May 1, 1932
The lack of money weighs heavily on my shoulders. The pinching and saving slowly bores away at me, lowering my spirits even further. The endless quarreling between my parents over expenses is worrisome and stressful. But I know others less fortunate than I. I know an abundance of them. I shall leave my writing at that.
May 3, 1932
Today I walked home from school. The poverty along the streets is overwhelming. My school lies on Main Street; my home is three blocks north and two blocks east of it. I must walk along Main Street for three blocks in order to reach my home. Main Street is where the suffering is the worst. Large families with numerous children stand on corners. The simply stand, for they have not any other place to go. The many homeless line the sidewalks, asking for money, shaking tin cups. Nobody’s attention is caught by these beggars. Nobody drops a coin into a cup. You must think the passing people are cold and uncompassionate. Perhaps they are, but if they drop a single coin that could mean that their family will go to bed hungry the next night. The streets are empty. No one can afford cars or gasoline anymore. I must stop this sorrowful writing now and find something to comfort and cheer my dampened spirits
May 4, 1932
I am in a foul mood today. Everything in my life is miserable. My shoes pinch my toes and their heels are worn out. My dress is has gotten extremely short. Several teeth on my comb are broken, and my hair ribbons are frayed at the ends. The pen I write with is dry and difficult. Mother said the things I complain about are spoiled wants, and they aren’t necessities. They are necessities though. They are important ones, for if I did not have a pen to write with I would become crazy. Actually I believe I already am crazy. Or perhaps everyone else is senseless and I am sane. Perhaps, perhaps.
May 5, 1932
The pen I wrote with yesterday is completely dried out. It refuses to write, so now I use a pencil. My life is barren. There is nothing to write about except the suffering of the poor, and I have already exhausted that subject. In my eyes the poverty grows worse everyday. I fear there is no hope. Maybe there is hope and I am just pessimistic.
May 7, 1932
Mother has volunteered to help at a soup kitchen every Tuesday. Mother wished for me to go with her, for she worries about me when I stay alone. I argued that I was twelve years old and very capable of staying home by myself. I argue and argue but my mother’s old-fashioned ways stayed with her. I went to the soup kitchen. My mother served soup to a line of people. I idly sat on a high stool in the kitchen until an angry lady instructed me to chop vegetables. I was still chopping when my mother’s serving shift is over. One potato remained uncut. My mother tells me to slip it in my coat pocket. I gazed at her with wary eyes. "We need this potato, Mara. Slip it in your pocket." I silently took the potato and we returned home. I wonder if my mother feels guilty.
May 7, 1932-Later
We had stew for dinner tonight. It had many pieces of potato in it.
May 9, 1932
I did not go to school today. Mother says I have a fever. My head aches, I can’t write anymore.
May 10, 1932
I am still away from school. My fever rages.
May 11, 1932
I am still away from school. My fever rages even hotter.
May 12, 1932
My fever has cooled. Currently I sip juice in bed. My eyelids are heavy. I welcome slumber.
May 13, 1932
Today I looked around my class. Many of my classmates have grown thin, even bony. A number of them cannot concentrate because of fatigue and hunger. I wonder if the girl to the side of me ate anything for breakfast. She senses my staring and looks over at me. Her face is thin, her cheeks hallow and shadowy. Her hair hangs limp from lack of vitamins. She brushes it away from her eyes with a hand that should belong to a skeleton. I look down at my schoolwork quickly.
May 14, 1932
Today I noticed a glass jar on a shelf in my parents’ bedroom. It was heavy with coins. I poured the money onto my parents white coverlet and counted it carefully. There was exactly $2.34 in the jar. I have never heard either of my parents speak of this jar. I have a feeling that the jar holds more than simple saved money. I think that it has a special purpose intended for it. It makes me suspicious.
May 15,1932
Today I find myself thinking of the prosperity my family had before. I use to wear silk dresses and go to the bookstore on the corner with my father and pick out books without even glancing at the price. I remember my parents used to hold great parties with expensive wine and superb cuisine, which I am sure, was rather costly. Those are things of the past though, for now I wear thin cotton dresses and my family rents a tiny house. Yes, all things of luxury and treat are things of the past.
