It was not bad enough that the economy dealt farmers a lousy hand, Mother Nature added salt to the wounds in the form of The Dust Bowl. The Dust Bowl was an environmental disaster brought on by drought and soil mismanagement where “topsoil literally dried up and blew away…like snow drifts in winter.” (Jennings and Brewster, p. 14.)
The phenomenon was named by Robert Geiger, a reporter for the Associated Press, who on April 15, 1935 reported on a dust storm with the following comment: “Three little words, achingly familiar on a Western farmer’s tongue, rule life in the dust bowl of the continent—‘if it rains.’” Use of the term “dust bowl” quickly spread across the nation. (http://ic.galegroup.com/ic/whic/ReferenceDetailsPage/DocumentToolsPortletWindow?jsid=99ffda45c28bd08d31b4dbb73a3ab7f8&action=2&catId=&documentId=GALE%7CCX3424800020&userGroupName=nysl_ro_ironhs&zid=a24f908894dee181373628d8d34f05c1)
In Pampa, Texas, reflecting the local industries, the town motto before the dust storms was “where the wheat grows and the oil flows.” But, with reference to the dust bowl, Woody Guthrie added the phrase ”and the wind blows and the farmer owes.” (Epstein, p. 41.)
The area from western Arkansas through the Oklahoma and Texas panhandles, to New Mexico, Kansas, Colorado, and Missouri was the hardest hit. The worst storms came in the spring of 1935. (Hakim, p. 274.) “When these winds hit us, we and our misery were suddenly covered with dust. Here in the Texas Panhandle we were hit harder than most anywhere else. If the wind blew one way, here come the dark dust from Oklahoma. Another way and it was the grey dust from Kansas. Still another way, the brown dust from Colorado and New Mexico. Little farms were buried. And the towns were blackened.” (TFC, Vol. 4, p. 61, quoting a Texas farmer.)
An Oklahoma farmer said: “All that dust made some of the farmers leave; they became Okies (i.e. migrants). We stuck it out. We scratched, literally scratched, to live. We’d come to town to sell sour cream for nine cents a pound. If we could find a town big enough and far enough away from the dust, we could sell eggs at ten cents a dozen. … [We were] making no crops and barely living out of barnyard products. We made five crop failures in five years.” (Id. at 63.)
Avis D. Carlson of The New Republic described the situation as follows: “The impact is like a shovelful of fine sand flung against the face…people caught in their own yards grope for the doorstep. Cars come to a standstill, for no light in the world can penetrate that swirling murk…. We live with the dust, eat it, sleep with it, watch it strip us of possessions and the hope of possessions. It is becoming real.” (https://sites.google.com/site/thejoadsacrossamerica/process.)
The Dust Bowl and its severe consequences resulted in a plethora of songs, the great number being a reflection of the extent of the disaster. The dramatic economic, physical and psychological losses were evident in the lyrics.
“My Oklahoma Home (It Blowed Away),” written and sung by Sis Cunningham. (https://youtu.be/vFj_7D5vAqg) Sis Cunningham wrote this song with her brother Bill. Having grown up in Oklahoma and spending the ‘dust years’ there, they were all too familiar with wind and dust storms. This song takes a lighthearted look at the effects of the wild storms. A modern version sung by Bruce Springsteen is at https://youtu.be/8BI0P3CgtBY.
When they opened up the strip I was young and full of zip,
I wanted some place to call my own.
And so I made the race, and staked me out a place,
And settled down along the Cimarron.It blowed away, it blowed away,
My Oklahoma home, it blowed away.
It looked so green and fair when I built my shanty there,
But my Oklahoma home, it blowed away.I planted wheat and oats, got some chickens and some shoats,
Aimed to have some ham and eggs to feed my face.
Got a mule to pull the plow, got an old red muley cow
And got a fancy mortgage on the place.It blowed away, it blowed away,
All the crops I planted blowed away.
You can’t grow any grain if you ain’t got any rain;
All except the mortgage blowed away.It looked so green and fair, when I built my shanty there,
I figured I was all set for life.
