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The Arnold children and mother on their newly fenced and newly cleared land. Formerly forested land turned into farm land by 20th century pioneer family after timber companies harvested old growth timber. Note strawberry plants. Western Washington, Thurston County, Michigan Hill. Photo by Dorothea Lange, August 1939.
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Mr. Wardlaw and family, after moving from drought-stricken NW Arkansas to new land in Oregon, are adjusting to western farming. Dead Ox Flat, Malheur, Oregon. Photo by Dorothea Lange, October 1939.
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Daughter of migrant Tennessee coal miner. Living in American River camp near Sacramento, California. Photographed by Dorothea Lange, November 1936.
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The following chapter from Thirty Years After: An Artist’s Story of the Great War, by Edwin Forbes and published in 1890, includes terms and topics that may be offensive to many today. No attempt has been made to censor or edit 19th century material to today’s standards.
PEACE ON EARTH, good-will toward men could not ring out its grateful cadence in the scenes of conflict through which our army was passing; nor even during the ordinary camp rests, when most of the soldiers, if they had anything in the nature of a special banquet in honor of the ancient festival of good cheer, had to get it by special foraging in the enemy’s country. Yet, although there were no home-greetings, tender memories of Christmas-tide filled the hearts of the soldiers and took them back in thought to where little ones sang in anthem the story of old. Remote from scenes most dear and happy in the consciousness of a country’s defense, our brave men brushed away a tear and sought to enjoy the holiday as best they might.
I was just feeling a sense of my own loneliness one Christmas day when an officer of the Signal Corps invited me to take dinner with some friends of his on the picket-line. It was quite early in the morning when we mounted our horses and started from camp. After riding some miles, we came in sight of the picket-reserves; then rode on and found that the main picket-line extended across a valley through which flowed a creek. Nearing a point of crossing, we passed a picket-post on a sand-bar in the middle of the stream, and halted a while to admire the beautiful surroundings. The hut, which was prettily fashioned of pine boughs, sheltered three or four sleeping men, while the cook was getting a frugal dinner ready on the camp-fire in front. Near-by, the officers’ mess was being prepared, and we were cordially invited to partake of “chicken fricassee, camp-style.” The odor of the cooking was appetizing, and our long ride had given us an appetite, but as we were expected elsewhere, we were obliged to decline and soon took leave of the hospitable officers.
We rode down the line and found the post, commanded by my comrade’s friend, on an old farm road. The men were camped in the farm garden, where they had thrown up a shelter of boards against the fence as a protection from the cold wind. We dismounted in the barn-yard, and entrusted our horses to an old negro servant who promised them a feed of corn. We were most cordially received, and the dinner was soon placed before us on a table improvised from the cover of an oat-bin.
We found that living on the outer picket-line was much better than in the main army camp, and were surprised at the real luxuries placed before us, most of which had been obtained from the farmers at very small cost. The bill of fare consisted of rabbit-stew, fricasseed chicken, griddle-cakes with honey, and excellent coffee. To this we did full justice, and, with the addition of a little “commissary,” had a more enjoyable feast than we had eaten in months. The rough fellows often detailed as cooks, and especially the “darkeys,” who attached themselves to the various commands as camp-followers and servants of all kinds, developed much culinary talent at times, and the clearness of the coffee and toothsomeness of their simple dishes would put to shame many a professional cook. It is fair to allow, however, that perhaps the admirable hunger-sauce of outdoor life had something to do with these savory concoctions.
After an hour or two of social chat over our pipes, we rode further down the line and stopped at various points to talk with friends who were on duty. None seemed to have fared as sumptuously as ourselves; most of the men were cooking salt pork, though one party had secured a turkey from a neighboring farmer and looked lovingly towards it as it roasted before the glowing camp-fire. Some of the men were fortunate enough to have received boxes from home, and their faces grew bright as they lifted out roast turkey, chickens, bread, cake and pies that kindly hands had prepared. An occasional bottle of “old rye,” secreted in a turkey or loaf of bread, would give rise to much fun and expected enjoyment. The provost guard, however, seldom overlooked a bottle, and confiscated any contraband liquor; and his long experience had bred in him a sort of special sense for any such little infractions of the rule, which was inflexible even for Christmas, and if got the better of at all had to be by a skillful and imperceptible breaking.
But little more of interest came in our way on the agreeable trip I have mentioned, and we returned to camp much brightened by the scenes which so pleasantly broke the monotony of soldier life on that Christmas day at the front.
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Eighty year old woman living in squatters’ camp on the outskirts of Bakersfield, California. “If you lose your pluck you lose the most there is in you – all you’ve got to live with;” photo by Dorothea Lange, November 1936
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Book department at R. H. Macy and Company department store in New York City during the week before Christmas, 1942. Photograph by Marjory Collins.
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Delta cooperative farm, Hillhouse, Miss. A Farm Security Administration cooperative settled by evicted sharecroppers from Arkansas, Photo by Dorothea Lange; July 1936
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In Farm Security Administration (FSA) migrant labor camp during pea harvest. Family from Oklahoma with eleven children. Father, eldest daughter and eldest son working. She: “I want to go back to where we can live happy, live decent, and grow what we eat.” He: “I’ve made my mistake and now we can’t go back. I’ve got nothing to farm with.” Brawley, Imperial County, California. Photo by Dorothea Lange, February 1939;
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March 1937 – Family of four to be returned to Oklahoma by the Relief Administration. “They won’t go until they get so hungry that there’s nothing else for them to do. They won’t go – not twenty-five percent will go” said a transient case worker in Imperial County. This family was hungry. They lost a two-year-old baby as the result of exposure during the winter. Holtville, California; photo by Dorothea Lange
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Geronimo in headdress 1907 – postcard
Half-length portrait, facing front; photo by A.B. Canady, Altoona, Kas., U.S.A.; Library of Congress image.
Goyaałé “one who yawns.” “Geronimo” was the name given to him during a battle with Mexican soldiers. Born to the Bedonkohe band of the Apache in June 1829 in the modern state of New Mexico.
10 copies sold 10/27/2014