May 17, 1932
The rain pours and pours heavily, thundering down on the roof of the house. I long to go walk outside and mingle in the rain, letting it splash on my head and run down my back. Mother has forbidden going outside though, for she fears I might catch a cold like the one I had only a few days ago. Heaven knows we can’t afford a doctor. I am now stuck in my room. The closest I can get to my want is to listen to the rain pattering on the roof.
May 18, 1932
My heart aches. My parents are quarreling again.
May 20, 1932
I have finally learned what the money in the jar is to be used for. I can hardly write this without letting tears splash on the page. My parents are sending me to a farm. My parents are sending me to a farm to live with strangers. Well, not exactly strangers. The people who I am to live with for a "temporary period" are my Uncle, Aunt, and cousin Joe. I am frightened of living with strangers, but I am even more frightened of living on a farm. I am a city girl. I have never even touched dirt with my hands. I am afraid of hard physical work. I am afraid of getting dirty and soiled. I do not possess the nurturing qualities that a person needs to tend crops or animals. I still cannot get over the fact that my parents are sending me away. They said that my uncle would be able to provide for me better than they can. That is a lie. They just want to get rid of me for a time. This will sound incredibly cruel, but I believe that I won’t miss my parents much. My father is hardly ever is home and my mother is not exactly kind to me. No, I don’t think I will miss my parents, but I shall miss my home, my city, my paved streets and shops. I am leaving in a week.
May 27, 1932
I am leaving today. Currently my mother and I are at the train station. Only my mother is seeing me off; my father could not get the morning off from work. We are sitting on a cheap looking wooden bench, which could probably collapse any second from our weight, waiting for my train. This station is dirty and run down. There is garbage and grime in the corners. There is a musty smell to this place. This morning my mother lividly scolded me for over-packing the old carpetbag, which I am to take with me. I do not care though. When my train arrives she shall not be able to frown upon me for at least a month or so. Perhaps my leaving is not so bad as I thought it.
May 27, 1932-Later
Now I am on a train, rattling away from the station. The train is nicer than I thought it would be, but it is still far from luxurious. The seats are over-stuffed floral armchairs, and though they do not all match each other, they are very comfortable. The chairs are arranged in clusters of fours around tiny, worn looking coffee tables. I am the sole passenger in my car. I value that greatly.
May 27, 1932-Later
I shame myself for packing my books at the bottom of my bag. I longed for something to read so I unsuccessfully attempted to fetch a book out of my carpetbag. I finally forfeited myself to sleep though I did not slumber well, for my train is immensely noisy. When I gave up my attempt to nap I sat alone in silence for a few moments, and then a plump middle-aged lady entered my car. I watched her struggle to store her many belongings in an overhead closet, and then gazed at her with wide, horror-filled eyes as she approached me. She sat her plump body in to the chair opposite of me. I inwardly groaned to myself and prayed that the lady was quiet and shy. My hopes were not true however, and the lady began talking to me in an overly excited, loud, boisterous voice. My joy of being alone to write and think was shattered. Presently I am hiding from the nosy woman in the tiny, cramped lavatory.
May 27, 1932- 4:01 p.m.
I am finally off that horrible train. I am finally away from the outspoken lady. I am finally out of that armchair that lost it cozy snugness after I sat in it seven hours. I am away from those dreadful things, but I am also in something that is much, much worse. I am sitting on a bench outside the train station. My mother told me that my cousin would come and pick me up in a wagon. He has not arrived yet. I do not mind his lateness, though I am disgusted that I am to ride in a wagon.