I put on my Sunday best with my fancy scalloped vest
And went to town and picked me out a wife.She blowed away, she blowed away
My Oklahoma woman blowed away.
Mister as I bent and kissed her, she was picked up by a twister;
My Oklahoma woman blowed away.Then I was left alone a-listenin’ to the moan
Of the wind around the corners of my shack;
So I took off down the road when the south wind blowed,
A-travelin’ with the wind at my back.I blowed away, I blowed away
Chasin’ a dust cloud up ahead.
Once it looked so green and fair, now it’s up there in the air;
My Oklahoma farm is overhead.Now I’m always close to home no matter where I roam,
For Oklahoma dust is everywhere.
Makes no difference where I’m walkin’, I can hear my chickens squawkin’
I can hear my wife a-talkin’ in the air.It blowed away, it blowed away,
My Oklahoma home blowed away.
But my home is always near; it’s in the atmosphere,
My Oklahoma home that blowed away.I’m a roamin’ Oklahoman, but I’m always close to home
And I’ll never get homesick ‘til I die.
No matter where I’m found, my home is all around;
My Oklahoma home is in the sky.It blowed away, it blowed away,
My farm down upon the Cimarron.
But all around the world, wherever dust is whirled,
Some is from my Oklahoma home.It blowed away, it blowed away,
My Oklahoma home blowed away.
Oh it’s up there in the sky in that dust cloud rolling
by, my Oklahoma home is blowed away.
Woody Guthrie recorded a whole album of “Dust Bowl Ballads” which included songs “I Ain’t Got No Home,” “Vigilante Man,” “Do Re Mi,” and “Tom Joad.” Peter Goldsmith describes the “Dust Bowl Ballads” as “…one of the half-dozen most important American folk music albums of that decade – or of any other, for that matter.” (Goldsmith, Making People’s Music: Moe Asch and Folkway Records, p. 119.) Speaking about Guthrie’s songs, musicologists Eyerman and Jamison said, “Guthrie usually does a bit more than tell a story; a little [of his populist] philosophy is woven into the folk tapestry.” (Eyerman and Jamison, p. 69.) These “Dust Bowl Ballads” verify that observation.
“Dust Bowl Blues” (1940) is one of them. (https://youtu.be/jQYKJaWuj0Y)
I just blowed in, and I got them dust bowl blues,
I just blowed in, and I got them dust bowl blues,
I just blowed in, and I’ll blow back out again.I guess you’ve heard about ev’ry kind of blues,
I guess you’ve heard about ev’ry kind of blues,
But when the dust gets high, you can’t even see the sky.I’ve seen the dust so black that I couldn’t see a thing,
I’ve seen the dust so black that I couldn’t see a thing,
And the wind so cold, boy, it nearly cut your water off.I seen the wind so high that it blowed my fences down,
I’ve seen the wind so high that it blowed my fences down,
Buried my tractor six feet underground.Well, it turned my farm into a pile of sand,
Yes, it turned my farm into a pile of sand,
I had to hit that road with a bottle in my hand.I spent ten years down in that old dust bowl,
I spent ten years down in that old dust bowl,
When you get that dust pneumony, boy, it’s time to go.I had a gal, and she was young and sweet,
I had a gal, and she was young and sweet,
But a dust storm buried her sixteen hundred feet.She was a good gal, long, tall and stout,
Yes, she was a good gal, long, tall and stout,
I had to get a steam shovel just to dig my darlin’ out.These dusty blues are the dustiest ones I know,
These dusty blues are the dustiest ones I know,
Buried head over heels in the black old dust,
I had to pack up and go.
An’ I just blowed in, an’ I’ll soon blow out again.
Okies, Arkies, and Other Dust Bowl Migrants
The Midwestern Dust Bowl and the generally depressed economic conditions led to a massive movement of people to the west in search of work. In the mid-1930s, the Farm Security Administration, a New Deal agency, established migrant camps for an estimated 250,000 people in California. The camps usually consisted of one-room temporary structures where families could stay. Often, there was a fee of one dollar a week for use of the camps. Some of the camps had a library, a post office and a community building. These were the situations about which John Steinbeck wrote in The Grapes of Wrath. (Spencer, The Ballad Collectors of North America: How Gathering Folksongs Transformed Academic Thought and American Identity, p. 68.)
