The Great Depression of 2009
Ivan R. Bosanko
February 26, 2009
Zillion Dollar Bailouts! Big 3 Automakers In Big Trouble! US Gov't Bails Out Banks and Insurance Companies! Mortgage and Subprime Lenders Create Monster Mess! Job Markets Vanish! Unemployment Hits Record High! Stimulus Package: Right or Wrong? Wall Street Investment Houses Crash! CEOs Shed Companies-Take Huge Bonuses With Them!
The above headlines have knocked the American taxpayer and the American public to their knees. Let me add the punchline: The USA is the only country in the world that rewards failure! Not only do we reward failure but we do it big time!! To add insult to injury, we're pouring billions right back into the coffers of the very same companies that put us into this colossal mess in the first place! Make sense to you? Hardly!
The other night, a major news anchorman finally got it right when he said we're no longer sliding from recession into a major recession. We're in a deep, deep depression that will, in all likelihood, rival The Great Depression of the 30s. If you've lost your job, home, used up what little savings you had or are about to run out of unemployment compensation, or all of the above, I don't think it matters what its called. The bottom line is that you're in big, big trouble!
Now those of us who do remember or lived thru The Great Depression can tell you that we share one common fear: Will our younger generations measure up the way we had to? We already know they've failed miserably trying to keep the depression's " golden rules" that we tried so hard to hand down to our sons, daughters and grandchildren. They went like this: Never spend more than you can afford; Always live within your means; Always save some of your paycheck; and always remember whatever you buy on credit has to be repaid out of future paydays. Can these generations abandon their "what's in it for me" and " I want it now" attitudes?
To those depression survivors, I'm sure you have plenty of memories stored up to last you the rest of you life. Let me tell you about some of mine. In1938, I was in the first grade in Leola, South Dakota. I had only one pair of shoes which my father and mother warned me that I had to make them last. There'd be no more 'til I started the second grade. I wore hand- me-down clothes that my two older brothers outgrew. Each Sunday I polished those shoes with tender, loving care, hoping the polish would help my shoes to last. One look around my classroom convinced me that I was most fortunate because over half of my classmates had to wear those dreaded WPA bib overalls and cotton denim shirts and dresses. My teacher stood by my desk holding a yardstick. Twice she cracked it across my desk to get everyone's attention. She said that if there were any snickers or teasing about WPA clothes, you'll deal with me after school! Enough said!
In the mid-west, most depression day veterans associate the "Great Dust Bowl" with the 1930s. And with good reason because you got two for the price of one! Meaning crop failures occurred right along with the hard times. Then the grasshoppers took over, swarms of them came, often blocking out the sun at times, devouring every form of vegetation in sight. Leola and McPherson County looked like the dead of winter in the middle of summer! The women dared not hang out Monday's wash. Instead, they used sheds, barns, spare rooms, basements or even their own bedrooms to find a safe place. When the 'hoppers ran out of anything remotely "green," they attacked fence posts and telephone poles. That sight will forever be etched in my mind.
My father's mail route took on its own special challenge. Every few miles, he was forced to stop. With an ice scraper and wet rag or towel, he'd clean off the 'hopper goo from his windshield. Then he'd pull a small screen that protected the car's radiator, scrape it and reattach it to the grill. A few more miles down the road, it was time to do it again! His routes usually took most of the daylight hours in those days.
When the 'hoppers finally moved on, the wind and dust storms took over. My mother valiantly fought the good fight, stuffing rags and towels around two of our doors, leaving one door for our use. No matter how careful we were or how quickly we closed one door, that fine coat of dust always found a way to settle on every floor and stick of furniture we owned. My dad used to say there wasn't a nook or cranny to be had that didn't have dust in it! Mopping was a useless task even though my mother refused to give up.
The depression signs were everywhere. The basement of our county courthouse was the distribution center for the town and most of the county. There were no food stamps, paperwork or income investigations to determine if a family was eligible. There was an unwritten code of understanding that if you drew a regular paycheck you'd better not get in line to receive your "commodities," the name everybody gave to the staples that were handed out. Sacks or bags of coffee, sugar, flour, cornmeal and salt made up the usual hand-out along with tins of lard and butter including blocks of cheese. In addition to the food items, mattresses, pillows and clothing were also stacked in the basement. We always knew when the WPA truck was in town to unload. The sight of some kid´s red wagon being pulled by several of our neighbors was a far better signal then word-of-mouth or the schedule posted on basement door. If you were in line when the food ran out, those ahead of you shared with you. This also was part of our unwritten code of conduct.
