My life started during a difficult period in America history in 1929. Since I was born right at this time in history, I was known as a "Depression Baby" in my family.
Maybe this title came from the name of the era in which I was born, but there may have been other reasons. Was my mother happy with my birth? I was her ninth child. Does this fact say it all? No, added to this sad state of affairs, another emotional blow came to Mom and her family.
Her mother, Elizabeth Mary Connell Noonan, was staying on the farm to help Mom during this pregnancy. Grandma suffered from asthma and she also had heart problems. Mother said she usually kept some kind of heart medication near her at all times as well as a contrivance that we might call an earlier version of our modern aspirators. She and my recuperating mother slept in the same bed that night with me, the new baby between them. For whatever reason, Grandma did not put her medications by her bed that night. Because she was not able to reach her medicine, she died just after midnight of the day I was born. She was 67 years old.
Of course, Mom was unable to attend Grandma’s funeral. Ordinarily, giving birth was an opportunity to relish some much-merited rest. Mom had experienced this circumstance of birthing eight times previously. This surely gave her a realistic sense of the Latin maxim, Carpe Deum, “Seize the Day” even as she mourned the loss of her mother.
I know that she did not hold any of this against me. Several years later after we had moved to Verona, a woman told me I had caused my grandmother's heart attack.
Tearfully, I ran home to tell Mom that I never meant to kill her mother. I surely knew I had nothing to do with Grandma’s demise. Even at that young age, subconsciously or consciously, I must have sensed my shallow distress would agitate the neighborhood stew just a bit. Silently, my Mom dried my crocodile tears. Off we went, hand in hand, to confront this insensitive woman. Much to my delight, Mom let her have it with both barrels. (Don’t ever mess with the brood of an Irish redhead.) The woman tried to excuse herself by saying she was only teasing. Mom told her this was not a subject for teasing a child. This was one of many times I was very proud of my Mom. She was angry but she was calm and forceful.
As for my self, I had need of some repentance. Homeward bound, Mom told me that Grandma was the one who insisted that I should be named Grace because it meant "Gift from God". Oppps! Me thinks that on this occasion and many others, I fell short of Grandma’s optimistic choice of a name.
Grandma’s husband, James Henry Noonan, died three years later at the age of 77. I know little about either of these two grandparents. Family oral history has told me that Grandpa James was a heavy drinker who was often verbally abusive to his children.
His death occurred as he was leading a cow out into the pasture. He fell, possibly from a fatal heart attack. He had been smoking a cigar. It fell on his arm where it smoldered until someone saw him and saved him from being cremated right then and there.
It is no wonder Mom hated drinking and the harm it caused to all involved. The only “drinking” I ever saw in our home was occasionally on a hot summer day. Mom and Dad would share one cold beer. On the occasion of a great holiday like Thanksgiving or Christmas, when Dad returned home from working sites afar, he would buy a bottle of Mogen David wine for the festive dinner. We were all allowed a wee glass to celebrate the season.
I don't remember much about my life on the farm except for a few incidents that illustrate that people in those days relied very seldom on doctors in times of sickness or accidents.
When I was about two years old, I had a high fever that induced delirium for an extended period. I have been told that I would recoil in panic when Dad came near my bed and that I screamed in terror about creatures climbing on the walls. Running to the doctor for help was not an option. My mother just had some home remedies such as Denver Mud that she used for many ills. Prayer was her most-used panacea.
An incident occurred some years later when I was about four. My brothers and sisters were sitting around the kitchen table doing schoolwork. I was playing with paper and scissors. Foolishly for some childish reason, I rolled up a little wad of paper and stuck it in my ear. Without having noticed what I had done, mother announced, “Time for bed.”
“I can’t go until I get the paper out of my ear,” I timidly replied.
Silence followed that assertion. Everyone examined my ear to see how far down I had pushed the paper. They tried to get it out, but this was impossible. Mother, addressing the older boys said they had to go out in the bitterly cold night to hitch the horses to the sleigh so that we could go into Verona for help. Mother thought that the barber, Mel Holman, might have something to get the paper out. As the center of attention, I remember feeling very important. We went to town, probably four or five miles away. The barber did have some long tweezers that he used to solve the problem. He also gave me a little treat. I don't remember my mother scolding me at all, but I do recall the boys were not happy. It was late and they had to get up early the next morning to do the chores before going to school.
Even though we lived in the country, I don't think we ever missed going to Mass every Sunday. I remember going to church in the winter by means of the horse-drawn sleigh. We were covered with blankets and we had large stones or Sadd irons that had been heated in the cook stove to help keep us warm.