“I Ain’t Got no Home in This World Anymore” is an “anthem of homelessness.” Guthrie identifies a protagonist wandering through America during the Depression: “I’m just a wanderin’ worker, I roam from town to town; The police make it hard wherever I may go” and then lays out a protest in hard, clear language, “Rich man took my home and drove me from my door,/And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.” (https://youtu.be/GTnVMulDTYA)
I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-roamin’ ‘round,
Just a wandrin’ worker, I go from town to town.
And the police make it hard wherever I may go
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.My brothers and my sisters are stranded on this road,
A hot and dusty road that a million feet have trod;
Rich man took my home and drove me from my door
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.Was a-farmin’ on the shares, and always I was poor;
My crops I lay into the banker’s store.
My wife took down and died upon the cabin floor,
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.I mined in your mines and I gathered in your corn
I been working, mister, since the day I was born
Now I worry all the time like I never did before
‘Cause I ain’t got no home in this world anymoreNow as I look around, it’s mighty plain to see
This world is such a great and a funny place to be;
Oh, the gamblin’ man is rich an’ the workin’ man is poor,
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
Woody Guthrie wrote about the conditions in “Dust Bowl Refugee,” one of his “Dust Bowl Ballads.” He sings it at (https://youtu.be/N_ehYkr0NhU).
I’m a Dust Bowl Refugee,
Just a Dust Bowl Refugee.
From that Dust Bowl, to the Peach Bowl,
Now that Peach Fuzz is a-killin’ me.Cross the Mountains to the Sea
Come the wife and kids and me.
Its a hot old dusty highway,
For a Dust Bowl Refugee.Hard its always been that way,
Here today and on our way.
Down that mountain cross the desert,
Just a Dust Bowl Refugee.We are ramblers so they say,
We are only here today.
Then we travel with the seasons,
We’re the dust bowl refugees.From the south land and the drought land
Come the wife and kids and me.
And this old world is a hard world,
For a Dust Bowl Refugee.Yes we ramble and we roam,
And the highway thats our home.
Its a never ending highway,
For a Dust Bowl Refugee.Yes we wander and we work
In your crops and in your fruit.
Like the whirlwinds on the desert,
Thats the Dust Bowl Refugee.I’m a Dust Bowl Refugee,
I’m a Dust Bowl Refugee.
And I wonder will I always
Be a Dust Bowl Refugee.
Woody Guthrie also wrote “(If You Ain’t Got the) Do Re Mi” (https://youtu.be/46mO7jx3JEw) about his personal homeless experience. Woody left the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma and hit the road for California. The flood of migrants often forced him off the road and into the dangerous pastime of freight-hopping. He was kicked out of towns when he was found sleeping in property belonging to the railroad, and spent nights under highway bridges in the cold with other migrants. There were so many people on the road, the Los Angeles police set up roadblocks, which were called the “Bum Blockade,” to keep the penniless migrants from entering the state. The police required that travelers have a certain amount of money to stay in their location.
Lots of folks back East, they say, is leavin’ home every day,
Beatin’ the hot old dusty way to the California line.
‘Cross the desert sands they roll, gettin’ out of that old dust bowl,
They think they’re goin’ to a sugar bowl, but here’s what they find
Now, the police at the port of entry say,
“You’re number fourteen thousand for today.”Oh, if you ain’t got the do re mi, folks, you ain’t got the do re mi,
Why, you better go back to beautiful Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Georgia, Tennessee.
California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see;
But believe it or not, you won’t find it so hot
If you ain’t got the do re mi.You want to buy you a home or a farm, that can’t deal nobody harm,
Or take your vacation by the mountains or sea.
Don’t swap your old cow for a car, you better stay right where you are,
Better take this little tip from me.
‘Cause I look through the want ads every day
But the headlines on the papers always say:If you ain’t got the do re mi, boys, you ain’t got the do re mi,
Why, you better go back to beautiful Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Georgia, Tennessee.