Leola had only one bank and when it closed its doors for good, panic hit our streets. It seemed like every grown-up in town and most of the farmers had money in it. Many lost considerable amounts, and a number of the bank´s customers lost all their savings including my grandparents. They were devastated! None of the accounts were insured. There was no such thing as the FDIC in those days. My mother and her two brothers along with her sister took up the slack, making sure grandpa and grandma kept a roof over their heads and had food on the table. My Grandpa was a proud, independent man and accepting his family´s hand-out took a lot out of him. He had one investment left as half-owner of a big- sized band of sheep being pastured east of town. I´ll touch on that a bit later.
In time, the next Leola State Bank reopened under a new charter with limited account protection. However, I can assure you that the lion´s share of what little money that was left in the county found its way into many a cookie jar or mattress. Such was the mistrust of any bank operating then. And I know for a fact that the new bank teller was a mighty lonesome man for a good long spell.
So just when did The Great Depression actually end? Well, in our neck of the woods many families continued thru hard times even after McPherson county farmers started harvesting once more. There was a saying back then that World War Two interrupted the depression. That saying had more then the proverbial "grain of truth" to it.
In 1942, I was ten years old. When I wasn´t pulling weeds or watering our new lawn, I was riding around with Grandpa Matt. We´d get out of town a mile or two and then Matt would let me slide under the wheel. Man what a feeling that was! In six weeks I could shift and clutch that Model A Coupe like I owned it! One day the county sheriff caught up with us. Matt feared the worst! He was sure a good old-fashioned butt chewing was coming. The idea of leaving some ten-year old kid at the controls! Better follow me said the sheriff. Into town? Questioned Matt. Look if there´s a fine, I´ll pay it later in town! I´m on my way to check on my sheep. To that the good sheriff replied: Just follow me, Matt, your sheep are gone!
Sure enough, we found at least six places where the wire fence had been cut. Not a wooly to be seen any where! Nothing but deep ruts from the pasture up to the main road. The sheriff came over to our car. How well do you know your partner? About 20 years, why? Matt, those truck tire tracks are at least five or six days old and your partner just reported your sheep missing this morning. Draw your own conclusion!
Matt drove into town without a word passing between us. He parked in his driveway, turned his back to me and let the tears fall. Then he gripped his cane hard before getting out. Better tell Mother it´s all gone…nothing left. I never drove his car after that day and Matt´s zest for life was never the same either. It was gone like his sheep.
The days after the depression had its lighter moments too! My older brother was the projectionist for our town movie theater. Do you think he might see to it that his kid brother had a free pass? No way! So I and a couple of buddies did the next best thing. We let a beer drinking bartender pay our way for better than six months. I´d better explain. Every Friday night or Saturday morning we would comb the ditches for empty pop or beer bottles. We turned them in to Oscar the bartender to collect enough for the Saturday matinee with usually enough left over for pop and popcorn. The grand total came to 25 cents at the matinee. Then a calamity struck! Leola´s ditches were clean! No more bottles to be had! What to do? Then the light bulb came on. We waited ´til early afternoon on Saturdays to check on Oscar´s condition. One of us would keep him busy while the other two filched (never did like the word swipe or steal) a case or two out of his shed. We then rubbed a little dirt or mud on them to make sure that they looked like we´d just found them in the ditch and resold them back to him. By then Oscar was feeling no pain and the sale was a push over. Usually we had enough to cover both the matinee and the early show on Saturday night. After six solid months of this, it was time to move on to better things. No sense pushing our luck too far! Opportunity was just moo away. It turned out to be a sure-fire way to a pension of all things. And to top that off, not one of us had to lift a finger. Perhaps this better be explained. Read on!
Actually this all came about by somebody letting over 200 cattle out of the local stockyard. Imagine, if you will, all those "cow pies" on main street, the sidewalks, in front of every merchant´s window or door and you´ll get the picture: One big, big smelly mess!
With nothing to do, my buddies and I helped round them up. The cattle buyer pulled out a roll of bills that´d choke a horse and proceeded to peel off a dollar bill for each of us. Can you imagine what a whole dollar was or could buy in those days? We had found the mother lode! Well, we insisted on helping load those crazy cattle into the boxcars. It was about then the cattle buyer had second thoughts. He cast a suspicious eye about the three of us, sure that one or more of us had let the cattle out in the first place. I don´t want you guys hanging around here any more, he said. One of you might get hurt or fall off the loading rails was how he handled it. Tell you what, just to keep you out´a here I´ll give each of you a dollar when you show up for next Saturday´s loading. And after you been paid, I´d better not ever see one of you around here! Get my message? Wow! We were set for life! A sure pension no less! All we had to do was show up and collect! A little post script is due. I found out many years later that one of my buddies had indeed let the cattle out, counting on getting paid to herd them back. Sure turned out far better then even he could´ve ever imagined. For the next four years I never had to ask my dad for my usual Saturday allowance. And what´s even more amazing is that he never volunteered to give me one! When the big war ended, my father retired after 34 years of faithful service. I´ll never forget the last time we passed by the stockyard as we headed west out of town. I´d lost a sure dollar, but I was 14 then and somewhere out west there had to another opportunity just waiting to make my acquaintance!
