Webb City: Life in a Small Ozark Town During the Depression and World War Ii

By Harve E. Rawson

A psychologist authored this nostalgic look at a small Ozark town, Webb City, Missouri, from the depths of the Great Depression to the end of the Post World War II Era. It is a beautiful tribute and affirmation of so-called middle America and small town values and attempts to demonstrate how small interactions in a childs life make a tremendous difference. The story is unique: the tales are told as seen through the eyes of a perky, bright, rather independent red-haired boy who finds out for himself the good and bad of people, examines the values people use to give meaning to their lives, explores the deep prejudices and hero-worship that hinder their growth, and, most importantly, discovers that most people are on your side when the going gets rough.

The ugliness of the Great Depression - the chronic unemployment, the hunger, the feelings of worthlessness, the poor health, the absolute despair - is the setting for the first part of the story as Ozarkians struggle to survive and retain human dignity in the process. Neighbors help each other simply because they know they may be the next to need help; employment is shared because it is dignifying; self-reliance is given the highest priority; but schooling and learning is never neglected. On the contrary - it is given new importance as the way out of this mess.

World War II eventually effects even this remote little town in the Ozarks. The unemployment crises ends, but the town sacrifices its best to the Armed Services; its minerals are exploited callously without environmental regard; and new prejudices emerge, with are damaging to all.

The end of the War brings much greater material prosperity, but the old social order is rapidly collapsing. Rigid racial segregation becomes untenable, families are moving to new opportunities, and technology threatens many social institutions which once seemed to serve so well.

Within this background, the author relates those childhood experiences that shaped him as an adult. Each family member, each neighbor, each job, each institution, each friend - all molded his character and all taught him valuable lessons for dealing with both personal and professional life.

This is a collection of parables, It is not an autobiography. It is not a book of nostalgia. It is not a history of the Depression or World War II. It is not a history of Webb City. It is a series of tales - teaching tales - that show how sometimes seemingly small incidents in a childs life can change them forever. It also clearly demonstrates that we are always affecting others by what we do - especially children!

The parables cover altruism, avarice, selflessness, sharing, sacrifice, giving, self-centeredness, devotion, loyalty, concern, patriotism, love of learning, poverty, poor health, unemployment, racial and religious prejudice, insensitivity, callousness, religious beliefs, greed, and quite a few other human foibles and strengths.

This book, part of the Tales of the Ozarks series, contains material from some events of Webb City over 50 years ago, including references to actual places, people, and events, it must be read as a work of reimagined memory, which is, as we all know, a form of fiction. Certain historical facts, sequencing of events, peoples motives and intents, and even dialogue may not be accurate.

A companion CD of these tales and others, entitled Tales of the Ozarks will soon be available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 4, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462800308

Harve E. Rawson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Harve E. Rawson was raised in the Ozark Mountains of Southwestern Missouri. He attended Antioch College and then Ohio State University where he received his Ph.D. in psychology. His first post-doctoral job was working for North American Aviation as a psychologist on "Project Apollo." After that, he began a long career as a professor at Hanover College, a small liberal arts college in the Midwest. During his 32-year tenure at Hanover, Dr. Rawson taught thousands of students, completed post-doctoral work in both experimental and clinical psychology, founded and directed (for 25 years) a short-term residential treatment center for behaviorally-disoriented children, was twice president of the Indiana Psychological Association, was awarded the Indiana Psychology Association's Distinguished Academic Psychologist Award and later their Community Service Award for his work with children, was awarded Hanover College's first teaching award (receiving it a second time in 1980) and, in 1988, was named a Fulbright Scholar with assignment in Bahrain. In 1994, the same year as his early retirement from Hanover, Dr. Rawson was again named a Fulbright Scholar, but instead became Dean of Faculty and, later, Dean of the College of Franklin College (another small liberal arts college). In 1998, he was appointed visiting professor of psychology at Mississippi State University, a brief interlude prior to further world travels which now includes over 170 countries. Dr. Rawson has over the past decade completed two radio broadcast series, 3 CDs, and seven published books ranging from a collection of parables drawn from his early childhood, three books of travel tales, a book on his college teaching experiences, a book on parenting, a radio series on world travel, a science-fiction "retro-historical" novel, a family history, and a book centered on the experiences of a World War II soldier.