California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see;
But believe it or not, you won’t find it so hot
If you ain’t got the do re mi.
“Talking Dust Bowl Blues,” (1937) is another one of Guthrie’s “Dust Bowl Ballads.” It describes the hardships of farmers forced off their lands when the rains stopped and the dust began to blow. Woody Guthrie sings his song at https://youtu.be/dkAxuqrVNBM.
Rain quit and the black ol’ dust storm filled the sky.
And I swapped my farm for a Ford machine,
And I poured it full of this gas-i-line—
And I started, rockin’ an’ a-rollin’,
Over the mountains, out towards the old Peach Bowl.Way up yonder on a mountain road,
I had a hot motor and a heavy load,
I’s a-goin’ pretty fast, there wasn’t even stoppin’,
A-bouncin’ up and down, like popcorn poppin’…
Had a breakdown, sort of a nervous bustdown of some kind,
There was a feller there, a mechanic feller,
Said it was en-gine trouble.Way up yonder on a mountain curve,
It’s way up yonder in the piney wood,
An’ I give that rollin’ Ford a shove,
An’ I’s a-gonna coast as far as I could…
Commence coastin’, pickin’ up speed,
Was a hairpin turn, I didn’t make it.Man alive, I’m a-tellin’ you,
The fiddles and the guitars really flew.
That Ford took off like a flying squirrel
An’ it flew halfway around the world…
Scattered wives and childrens
All over the side of that mountain.We got out to the West Coast broke,
So dad-gum hungry I thought I’d croak,
An’ I bummed up a spud or two,
An’ my wife fixed up a tater stew…
We poured the kids full of it,
Mighty thin stew, though,
You could read a magazine right through it.
Always have figured
That if it’d been just a little bit thinner,
Some of these here politicians
Coulda seen through it.
Another one of Woody Guthrie’s “Dust Bowl Ballads” is “Blowing Down That Old Dusty Road,” also known as “Goin’ Down the Road Feeling Bad,” or “I Ain’t Gonna be Treated This Way.” He wrote this song with Lee Hayes, his partner in The Almanac Singers. (https://youtu.be/jQ4b1WGIqt4)
I’m blowin’ down this old dusty road
I’m a-blowin’ down this old dusty road
I’m a-blowin’ down this old dusty road, Lord, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this a-wayI’m a-goin’ where the water taste like wine
I’m a-goin’ where the water taste like wine
I’m a-goin’ where the water taste like wine, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayI’m a-goin’ where the dust storms never blow
I’m a-goin’ where them dust storms never blow
I’m a-goin’ where them dust storms never blow, blow, blow
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayThey say I’m a dust bowl refugee
Yes, they say I’m a dust bowl refugee
They say I’m a dust bowl refugee, Lord, Lord
But I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayI’m a-lookin’ for a job at honest pay
I’m a-lookin’ for a job at honest pay
I’m a-lookin’ for a job at honest pay, Lord, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayMy children need three square meals a day
Now, my children need three square meals a day
My children need three square meals a day, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayIt takes a ten-dollar shoe to fit my feet
It takes a ten-dollar shoe to fit my feet
It takes a ten-dollar shoe to fit my feet, Lord, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayYour a-two-dollar shoe hurts my feet
Your two-dollar shoe hurts my feet
Yes, your two-dollar shoe hurts my feet, Lord, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this wayI’m a-goin’ down this old dusty road
I’m blowin’ down this old dusty road
I’m a-blowin’ down this old dusty road, Lord, Lord
An’ I ain’t a-gonna be treated this way
In “Pastures of Plenty,” written in 1941 (https://youtu.be/BH2DJvgNlMA), Woody Guthrie paints the picture of the migrant workers’ struggle against adversity. The hard life of migration and labor are set against the diversity, richness, and plenty of the American landscape.
It’s a mighty hard row that my poor hands has hoed
And my poor feet has traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and westward we rolled,
Lord, your desert is hot and your mountains are cold.I work in your orchards of peaches and prunes,
And I sleep on the ground ‘neath the light of your moon.