May 28, 1932
I have just awoken. The sunlight streams in gently through the shutters of my attic bedroom. I can almost imagine that this place could be beautiful. That was before I was fully awake. Many things happened yesterday. I shall summarize them now. My cousin did not come to greet me in a wagon. He came on foot. I was sitting on the bench outside the station when he arrived. "Where is the wagon?" I asked him once I knew who he was. "My mother told me there would be a wagon." "There ain’t no wagon," my cousin replied in rough, uncivil speech. I stared at him. His hair was a mousy brown color that looked sullied and dirty. His nose was lightly sprinkled with brown freckles and his eyes squinted at me in an odd, aggravating way. "What a crude, uncultured boy!" I thought, as I remembered his lack of polite conduct and coarse manner of speaking. "Well, how are we going to go home?" I demanded. Despair was slowly over taking me as I thought of our travel options. "Walk, I guess." Anger as well as anguish boiled inside of me. "Walk!" I said sharply in an appalled voice, though it was mostly directed to myself. I shot an irritable glance at my carpetbag that lay by a bench. I looked away from it, and then glanced back at my cousin. I finally stalked to the bag and snatched it up. "I wonder how my mother would feel about sending me to this rural place if she knew he didn’t even offer to carry my bag!" I thought fractiously. Then I frantically hurried after my cousin.
The walk to my uncle’s farm was a long distance, especially walking in my pinching shoes and carrying a heavy bag. I won’t expand upon the painful details. When at last I reached my uncle’s farm I did find some comfort. I was surprised greatly by my Aunt. She greeted me warmly and spoke in sympathetic tones when I told of the long walk and then scolded Joe for not carrying my bag, which I must say, filled me with guilty glee. Then she showed me to the room that I am to sleep in, and said I should take as long as needed to unpack (and that I did!). I stayed up in my little attic room all afternoon and until my aunt called me to dinner. I must elaborate about dinner later though for someone is knocking at my door.
May 28, 1932-Later
I must finish the rest of this quickly for my aunt is expecting me at the table for breakfast in a few minutes. It was my aunt that was just at my door. Dinner was an uncomfortable event. It seemed that both my uncle and cousin were mute, for they didn’t speak a single word to me all through the meal. At the very end of dinner my cousin finally spoke to me. "Lucky it was that you came after a rain and ain’t in no storm." He said. I didn’t have time to inquire about his strange words because he quickly walked out the door with my uncle. It seemed to me that my aunt wasn’t very earnest to talk about what Joe said either. I must go down to breakfast now.
May 28, 1932-Later
Yesterday I did not do any work; I stayed in my attic bedroom all afternoon even though stuffy and hot it may be. Today my aunt asked me to feed the pig and give it fresh drinking water. When she first instructed me to do the chore it sounded like an easy task. I soon found out otherwise. First I gave the pig its food. Its meal was a horrible smelling brown slop with bit of unidentifiable vegetables (or something else!) floating in it. I poured it in the trough and pitied the pig. The water was the harder task. Before I left the house my aunt told me to use the bucket I fed the pig with to fetch its water at a creek down the road. Joy swept over me as I saw the walk to the creek was downhill. I hurried along and got the water, only to face myself with a steep, difficult hill. Not only was the hill steep, but I was also carrying a heavy pail of water. Now I am sitting on a low stool next to the pig’s pen. I am exhausted.
May 28, 1932-Later
I have been conversing with the pig. I found it very comforting and compassionate with its snorts and snuffles when I told of my hardship with the water. I have decided to name the pig Mer. I know that it is not the most creative name, but I think she likes it. I also think she dislikes messy people being called "pigs" for she is very neat. I scratch Mer’s ear and she rubs her nose against my hand. I believe I have found a friend on this horrible farm.
May 28, 1932
I have noticed that I write more often here than when I was in my beloved city. Perhaps it is the lack of amusement.
May 29, 1932
A dust storm is upon us. Dirt flies in through every crack in the house. It gets in my eyes, my clothes, my hair, and my lungs, making this farm even more unpleasant. It also gets in the kitchen, making the food gritty and the milk brown. I hate this farm. I hate this dust. I know what Joe’s words mean now though. I must stop writing; the dust has become unbearable.
May 31, 1932
The wind has stopped blowing, but the dust is still here. This morning I fed Mer. She really is in an awful state. The dust storm frightened her greatly, and she still is quite upset. I think I’ll go see Mer now and try to comfort her.
May 31, 1932
Joe walked by Mer’s pen when I was talking to her. He laughed at me for speaking to a pig. At least I can talk properly, unlike him! Truly, he doesn’t even know the simplest grammar.