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Copyright © 2000 by Harve E. Rawson.

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Contents

FOREWORD

THE DEPRESSION

CHAPTER I:

CHAPTER II:

THE WAR YEARS

CHAPTER III:

CHAPTER IV:

CHAPTER V:

CHAPTER VI:

CHAPTER VII:

CHAPTER VIII:

CHAPTER IX:

THE POST WAR ERA

CHAPTER X:

NEIGHBORS

CHAPTER XI:

CHAPTER XII:

CHAPTER XIII:

CHAPTER XIV:

CHAPTER XV:

CHAPTER XVI:

CHAPTER XVII:

CHAPTER XVIII:

CHAPTER XVIX:

All those who know, deep in their hearts,

that Webb City is the perfect place

to be raised, nourished, taught, developed and loved

and to

Kate Elizabeth Rawson

FOREWORD

In this collection, I cover some early vignettes in my life that took place for the main part before I was 10 years old. Each episode had an effect on me and helped shaped my life either for the good or the bad. Early childhood experiences have a profound influence on later life—there’s no denying it. I was born to loving and caring parents, so I was one of the lucky ones. Children not having that good luck pay a heavy price in later life.

All of the episodes took place in my hometown, Webb City (very near the Kansas-Missouri border in Southwest Missouri) in the far northwest of the Ozark Mountains, which I loved at the time and still do. The remembrances are as I recall them, i.e., my perception of them now, which is my only valid memory. Although this book contains material from some events of Webb City over 50 years ago, including references to actual places, people, and events, it must be read as a work of reimagined memory, which is, as we all know, a form of fiction. Certain historical facts, sequencing of events, people’s motives and intents, and even dialogue may not be accurate. This is essentially a book of a small child’s perception of the world around him—not the actual world of that time.

It’s not what actually occurred that matters anyway—it’s how we perceive it, how we store it into memory, and how and when we retrieve those memories that matters as they influence our behavior and thoughts in later life.

I’m sure my brothers and sister, featured prominently, recall things differently. They should. They were raised when my parents were very different due to age, financial pressures, number of children, etc. Plus, society also changed with birth order. My older brother and sister were first children, born into the roaring twenties of optimism and affluence, followed by the great economic crash of 1929. I was born at the height of the Great Depression when people were despondent and generally unemployable. When I went to elementary school World War II encompassed all activity, even in Webb City. My younger brother was born at the beginning of the war and my mother started a full-time job as a social worker when he was just a baby. By the time he reached his teens, America was enjoying great prosperity. The post-war society was one of great change in social values and behavior.

This tale is my perception of childhood. It covers periods of great uncertainty and poverty for many people in Webb City and addresses how those same people coped with America’s entry into the greatest war of all times. But for me, thanks to my family, my hometown and the wonderful people living there, it was a great adventure that was fun, exciting, and certainly good preparation for life. My childhood adventures shaped many of my values and beliefs as an adult and professional psychologist. I want to share some of those adventures with you.

The book certainly doesn’t cover all aspects of my childhood—far from it. It consists of segments that I believe readers might enjoy and which had a strong influence on the way I think and feel and behave today. I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it for you.

Harve E. Rawson, Madison, Indiana, 2001.

THE

DEPRESSION

CHAPTER I:

1934

I was born on the hottest day ever recorded in Webb City history: July 25, 1934. The temperature was 106 F. and the electric fan in the delivery room at Webb City’s Jane Chinn Osteopathic Hospital wasn’t equal to the challenge. Dr. Cox, my mother, and I all reacted negatively: Dr. Cox by sweating profusely; my mother by moaning; and me by breaking out in prickly heat on every square inch of my body until I appeared bright red over an almost transparent skin.