On the edge of your city you’ll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind.California, Arizona, I make all your crops,
Then it’s north up to Oregon to gather your hops;
Dig beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
To set on your tale your light sparkling wine.Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground,
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down;
Every state in this union us migrants has been
We’ll work in your fight and we’ll fight till we win.It’s always we ramble, that river and I,
All along your green valley I’ll work till I die;
My land I’ll defend with my life if needs be,
‘Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free.
“Tom Joad” is Woody Guthrie’s ballad about John Steinbeck’s famous Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck’s novel and Guthrie’s song tell the story of the Joad family, “Okies,” who were driven west by the Dust Bowl. The depiction of the Joads is very realistic and was meant to symbolize all Depression-era migrant workers. Guthrie’s and Steinbeck’s treatment of them is very sympathetic. Woody said: “I wrote this song because the people back in Oklahoma haven’t got two bucks to buy the book, or even thirty-five cents to see the movie, but the song will get back to them and tell them what preacher Casey said.” (Green, p. 289.) (https://youtu.be/uMZ04AlFMk0)
Tom Joad got out of the old McAlester pen
There he got his parole
After four long years on a man killing charge
Tom Joad come a walking down the road, poor boy
Tom Joad come a walking down the roadTom Joad he met a truck driving man
There he caught him a ride
He said: “I just got loose from McAlester’s pen
On a charge called homicide,
A charge called homicide.”That truck rolled away in a cloud of dust,
Tommy turned his face toward home,
He met preacher Casey and they had a little drink,
But they found that his family they was gone,
He found that his family they was gone.He found his mother’s old fashion shoe
Found his daddy’s hat.
And he found little Muley and Muley said:
“They’ve been tractored out by the cats,
They’ve been tractored out by the cats.“Tom Joad walked down to the neighbors farm
Found his family.
They took preacher Casey and loaded in a car
And his mother said, “We got to git away.”
His mother said, ‘We got to get away. “Now the twelve of the Joads made a mighty heavy load
But Grandpa Joad did cry.
He picked up a handful of land in his hand
Said: “I’m stayin’ with the farm till I die.
Yes, I’m stayin’ with my farm till I die. “They fed him short ribs and coffee and soothing syrup
And Grandpa Joad did die.
They buried Grandpa Joad by the side of the road,
Buried Grandma on the California side,
They buried Grandma on the California side.They stood on a Mountain and they looked to the West
And it Looked like the promised land.
That bright green valley with a river running through,
There was work for every single hand, they thought,
There was work for every single hand.The Joads rolled away to Jungle Camp,
There they cooked a stew.
And the hungry little kids of the Jungle Camp
Said: “We’d like to have some too.”
Said: “We’d like to have some too.”Now a deputy sheriff fired loose at a man
Shot a woman in the back.
Before he could take his aim again
Preacher Casey dropped him in his track.
Preacher Casey dropped him in his track.They handcuffed Casey and they took him to jail
And then he got away.
And he met Tom Joad on the old river bridge,
And these few words he did say, poor boy,
These few words he did say.“I preached for the Lord a mighty long time,
preached about the rich and the poor.
Us workin’ folks got to all get together,
‘cause we ain’t got a chance anymore.
We ain’t got a chance anymore.”The deputies come and Tom and Casey run
To the bridge where the water run down.
But the vigilante they hit Casey with a club,
They laid preacher Casey on the ground.
They laid preacher Casey on the ground.Tom Joad he grabbed that deputy’s club
Hit him over the head.
Tom Joad took flight in the dark rainy night
A deputy and a preacher lying dead, two men,
A deputy and a preacher lying dead.Tom run back where his mother was asleep
He woke her up out of bed.
Then he kissed goodbye to the mother that he loved
Said what preacher Casey said, Tom Joad,
He said what preacher Casey said.“Ever’body might be just one big soul.
Well it looks that a way to me.
Everywhere that you look in the day or night
that’s where I’m gonna be, Ma,
that’s where I’m gonna be.“Wherever little children are hungry and cry
Wherever people ain’t free.
Wherever men are fightin’ for their rights
That’s where I’m gonna be, Ma.
That’s where I’m a gonna be.”
