Potatoes For All - The Great Depression

24 September 2013

Visiting Angels comes by three times a week to prepare our evening meal. I tell them where everything is and they go to work. As I was describing the potatoes on Friday I remembered the garden at our home in Valley Forge when I was growing up during the Great Depression.

My parents had a two story brick house on two acres of land. The house, several bee hives, the garage, lawn and several fruit trees sat on one acre. An acre is the equivalent of land 208’ square. My parents had a rectangular piece of land but it was equal to two acres. The other acre was for our garden.

My father worked for the Philadelphia Suburban Water Company and when he came home (same time every nite) my mother had dinner ready to put on the table. The four of us (Mother, Dad, Ruth – my Sister and me) sat down and nobody got up until my father had pushed his chair away from the table.

And then my father headed out to the garden to plant, weed, hoe, harvest or whatever. Halfway thru the evening my mother would take him a small pitcher of iced tea with a glass. When it got dark he would come in and listen to the “news” on the radio. I was at the dining room table doing my school homework.

And now for the potatoes.

My father grew lots of potatoes in our garden along with tomatoes, peas, beans, beets, swiss chard, corn, etc. When the potatoes were dug (bushels of them) be took them into our basement where he had built a “bin” for them on the cool cement floor.

We had fried potatoes every morning for breakfast. And in the evening we had potatoes again – every day – baked, or mashed, or boiled, or scalloped, etc.

Talking about my father working for the Philadelphia Suburban Water Company. The summer of 1930 was a blistering hot and rainless experience. A REAL DRAUGHT! The water company had lots of water (from the Pickering Spring dam) to meet the extraordinary demand but distribution was a challenge. They had a fenced circular reservoir in Devon from which water was piped to the houses, etc. It had to be kept full. Outside the reservoir was a pumphouse (used during very heavy demands). During the drought, it was my father’s job to keep the pump running. My mother would make him an early breakfast and pack him a lunch and he was off for Devon in the company’s truck before daylight.

He kept the pump running and everyone had water. Late in the afternoon my mother made up a picnic dinner (for our evening meal) in a basket and off we went to Devon. I was 13 years old and drove the family Chevrolet. Yes, driver’s licenses were issued at 16 but nobody bothered me. My mother spread a tablecloth on the lawn outside the pumphouse and we enjoyed the picnic time together – and then I drove us back home. My father came home after dark when the demand for water no longer required the pump to be operating.

Talking about my father – in the summer of 1949 he came down with stomach cancer and in August, as I sat at his bedside, he quietly passed into LIFE ETERNAL. And for that I am thankful.

Most summers (as you know) I spent with my grandparents on Chesterbrook Farm. This is where you worked one summer. They even gave you a pin with your name on it. [ He is referring to my internship at Embassy Suites Hotel in Chesterbrook. ]

This was the pattern of my youth. And I loved every moment of it.