I was immediately coated with corn starch straight from the grocer’s shelf—it was the standard treatment for prickly heat at the time. I was left to learn how to sweat on my own. Within the standard five days, I was home at 610 South Pinchot Street where I would stay for the next 18 years. My arrival home did not abate the prickly heat which still covered every part of me from my eyelids to my toes. The heat was equally unabated. So, until mid-September my life consisted of lying nude in a crib with an old Westinghouse fan aimed at me coated head to foot with corn starch and crying when I had the strength. Finally, the heat let up, the prickly heat turned to hives, and I started the process of growth born within me.

This wasn’t the most auspicious start in life. First, I hate corn to this day, and I’m pretty sure it was due to all that corn starch back then. Second, my crying day and night didn’t make me the most popular person in the house and certainly an ugly, wailing red ball of agitated flesh didn’t meet the expectation of a cute little baby brother promised my older brother and sister. Third, everyone, not just me, was worn out from the unrelenting heat and the new arrival pigging the only fan in the house. Fourth, I’ve always wondered just how popular I could be in perhaps the most despairing and hopeless year of the Great Depression. The fact that the birth rate was at an all-time low proportional to the population tells me that most avoided another mouth to feed. Yet, here I was. Apparently, I was here to stay! Freud would have had a field day with this material. Fortunately, Sigmund hadn’t really taken hold in the America of 1934 so his theories had little influence on my development—one way or the other. It was like that in Webb City—people managed things like they saw fit regardless of what was going on in foreign places which included most anywhere outside a 10-mile radius.

I’m not fond of heat to this day, but have learned to manage—thanks to my Webb City training. By my second and third year I was initiated into how to cope with hot unsleepable nights. First, supper was almost always cold food so we didn’t have to heat up the kitchen. Then, as soon as it was dark, we went out in the back yard which was reasonably private, stripped down to the buff one and all, and sprayed each other with the cold water from the garden hose. Then we spread sheets on the clothes lines and wetted them down with the cold water. Each person then took his sheet, wrung it out a little, and then took it into the house, spreading it on an underlying rubber sheet covering the mattress. The evaporation from the drying sheet, along with our wet pre-cooled nude bodies, allowed us to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. It was a little clammy and most nights it worked; only on nights where the humidity was close to 100 percent did the method fail. We always tried it anyway, mainly because at least we were doing something to help ourselves. My parents were always big on taking charge and trying to outwit nature if possible.

Each year seemed to produce another sturdy black rewired Westinghouse fan from the Empire District Electric Company, my father’s employer. So by the time I was four or so, I warranted a fan of my own which certainly speeded up the evaporative cooling process. We felt nature had been effectively conquered for the main part. Our luck in getting fans was due to the fact that the electricity in the area was being converted from 25 cycles per second to the now universal 60 cycles per second. All electric motors had to be rewired to make them usable at the new modern wave lengths of electricity. Of course, this process had taken place decades earlier in most areas of the country, but Webb City was deep in the Ozarks and change came slowly, if at all, to this part of the country in the middle of the Depression. I didn’t realize it then, but the fact we even had electric fans, rebuilt or not, was most unusual and due solely to the fact that my father worked for the electric company. Many homes in Webb City at that time could not afford an electric fan while still others weren’t even wired for electricity. But, thanks to my Dad, at 610 South Pinchot St., we were wired and ready to go!

CHAPTER II:

EARLY CHILDHOOD

My mother was a rarity in those days—a woman who had a college education. As a result of this unusual training, she entertained many theories of her own on how children developed. One was that children should be breast-fed. So I was. Another was that children should be fed when they were hungry. She had followed John Watson’s early behavioral psychology methods in rearing my older brother and sister with its emphasis on scheduled feeding with no exceptions. By the time I came along, she had given up this theory and believed children knew when they were hungry, not Dr. John Watson, and should be fed without incident when they indicated they were hungry. [I’ve always wondered if the fact I’m obese and my older brother and sister aren’t has anything to do with this].

