Nineteen twenty-nine was not a propitious year to be born into. I was the eleventh of twelve children to be born. Surely none of my siblings had entered the world at a more trying time. Although Mama and Papa owned neither stock nor bonds, the crash shaped the rest of our lives. It was a defining moment in history for the struggling Smith family and other Americans. The depression set the stage for a life of poverty. It affected all segments of society, including small farmers.

Cash crops such as corn, cotton, wheat and soybeans could not be sold. Animals still had to be fed. Many of the crops had to be allocated for hay and corn for the cows and horses. Chickens and eggs were bartered at the store for staples such as flour, sugar, salt and coffee. Mama carefully hoarded the eggs that the chickens laid. When the count reached a dozen, they were dispatched to the store. This chore was not assigned to the children. Breakage of the eggs would have been a significant loss. Seed potatoes were as precious as gold. Depression meant going to bed hungry. Mama and Papa grew thin and gaunt. We children had not a spare ounce of fat on our bones. Potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes made up our diet.

We went to bed with scant coverings in our cold house. There was no money for blankets. Mama had to cover our beds with coats to keep us warm. Many nights she would appear in our bedrooms with the kerosene lamp to make sure that we were still covered. Her workworn-roughened hands were comforting as she placed the wrapped heated sad irons on our feet. My sisters and I huddled together in the same bed. We called out "shift" when we wanted to turn over. We told ghost stories and giggled long past our bedtime. Our bodies stayed warm but our noses were as cold as a puppy's.

We had no toothbrushes and no dental care. Our teeth were cleaned with baking soda on a bit of cloth. The depression made for creativity. Our outhouse contained a Sears Roebuck catalog and box of soft corncobs in place of toilet paper. Slick catalog pages are not very effective as toilet paper. Our gloves in winter were my brother's discarded socks tied with a string around our wrists. My bloomers read "Mother's Best Flour" on the seat. I wore my sister's too large shoes to school with cardboard innersoles to keep my feet dry. Papa had always been our shoe cobbler but now there was nothing to cobble. There was no money for leather to tack to the worn shoes.

An extraordinary event occurred in our community. Crates of oranges were being distributed at the community hall. They were being given away! Papa brought a case home in the wagon. They were covered with straw so that our neighbors could not see that we accepted "relief". We were admonished to eat the oranges in privacy so that no one would know we had them. The oranges tasted all the sweeter for the conspiracy. The neighbor children were also closeted behind closed doors devouring oranges.

All this poverty was relieved somewhat, when my father took a job with the WPA. Papa was assigned to act as timekeeper for the men who were building a new school building in Glennonville. The WPA workers also laid sidewalks for our tiny village. I secretly prayed every night for a pair of roller skates so that I could skate on the new sidewalks. They came with a key that one could dangle from a string hung around the neck while skating. They cost sixty-nine cents in the Sears catalog. I didn't get the skates. "Such is life" as Mama would say to disappointments.