The above headlines have knocked the American taxpayer and the American public to their knees. Let me add the punchline: The USA is the only country in the world that rewards failure! Not only do we reward failure but we do it big time!! To add insult to injury, we're pouring billions right back into the coffers of the very same companies that put us into this colossal mess in the first place! Make sense to you? Hardly!
The other night, a major news anchorman finally got it right when he said we're no longer sliding from recession into a major recession. We're in a deep, deep depression that will, in all likelihood, rival The Great Depression of the 30s. If you've lost your job, home, used up what little savings you had or are about to run out of unemployment compensation, or all of the above, I don't think it matters what its called. The bottom line is that you're in big, big trouble!
Now those of us who do remember or lived thru The Great Depression can tell you that we share one common fear: Will our younger generations measure up the way we had to? We already know they've failed miserably trying to keep the depression's " golden rules" that we tried so hard to hand down to our sons, daughters and grandchildren. They went like this: Never spend more than you can afford; Always live within your means; Always save some of your paycheck; and always remember whatever you buy on credit has to be repaid out of future paydays. Can these generations abandon their "what's in it for me" and " I want it now" attitudes?
To those depression survivors, I'm sure you have plenty of memories stored up to last you the rest of you life. Let me tell you about some of mine. In1938, I was in the first grade in Leola, South Dakota. I had only one pair of shoes which my father and mother warned me that I had to make them last. There'd be no more 'til I started the second grade. I wore hand- me-down clothes that my two older brothers outgrew. Each Sunday I polished those shoes with tender, loving care, hoping the polish would help my shoes to last. One look around my classroom convinced me that I was most fortunate because over half of my classmates had to wear those dreaded WPA bib overalls and cotton denim shirts and dresses. My teacher stood by my desk holding a yardstick. Twice she cracked it across my desk to get everyone's attention. She said that if there were any snickers or teasing about WPA clothes, you'll deal with me after school! Enough said!
In the mid-west, most depression day veterans associate the "Great Dust Bowl" with the 1930s. And with good reason because you got two for the price of one! Meaning crop failures occurred right along with the hard times. Then the grasshoppers took over, swarms of them came, often blocking out the sun at times, devouring every form of vegetation in sight. Leola and McPherson County looked like the dead of winter in the middle of summer! The women dared not hang out Monday's wash. Instead, they used sheds, barns, spare rooms, basements or even their own bedrooms to find a safe place. When the 'hoppers ran out of anything remotely "green," they attacked fence posts and telephone poles. That sight will forever be etched in my mind.
My father's mail route took on its own special challenge. Every few miles, he was forced to stop. With an ice scraper and wet rag or towel, he'd clean off the 'hopper goo from his windshield. Then he'd pull a small screen that protected the car's radiator, scrape it and reattach it to the grill. A few more miles down the road, it was time to do it again! His routes usually took most of the daylight hours in those days.
When the 'hoppers finally moved on, the wind and dust storms took over. My mother valiantly fought the good fight, stuffing rags and towels around two of our doors, leaving one door for our use. No matter how careful we were or how quickly we closed one door, that fine coat of dust always found a way to settle on every floor and stick of furniture we owned. My dad used to say there wasn't a nook or cranny to be had that didn't have dust in it! Mopping was a useless task even though my mother refused to give up.
The depression signs were everywhere. The basement of our county courthouse was the distribution center for the town and most of the county. There were no food stamps, paperwork or income investigations to determine if a family was eligible. There was an unwritten code of understanding that if you drew a regular paycheck you'd better not get in line to receive your "commodities," the name everybody gave to the staples that were handed out. Sacks or bags of coffee, sugar, flour, cornmeal and salt made up the usual hand-out along with tins of lard and butter including blocks of cheese. In addition to the food items, mattresses, pillows and clothing were also stacked in the basement. We always knew when the WPA truck was in town to unload. The sight of some kid´s red wagon being pulled by several of our neighbors was a far better signal then word-of-mouth or the schedule posted on basement door. If you were in line when the food ran out, those ahead of you shared with you. This also was part of our unwritten code of conduct.
Leola had only one bank and when it closed its doors for good, panic hit our streets. It seemed like every grown-up in town and most of the farmers had money in it. Many lost considerable amounts, and a number of the bank´s customers lost all their savings including my grandparents. They were devastated! None of the accounts were insured. There was no such thing as the FDIC in those days. My mother and her two brothers along with her sister took up the slack, making sure grandpa and grandma kept a roof over their heads and had food on the table. My Grandpa was a proud, independent man and accepting his family´s hand-out took a lot out of him. He had one investment left as half-owner of a big- sized band of sheep being pastured east of town. I´ll touch on that a bit later.