Bruce Springsteen wrote a modern version of the Joad saga called “The Ghost of Tom Joad,” to address the same themes and to honor Woody Guthrie. (https://youtu.be/B-c6GphpAeY)
Men walking ‘long the railroad tracks
Going someplace, there’s no going back
Highway patrol choppers coming up over the ridge
Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge
Shelter line stretching ’round the corner
Welcome to the new world order
Families sleeping in the cars in the southwest
No home, no job, no peace, no restWell the highway is alive tonight
But nobody’s kidding nobody about where it goes
I’m sitting down here in the campfire light
Searching for the ghost of Tom JoadHe pulls a prayer book out of his sleeping bag
Preacher lights up a butt and he takes a drag
Waiting for when the last shall be first and the first shall be last
In a cardboard box ‘neath the underpass
You got a one-way ticket to the promised land
You got a hole in your belly and a gun in your hand
Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock
Bathing in the city’s aqueductGo!
Well the highway is alive tonight
Where it’s headed everybody knows
I’m sitting down here in the campfire light
Waiting on the ghost of Tom JoadNow Tom said, “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beating a guy
Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries
Where there’s a fight against the blood and hatred in the air
Look for me, Mom, I’ll be there“Wherever somebody’s fighting for a place to stand
Or a decent job or a helping hand
Wherever somebody’s struggling to be free
Look in their eyes, Ma, and you’ll see me”
Yeah!The highway is alive tonight
Where it’s headed everybody knows
I’m sitting down here in the campfire light
With the ghost of old Tom Joad
In “Prairie Farewell,” Tom Naples describes the mentality of those who decided to leave the dust and hit the road for hoped-for better times in California. (http://www.tomnaples.com/music.html)
Good bye to the prairie, good bye to the wind
I’m leavin’ on the next train that’s comin’ around the bend
Don’t matter where I’m goin’ ‘cause I know where I’ve been
I’m leaving’ the dust behind and I’m never coming back againThe government man would just as soon
See our plow turn to rust
First, the alfalfa, then the wheat
Got buried ‘neath the dust
And my brother and my father can work this farm
They can work this farm until they die
But I’m not gonna sit back and watch
While my life blows on byGood bye to the prairie, good bye to the wind
I’m leavin’ on the next train that’s comin’ round the bend
Don’t matter where I’m goin’ ‘cause I know where I’ve been
I’m leavin’ the dust behind and I’m never coming back againThis train is bound for Amarillo
Got enough to get me there
Then I’ll point my thumb down Route 66,
And head for Pacific air
I’m going to California
I’ve been talking to a man
He says they’re good jobs waiting,
He called it the promised landGood bye to the prairie, good bye to the wind
I’m leaving on the next train that’s coming round the bend
It don’t matter where I’m goin’ ‘cause I know where I’ve been
I’m leavin’ the dust behind and I’m never coming back
No I’m never coming back, no I’m never coming back again.
The following songs also relate the trials and tribulations that the “Okies,” “Arkies” and other migrants encountered along the road. Note that some of these songs were recorded a migrant camps set up by New Deal agencies. Most likely, the recordings were done by “songcatchers” working under the auspices of WPA cultural projects discussed below.
“Arizona,” was written by Jack Bryant (1940), who was a musician from Okomoggee, Oklahoma. He spent five months on the road traveling to California. This song reflects his disappointment in his circumstances while crossing the harsh desert and his homesickness. It was recorded at Firebaugh Farm Security Administration Camp in Southern California. (http://www.loc.gov/item/toddbib000194/)
We were out in Arizona
On the Painted Desert ground
We had no place to call our own home
And work could not be found.We started to California
But our money, it didn’t last long
I want to be in Oklahoma
Be back in my old home.A way out on the desert
Where water is hard to find
It’s a hundred miles to Tempe
And the wind blows all the time.You will burn up in the day time
Yet you’re cold when the sun goes down
I wanna be in Oklahoma
Be back in my home town.You people in Oklahoma
If you ever come west
Have your pockets full of money
And you better be well dressed.If you wind up on the desert
You’re gonna wish that you were dead
You’ll be longing for Oklahoma
And your good old feather bed.