Mother had mastered German while in college and believed that if an infant heard the language spoken frequently, they could easily learn it later on, a theory attributed to a lesser-known psychologist, Dr. Harold Burtt. Consequently, I, like my older brother and sister before me, was read German poetry for a half hour each morning as I laid in my crib. This went on for the first two years of my life. Basically, the idea wasn’t too bad. Babies learned the guttural sounds of German at the same time they were learning the softer sounds of English. When people wanted to pronounce German later in life, the sounds would be familiar. The end result of this effort was that my older brother could never master one word of German, my sister never tried it, and I stumble over even the simplest German pronunciations, having trouble even saying Stuttgart or Fuhrer. So much for Burtt’s theories on early language exposure. But my mother wanted the best for her kids, even if it meant losing 30 valuable minutes a day for years and years reading the same old boring German poems to us. I dare say that few children in remote areas of the Ozarks in the middle of the Depression were daily having high quality German poetry read to them!

On my third birthday, my mother threw a party for me and my best friends. Jimmy VanKamp and Doris Louise Kazmarik were invited along with my older brother Paul and sister Margaret. I still have a photograph of the party taken with an old box-style Kodak. Gifts included a brand new Red Flyer wagon from Montgomery Ward, a chocolate cake with chocolate icing (still my favorite to this day), and a new pair of sandals. Everything mentioned is included in that old photograph and, remarkably, I appear of normal height, weight, and show no signs of prickly heat! Taking a photograph was considered a real luxury (most people couldn’t afford even a simple box camera, let alone the film) and a three-year-old getting a brand new wagon was practically unheard of in the Webb City of 1937 (so I was probably considered spoiled and overindulged by my parent’s friends). Even at three I got a glimmer that all was not equal in this world.

By the time I was a sophisticated four, I knew things weren’t equal. Among my friends, my dad was the only father I knew that had regular employment. Our house had many more books, magazines, newspapers, and other reading matter than most homes of the town. We never missed a meal that I can recall; we had a car of sorts (most people didn’t); we even had an electric refrigerator, one of the few I can recall during those early years.

In contrast, most fathers were unemployed. All had tried their best to find work—but the jobs just weren’t there. As the months, even years, wore on, many of the men had sunk into chronic despair and way too many, robbed of their self-worth, had taken to the bottle. It wasn’t uncommon to go to a friend’s house and there in a dark corner you’d see a gaunt defeated man staring at you with hollow eyes, his hands clutching a bottle of liquor.

At the time, I didn’t think much of all this because everything is relative. If most people are poor and you’re just semi-poor, then you think you’re rich. If most people are sick and you just feel lousy, then you think you’re in great health. If most people are ignorant and you’ve read a book about something, you tend to think you’re educated. Well, it was that way in Webb City. Before I was five years old, I concluded that my parents were rich, educated, and privileged. In my mind they were, despite the fact I was frequently sent out to sell sweet peas from my father’s garden to any neighbor dumb enough to pay a nickel per assorted color bouquet. Every nickel counted and I got to keep half of the take.

Most of my time was spent playing with Jimmy VanKamp, my best friend for the next 15 years. I was five months older than him, but we didn’t let that bother us. He was more athletic and daring; I was more reserved and bossy. Together we made a good team. When told China was on the other side of the world and was an interesting place to visit, we promptly started digging a hole to get there. We reasoned that a hole straight through the earth would be the quickest route. After digging down two to three feet in the middle of the VanKamp’s front yard, we abandoned the project as unfeasible and started work on a tree house instead. We finished that with some help from Jimmy’s father, LeRoy.

And I quickly learned that Jimmy’s mother, Louise, was the best cook ever!

Harve, why don’t you stay for lunch today, she’d start out. We’re not having much, but I’m thinking of fried chicken and mashed potatoes and maybe a fresh peach pie for dessert. Does that sound good?

