Lessons from Poverty and Viruses
Maybe I should call it near-poverty. I’m not sure how poverty was defined from 1944, the year I was born, to 1966, the year I left home. I only know that except for food, everything was always in short supply.
My father did his best, and he was at his best in the fields producing food. He was a man of the soil, a student and a master of the soil. His gardens and fields were kept clean, which means neither a sprig of grass nor the most obnoxious weed had half a chance of survival.
Having plenty of good food must have kept my mind off the fact that nothing else was plentiful, not even clothes and school supplies. There were only three distinct times when my mind dwelt on this fact. The first time was when I was in the fifth grade. I was 10 and was watching my mother shake pennies from the world’s largest glass piggy bank. She was counting out the week’s school lunch money for the youngest 4 of her 17 kids. The other 13 were either grown or making their own money. Watching her struggle to get the pennies out made me feel sorry for her.
On Mondays at school when my name was called, I handed my little brown bag of a hundred pennies to Mrs. Scott. She had to count them out. I knew she sensed my embarrassment. Most of the other children brought dimes, quarters, or a dollar bill. Mrs. Scott would comment on how bright the pennies were as she playfully counted and stacked. After a few Mondays neither my mother’s plight nor Mrs. Scott’s counting of pennies bothered me.
The second time I gave any thought to or dwelt on our material need was in 10th grade world history. When Mrs. Richardson assigned the chapter on the ancient Romans I got excited because soon after World War II one of my much older brothers married an Italian woman. Antonia became a beloved source of information and stories about Italy. It stunned me to learn from both Antonia and Mrs. Richardson that ancient Rome had running water and indoor bathrooms. My first thought was: And we don’t?
The last time I found myself pondering our lack I was 22. My mother had passed away and our family consisted of myself, a younger brother and our father. I had graduated from college and the day had come to leave home for my first teaching job. My final chore was to help my father haul water. We not only didn’t have running water — we didn’t have water. For years we had hauled water from a neighbor, the chairman of the county’s Board of Supervisors (commissioners) who was a giver and always helped us fill the glass gallon jugs and the disinfected lard cans. While filling the jugs, I thought of 10th grade world history again. The ancient Romans, though only the elites, had running water yet here in 1966 … we don’t?
Said the poor Quaker to his new neighbor, “Tell me what thou need’st and I shall tell thee what thou can do without.”
I’m not glad my family had to do without, yet somehow I’m thankful I know deprivation. Deprivation didn’t kill the spirit of my dear parents or any of my joy-filled, laughter-prone brothers and sisters.
R.C., the oldest, would farm like our father but unlike him, would become a landowner. Paul and Pete would serve nobly in the worst of World War II and become career soldiers. Ida, Jewell, Authula and Margurette were homemakers and models of strength, character and beauty. Minnie became a registered nurse. Walter Jr. would become a businessman and later a pastor; Durward, a mail carrier. Almedia, Ruby, and Janelle were secretaries of the first rank. Carolyn, a homemaker, would travel the world with her Marine husband. Tressie became a registered nurse. Carlton, “the baby,” would go into banking and insurance. I would spend 52 years telling 17- to 19-year-olds to say “centers on,” and not “centers around.”
Today a virus has made many Americans nervous about imminent hardship. I pray and wish for all of them a good roof, plenty of food and water (preferably running), and enough money to pay for water, fuel, electricity, transportation and their rent or mortgage. I also hope that someone has bequeathed to them just half the joy of life that my parents, brothers and sisters bequeathed to me.
Hardship is not the end of the world. It can be a fertile field for the mind, a sanctuary for the spirit, and a season of strengthening.