June 1, 1932
Oh this staggering, unspeakable heat! The sun beat down on my back while I gathered peas from the garden and when the wind blew it was not even cool. All it did was stir up the dust. I hate this rural, unbroken land. The hate is so strong it boils inside of me, waiting until it is its full strength to release it wrath.
June 2, 1932
Today I washed laundry. White linens and underwear hang on a line strung from the house to a tree. This form of drying is unwise, though, because at the end of the day they shall be crusted over with dust. My hands are red and sore from the lye in the soap. They ache.
June 3, 1932
I have been at this farm a whole week. That week had been slow, dragging, and torturous. I remember the week previous to when I left the city went by so quickly. I wonder if time is slower in the country. My uncle still has not spoken a word directed to me. I find comfort in my aunt though, as well as in Mer.
June 5, 1932
I am bored here. My aunt gives me chores to do, but I finish them quicker than she anticipates. Often times I sit and talk to Mer to pass the time. Joe still doesn’t believe that a pig can hold an intelligent conversation with a human. He just laughs and that infuriates me. All I say to him is "Mer makes much better company than yourself, so you shouldn’t find it so humorous." He does not care if I am angry with him though. He does not care about anything.
June 6, 1932
Today my aunt invited our neighbor to tea (or rather hot water with herbs, for we can not afford real tea). The farmer’s wife brought her only daughter with her, and I was expected to amuse the girl. I proposed we take a walk and the girl agreed. Until then I had found the girl fairly tolerable. Then we walked past Mer in her pen. "Oh, what an ugly pig! I would hate to live here knowing that hideous creature was lurking outside!" After she said that, I was angry and irritated at her. I walked along with her in silence until she had the idea of picking bouquets of wildflowers. I gathered rotten smelling blooms and one particular bush that makes people itch. Then I gave the collected plants to the girl in sign of false friendship. She had a rash by the time we had returned home. Of course I was found out, and that is why I am confined in my stuffy attic bedroom on this blistering day. My punishment is worth the vengeance I bestowed on that girl.
June 7, 1932
I think my aunt is still angry about my innocent flower trick I played on the neighbor’s daughter. I do not mind though. She doesn’t scold me as much as my mother, and she is the only source of comfort in this barren land of dust other than Mer. She is much kinder to me than Mother ever was. I was right about my prediction. I don’t miss my parents in the least.
June 9, 1932
Another dust storm rages. Even though my aunt and I dust and clean perpetually there is always more. I am sick of eating gritty food. I am sick of my uncle complaining about the low prices of crops. I am sick of Joe expressing his opinion about city life. He says life in the large cities are full of easy luxury. I want to scream out the falsehood of that statement and tell them the truth. Life in cities is not easy. It’s not easy at all.
June 10, 1932
I fear for Mer. My uncle talks of selling her. I do not know how I would be able to part with her. This will sound very odd, but I have grown to love Mer. My feelings of dislike towards my uncle grow.
June 13, 1932
My fears have become reality. Now the scenario is much worse than I thought it ever could be. My uncle is not selling Mer. He is butchering her. I am so angry and heartbroken, but my mind is desolate of ideas to save her. I am in a silent despair. At first I begged and pleaded for Mer’s life. It hasn’t done slightest good. I feel as if I am at fault for her swiftly approaching death. If I weren’t here there would be more food and my dear friend would not have to die. The fault is mine.
June 14, 1932
Today Mer died. My uncle never got the chance to murder her. For some strange reason I am overjoyed. Perhaps it wasn’t that I was going to lose Mer, but it was the impassible way she was to die. I don’t know what caused Mer’s death, but it seems very noble of her to die before being slaughtered.
June 18, 1932
A message came today. It said my mother misses me terribly and that she wishes that I would come home. I know it was only to comfort her rumpled conscience, and that she really is glad I was away. She probably thought I would learn to like farm life and that I would not want to leave. That of course is not true. What an unpleasant shock she will have when I arrive home. She will most likely be even more cruel and heartless than she was before, but I will not care. I don’t know how I will get the money for a train ticket home, but I will manage. My only true comfort, Mer, is gone. I will miss her and she shall be in my heart forever, but I am eager to return to the city. The simple thought of getting away from this terrible dust inspires me with joy. I did not let the dust defeat me. Soon I will be going home.