Mom’s life must have been incredibly difficult, being pregnant or nursing most of her life, but I never heard her complain. We were very poor but I think we had a happy life. She had a great sense of humor and a remarkable Irish wit.
To support his family, Dad finally had to leave the farm work to the boys. He left to work at logging around Cass Lake, MN.
After Mom died, my sister, Mary, found a notebook that Mom had kept as an expense journal. She wrote on one occasion that Dad had sent home a check for $7.50. With this she had to repay $3 that she had borrowed from a neighbor. She said that Grace and Mildred needed to have their shoes resoled and that she had nothing left neither to bake Christmas goodies nor to buy gifts for us. As my sister, Mary and I were reading this journal, we could feel the sadness that she must have experienced. I think one of Mom's mottoes must have been, "Whatever doesn't kill us, makes us strong."
History tells us that “By 1931, food and other products were available at rock-bottom prices but sales remained stagnant.
“An advertisement by a dry goods company offered women’s fall dresses for $2.99; boys’ knickers for 69 cents; girls’ dresses for 59 cents; and children’s shoes for 79 cents. Lizard skin shoes for women could be purchased for $1.98.”
From another source, I read: “Brown sugar-3#-17 cents; Early Peas-No. 2 can-two for 25 cents; Lemons (Sunkist) 1 Oz. 24 cents; Jello-three packages--14 cents; Bananas-3#-19 cents; Pork and Beans-three cans-17 cents.”
Even at these prices, I am positive Mom was seldom able to order clothes, shoes or any other products. She wore the same brown coat for all the years of my childhood that I can remember. She made most of our clothes on her pedal-powered Singer sewing machine. Her sister, Aunt Margaret Sorg, who seemed to have been better off financially, would sporadically send her some hand-me-downs to alter for us.
It was about this time that Adolf Hitler as a dictator was creating unrest in Europe. Germany elected to leave the League of Nations and the Jewish businesses are beginning to be boycotted. Germany’s Boy Scouts are being replaced by Hitler’s Youth. German artists are fleeing the country because they will not follow the command to honor Nazism. Winston Churchill warns the world that Germany is rearming. War is in the air again.
Despite rumors of war our life on the farm was not without some good times. We often went to visit my Dad’s sister, Aunt Ethel Peterson, at their farm. We always were treated to great food in the good company of several families, mostly relatives. One Fourth of July, we visited there. We were treated to fireworks in the evening. The mood of that evening was something like the description that reads as follows.
“Families brought food and set a fine table, plus the homemade ice cream and watermelons. Fireworks were also pooled and an adult was in charge of ‘firing them off’ in the evening. Around 4:30 p.m., those with ‘chore duty’ would go home hurriedly, do up the milking, feed the pigs and poultry, gather the eggs, and hurry back for supper and the spectacular (to us) fireworks. (How many gopher tails and potato bugs it took to buy these fireworks with!) This particular time, the time had arrived for the fireworks and everybody found a select vantage point from which to view it. Henry Arenkill was to shoot them off. The first Roman candle and skyrocket had gone up beautifully, in a burst of stars. Suddenly, the whole works was going off across the yard in every direction, the sky rockets like great fiery snakes zigzagging across the yard, frightening the horses at the water tank and they took off south through the fence. Everyone was seeking shelter behind it. Paul Feltis, not very big at the time, jumped the house yard gate, getting caught on a picket by a suspender, from which Dad (Ed Christensen) rescued him... (Story taken from "The History of Verona, ND.")
Herbert Hoover was the president when I was born. He fell from grace in the eyes of the nation because of the broken campaign promises in 1928 for “two cars in every garage and a chicken in every pot.”
“Franklin Delano Roosevelt started campaigning for president. His campaign song, ‘Happy Days Are Here Again,’ sparked a ray of hope for everyone. His ‘New Deal’ proposals dredged up optimism. He created many organizations like the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) and the WPA that helped put many people back to work. During the next years of his administration, roads and sidewalks were paved and repaired, ditches were cleared and many new public building were erected. The WPA (Workmen’s Progress Association) built our outhouse at the school.
“John Steinbeck, author of The Grapes of Wrath, was employed by the WPA. He was hired as a census-taker of dogs in California’s Monterey Peninsula.
When I was ready for school, my parents decided to leave the farm and move to Verona. My Dad, himself, had not been farming during the depression. He was away doing forestry work in Minnesota in the winters and laboring at highway construction work in the summers or whatever he could do to keep his large family alive and well.
With the older children in school except for my younger sister, Mildred, and me my parents must have thought it would be easier if we lived in Verona, near the school. I started first grade in Verona in September of 1934 and finished elementary school in the spring of 1943.