The Great Depression Club
by Frances Sandiford

It’s an unofficial club: those of us in our 70s, 80s, and 90s who survived the Great Depression. When a comparison is made between then and now, we survivors shake our heads. In the 1930s, it was sink or swim without food stamps, Social Security, Workmen’s Compensation, or any of the safeguards on which Americans depend today. The motto was “Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do, or do without.” And when “it” was gone, that was the end.

During the latter years of the Depression, I lived with my parents and a grandmother on a farm in Milan. Land was an asset, for we grew (or raised) almost all of our own food. We kept a cow for milk, and had chickens. My father had a small construction business, which he somehow managed to keep alive. We owned our home outright, managed to pay our taxes, and kept enough money for a weekly trip to the grocery store in Red Hook.

Looking back, what I remember most was not how deprived we were, but how we made the most of what we had. I especially remember my grandmother’s Depression-style escalloped potatoes, with crumbled cracker crumbs for filler. Bread pudding was often our dessert. One of our neighbors was a hunter, and now and then we were treated to a rabbit, squirrel or pheasant. The problem was that my parents did not know how to prepare wild game, and the result was tough, stringy meat. My mother canned some for a future time, when it didn’t taste any better; it often ended up as food for our dog.

A few miles away in Red Hook, people were not doing nearly so well. Without the availability of farmland for growing food, and without money to buy from the local grocery, they were often strapped for essentials. Winfred Herrick, now 94, was 15 when the Depression got underway in 1930. He was living in the village of Red Hook where his father, a former employee on the Vincent Astor Estate, was working at odd jobs like apple picking, farm work and selling household products door to door. His parents took in boarders and later rented out part of their house.

Winfred’s mother died when he was in high school. He and his two sisters assumed the care of the house. Using every inch of land they could find, they tilled a small garden, and took advantage of a local hunter’s gifts of wild game. I don’t know how they prepared it, but I am shamefaced to say that they did not have the option of putting it in the dog’s dish. The family had no money to buy clothing, so they had to wear what they already owned, “patch upon patch and a hole in the middle,” as the saying goes. Winfred is quick to point out that just about everyone in Red Hook was poor and had to make do. Even before the Depression struck, people had lived by seasonal jobs.

People helped each other during the Depression, but there were exceptions. The father of Margaret Herrick, Winfred’s wife, had a gas station on the corner of Rokeby Road and Route 9, with a sign out front that offered “six gallons for $1.” When a driver did not have money to pay his bill, Margaret’s father would “trust” him to pay later. Unfortunately some drivers, once their bill got too high, simply went elsewhere to buy their gas.

Wherever we lived, most members of the Depression Club remember the hobos. My home in Milan was a frequent stop for wandering, homeless men. Usually no more than two at a time would make their way up our drive way, knock on the front door, and politely ask if they could do any odd jobs. My mother always said “No,” but after a quick trip into the kitchen, would return with several plates of food and coffee. One of my strongest visual memories of the Depression is of hunched-over, bearded men eating on our front lawn. Although my father was usually away at work, my mother never showed any fear of these visitors. She seemed to take it for granted that in such an economy needy people could be expected to show up at her door.