Sounds real good to me, I answered while practically drooling. I’d tasted all of these foods from her kitchen before. Thank you, Mrs. VanKamp, I always managed to work in as a confirmation before she changed her mind.

Oh, good, she’d trill back. Now I know just what to fix,as if I had done her some great favor.

Jimmy’s dad was one of the friendliest men ever. How’s my favorite redhead, he’d invariably greet me. What are you up to today? I’d share with him a current problem. He’d seem to give it real thought and then answer, Well, I hear your whole family’s real smart so I suppose you’re no exception. You’ll work it out if anyone can. Then he’d amble back to the house as I felt like a million dollars. Mr. VanKamp had been laid off from his work some years ago. So he was around a lot. Family support, during this emergency, seemed to come from Mother Van, Jimmy’s widowed grandmother whose husband left enough for all to survive through the darkest periods of the Depression.

Mother Van was a fun person to visit—her house was like a museum from about 1915 with Tiffany lamps and rattan furniture. She wore long dark dresses as she thought befitted a widow. What a class act! She told us stories about various town residents. They were always flattering and made everyone appear to be a hero. We always thought she was rich because she didn’t work. Mother Van made it clear she was mighty approving of Jimmy and me. She also made it clear her son LeRoy was the apple of her eye—a man who could do no wrong—and she considered his marriage to Louise, the daughter of a prominent Joplin physician, a marriage made in heaven. A good part of her charisma was that such pronouncements were always stated as self-evident facts, not opinions.

A good deal of every summer was spent on our large screened-in front porch which was also wired for electricity and could support the old rewired Westinghouse fans which faithfully blew on us all day. The porch was furnished with a huge woven straw rug from Woolworth’s over a gray painted floor, painted green lawn furniture my father had made, and a huge swing suspended from the ceiling that could carry three or four people. My mother left nothing to chance, so good reading lamps, painted a matching green, were also provided so family members could sit in the cool on a summer evening and read while the bugs beat against the screens.

In the hot summer months, we also carried out a small Philco radio enabling us to listen to the really good evening and weekend radio shows. My dad’s favorite was The Shadow. We never missed an episode. Other musts were Amos & Andy (the term racist wasn’t in usage then), Baby Snooks, The Jack Benny Show, Mystery Theater, Fibber McGee & Molly, and Gabriel Heater with the News. I believe H. J. Kalkenborn was also a big news hit, but I can’t remember much about him other than the opening line This is H. J. Kalkenborn and........ in ominous tones of dread. Even worse, though, was Gabriel Heater’s news which usually opened with Folks, there’s bad news tonight. . . . I always wondered when good news might be forthcoming, but I don’t believe Gabriel had much of that in him. My dad really enjoyed the comedies and would chuckle with every line. Dad seldom missed his mysteries, either. The news was a must with him since he prided himself on being fully informed, but that inevitably meant listening to Gabriel Heater’s funereal version of world events. The whole family listened to the radio almost every night and every Sunday afternoon. It was free, fun, and we all enjoyed it. There was no such thing as solitary activities. Everything was interpreted by all family members; we learned how to compromise by verbally sparring over what we would listen to next.

Because my mother spent teaching time with me, I could read fairly well and even write some by the time I was four. Since she also had my older brother and sister to care for, as well as do all the food processing and canning from my father’s huge garden, that speaks to her priorities. Plus, by that time we had taken in a widow and a single woman who worked all day for 50 cents and lunch. At one point both stayed overnight with us because they were in desperate straits.

Some would say my mother had domestic help. She did—at least sporadically. Nevertheless, she was always busy cooking, canning, cleaning, washing and ironing all hours of the day and often even into the night. Plus both of my folks were busy with their children’s activities. My dad was very busy as my brother Paul’s Scoutmaster. My mother was active in Girl Scouts with my sister, Margaret Ann, and P.T.A. was a big thing for both of them. My mother taught Sunday School and my dad was an Elder at Webb City’s Presbyterian Church. Although neither one belonged to service clubs, they certainly were active in community affairs.

At