern  Age  Books,  Inc.,  art  members 
of  the  Book  and  Magazine  Guild,  Local  No.  18 
of  the  United  Office  and  Professional  Workers 
of  America,  affiliated  with  the  Congress 
of  Industrial  Organizations. 


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GEORGE  WHITMAN  is  now,  one  short  year  out  of  college,  manager  of 
The  Good  Neighbor,  a  small  newspaper  in  the  Bronx,  where  he  was  born 
twenty-one  years  ago.  He  holds  a  Bachelor  of  Business  Administration 
degree  from  the  College  of  the  City  of  New  York,  where  he  edited  the 
student  newspaper. 

JOE  WERSHBA,  the  6'  2"  "baby"  of  the  group,  was  born  in  1920.  He  is  a 
junior  at  Brooklyn  College,  where  he  edits  the  Brooklyn  College  Vanguard 
and  writes  for  the  school  magazine.  He  is  a  leader  of  the  American  Student 
Union  and  of  the  associate  membership  of  the  Newspaper  Guild. 

HELEN  ROSS  is  two  years  older  than  her  sister  Lillian.  After  spending 
two  years  in  college,  she  started  working  and  has  held  jobs  as  waitress,  store 
clerk,  and  secretary.  She  has  written  women's  features  for  labor  papers  and 
is  now  on  the  staff  of  PM. 

MEL  FISKE,  in  spite  of  Chapter  I,  has  married  his  best  girl  (with  whom 
he  attended  Ohio  University  in  Athens ) ,  and  brought  her  to  New  York  to  live. 
He  has  worked  as  a  reporter  on  the  Athens  Messenger  and  written  magazine 
articles.  Twenty-two  years  old,  he  won't  give  up  until  he  finds  a  regular 
newspaper  job.