In time, the next Leola State Bank reopened under a new charter with limited account protection. However, I can assure you that the lion´s share of what little money that was left in the county found its way into many a cookie jar or mattress. Such was the mistrust of any bank operating then. And I know for a fact that the new bank teller was a mighty lonesome man for a good long spell.
So just when did The Great Depression actually end? Well, in our neck of the woods many families continued thru hard times even after McPherson county farmers started harvesting once more. There was a saying back then that World War Two interrupted the depression. That saying had more then the proverbial "grain of truth" to it.
In 1942, I was ten years old. When I wasn´t pulling weeds or watering our new lawn, I was riding around with Grandpa Matt. We´d get out of town a mile or two and then Matt would let me slide under the wheel. Man what a feeling that was! In six weeks I could shift and clutch that Model A Coupe like I owned it! One day the county sheriff caught up with us. Matt feared the worst! He was sure a good old-fashioned butt chewing was coming. The idea of leaving some ten-year old kid at the controls! Better follow me said the sheriff. Into town? Questioned Matt. Look if there´s a fine, I´ll pay it later in town! I´m on my way to check on my sheep. To that the good sheriff replied: Just follow me, Matt, your sheep are gone!
Sure enough, we found at least six places where the wire fence had been cut. Not a wooly to be seen any where! Nothing but deep ruts from the pasture up to the main road. The sheriff came over to our car. How well do you know your partner? About 20 years, why? Matt, those truck tire tracks are at least five or six days old and your partner just reported your sheep missing this morning. Draw your own conclusion!
Matt drove into town without a word passing between us. He parked in his driveway, turned his back to me and let the tears fall. Then he gripped his cane hard before getting out. Better tell Mother it´s all gone…nothing left. I never drove his car after that day and Matt´s zest for life was never the same either. It was gone like his sheep.
The days after the depression had its lighter moments too! My older brother was the projectionist for our town movie theater. Do you think he might see to it that his kid brother had a free pass? No way! So I and a couple of buddies did the next best thing. We let a beer drinking bartender pay our way for better than six months. I´d better explain. Every Friday night or Saturday morning we would comb the ditches for empty pop or beer bottles. We turned them in to Oscar the bartender to collect enough for the Saturday matinee with usually enough left over for pop and popcorn. The grand total came to 25 cents at the matinee. Then a calamity struck! Leola´s ditches were clean! No more bottles to be had! What to do? Then the light bulb came on. We waited ´til early afternoon on Saturdays to check on Oscar´s condition. One of us would keep him busy while the other two filched (never did like the word swipe or steal) a case or two out of his shed. We then rubbed a little dirt or mud on them to make sure that they looked like we´d just found them in the ditch and resold them back to him. By then Oscar was feeling no pain and the sale was a push over. Usually we had enough to cover both the matinee and the early show on Saturday night. After six solid months of this, it was time to move on to better things. No sense pushing our luck too far! Opportunity was just moo away. It turned out to be a sure-fire way to a pension of all things. And to top that off, not one of us had to lift a finger. Perhaps this better be explained. Read on!
Actually this all came about by somebody letting over 200 cattle out of the local stockyard. Imagine, if you will, all those "cow pies" on main street, the sidewalks, in front of every merchant´s window or door and you´ll get the picture: One big, big smelly mess!
With nothing to do, my buddies and I helped round them up. The cattle buyer pulled out a roll of bills that´d choke a horse and proceeded to peel off a dollar bill for each of us. Can you imagine what a whole dollar was or could buy in those days? We had found the mother lode! Well, we insisted on helping load those crazy cattle into the boxcars. It was about then the cattle buyer had second thoughts. He cast a suspicious eye about the three of us, sure that one or more of us had let the cattle out in the first place. I don´t want you guys hanging around here any more, he said. One of you might get hurt or fall off the loading rails was how he handled it. Tell you what, just to keep you out´a here I´ll give each of you a dollar when you show up for next Saturday´s loading. And after you been paid, I´d better not ever see one of you around here! Get my message? Wow! We were set for life! A sure pension no less! All we had to do was show up and collect! A little post script is due. I found out many years later that one of my buddies had indeed let the cattle out, counting on getting paid to herd them back. Sure turned out far better then even he could´ve ever imagined. For the next four years I never had to ask my dad for my usual Saturday allowance. And what´s even more amazing is that he never volunteered to give me one! When the big war ended, my father retired after 34 years of faithful service. I´ll never forget the last time we passed by the stockyard as we headed west out of town. I´d lost a sure dollar, but I was 14 then and somewhere out west there had to another opportunity just waiting to make my acquaintance!
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