“Sunny California,” written and sung by Mrs. Mary Sullivan. It was recorded in 1941 in the San Joaquin, California Shafter Farm Security Administration Camp. The song tells of the incredible odyssey Mrs. Sullivan lived through in her journey from Texas to California that included floods, homesickness and gratitude for government assistance. (https://sites.google.com/site/thejoadsacrossamerica/process)
I left Texas one beautiful day
I made up my mind that I would not stay
No longer in Texas the place that I love
Though it was like giving up Heaven above.My old dad was growing old
His body was bent from hard work and toil.
My mother was sleeping in a gay little town
Where friends and her loved ones had seen her laid down.My sisters and brothers they hated so bad
To see me go West like someone gone mad
To leave all my loved ones and kiss them goodbye
Just hoping I’d meet them in the sweet by-and-by.I thought at first that I would not go
No further West than New Mexico
But the work it was scarce and the weather was bad
I felt like I’d left all the friends that I had.We landed at Peoria one sad, lonely day
No place for a shelter but a rag house to stay
I felt like Arizona was too much for me
I cried ‘til my heart ached and I scarcely could see.Our next stop was California where the sun always shines
I know that is a saying but I’ll tell you my mind
In the little town of Colton hemmed up on a knoll
And the black water splashing ‘til the hearts had grown cold.Now I know you all heard of this awful fate
So many were drownded in this awful state
The state of California where the sun always shines
How I did wish for Texas that old state of mine.The black water rolled and the homeless were brought
To this little knoll at Colton for shelter they sought
The radios broadcastin’ begging people to stay
Off of the streets and off the highways.The rain finally ceased and the sun shined out bright
How I prayed to Heaven and thanked God that night.
For our lives had been spared and all was made right
But I did wish for Texas and the old folks that night.Further on in California over mountains and plains.
To the San Joaquin Valley we drew up our reins
For four years today we’ve lived it just fine
In the state of California where the sun always shines.
“I’d Rather not Be on Relief” was a poem written by Lester Hunter in 1938 in the midst of the Dust Bowl disaster. Hunter was a migrant from the Dust Bowl who was forced to move from his home and travel to California in a desperate search for a new life, a new home and a new job. Like so many other Dust Bowl migrants, Hunter did not want charity, he wanted to work— hence the title, “I’d Rather not Be on Relief.” The humiliating aspects of Dust Bowl life and the views of the people that were experiencing the problems of this time are reflected in the lyrics. The poem was turned into a song by Dust Bowl migrants at the Shafter Farm Security Administration Camp in California. (http://www.american-historama.org/1929-1945-depression-ww2-era/dust-bowl-life.htm) (no known audio)
We go around all dressed in rags
While the rest of the world goes neat,
And we have to be satisfied
With half enough to eat.
We have to live in lean-tos,
Or else we live in a tent,
For when we buy our bread and beans
There’s nothing left for rent.I’d rather not be on the rolls of relief,
Or work on the W.P.A.,
We’d rather work for the farmer
If the farmer could raise the pay;
Then the farmer could plant more cotton
And he’d get more money for spuds,
Instead of wearing patches,
We’d dress up in new duds.From the east and west and north and south
Like a swarm of bees we come;
The migratory workers
Are worse off than a bum.
We go to Mr. Farmer
And ask him what he’ll pay;
He says, “You gypsy workers
Can live on a buck a day.”I’d rather not be on the rolls of relief,
Or work on the W.P.A.,
We’d rather work for the farmer
If the farmer could raise the pay;
Then the farmer could plant more cotton
And he’d get more money for spuds,
Instead of wearing patches,
We’d dress up in new duds.We don’t ask for luxuries
Or even a feather bed.
But we’re bound to raise the dickens
While our families are underfed.
Now the winter is on us
And the cotton picking is done,
What are we going to live on
While we’re waiting for spuds to come?Now if you will excuse me
I’ll bring my song to an end.
I’ve got to go and check a crack
Where the howling wind comes in.
The times are going to get better
And I guess you’d like to know
I’ll tell you all about it,
I’ve joined the C.I.O.