We were a reasonably happy middle-class family until 1929. Then came the stock-market crash, and everything changed. My father lost his job as treasurer for Harris, Siebold & Potter Company, a large printing operation famous for inventing the printing method that created color cartoons. As a result of the crash, Harris, Siebold & Potter was bought out by a bigger company, similar to what is happening now. Before my father lost his job, his annual salary was about $10,000. In today's terms that would be between $75,000 and $100,000. I remember my mother crying uncontrollably over our loss of income. Dad worked at whatever came along, and his income dropped to about $250.00 a month. It took several years for him to find full-time work again.
We had to give up what minor luxuries we had. It hit my mother the hardest when she had to let the maid go and do all the housework herself. I was eleven years old at the time, and I vividly recall this traumatic period for the family. I felt helpless to do anything about it; I knew not whom to blame or whom to fight with to make the situation change. My younger brother, Jim, was only five at the time, so he doesn't have as vivid a memory as I do of those days. (I had been asking my parents for quite awhile to give me a brother so that I would have someone to play with at home, and just when I entered kindergarten they obliged me!)
Before the time of our financial woes I had realized by the age of ten how privileged we really were. I remember my mother taking large quantities of clothes and food to distribute in the poor sections of Cleveland—my first experience of real poverty.
A few of the other families on the street had similar tough experiences, but on the whole they got by better than we did. In fact, in spite of the financial strain we still owned our home and also a 1922 Dodge, which we occasionally used to visit my mother's family in Ashland, Ohio. Those trips were memorable because of the dirt roads, flat tires, and other adventures with the car. It was about sixty miles to Ashland, but it took all day to make the trip.
In contrast to our suburban life on Sycamore Road, Ashland was a typical small Midwestern farming town when I knew it as a boy. The big event of the week was to bring the whole family into town on Saturday to talk about the weather and how the crops were doing. For the kids it was a great time to meet other kids and eat ice cream cones, which cost 5 cents. Everyone gathered on Main Street when all the stores were open, and the crowd was so thick you could hardly move around. I haven't been back to Ashland since I was seventeen, but I would be surprised if much has changed since then. As a boy I remember a certain excitement in the air there, which I believe was due to a common interest in the land, on which everyone depended. Of course, that was summertime. I was never there in the winter.
As bad as the Depression was, those years did bring amusing experiences that I remember fondly. In the summer of 1932, at the darkest point of the Depression, when I was fourteen years old and looking for adventure with some of the neighborhood kids, three of us somehow convinced our parents that they should let us go on a trip to northern Michigan in my family's old 1922 Dodge. The fact that we managed to get approval is either a tribute to our diplomacy or a sign of our parents' gullibility. In any case, we set off in good spirits, with our parents and all our friends wishing us well. We spent two wonderful weeks camping, fishing, playing baseball, and just fooling around. We found the fishing so good that we would often wait until five in the afternoon to catch our dinner, and within minutes we had huge perch or bass to feast on.
One evening early on our trip we stopped for gas somewhere in southern Michigan. Now, a number of things were wrong with the old Dodge, not the least of which was a missing tail light. To compensate we hung a kerosene lamp on the back of the car so that we could be seen at night. As we pulled into the gas station, we yelled to the attendant to be sure and take the lamp down before putting gas in the tank. Maybe he didn't hear us or was so accustomed to just pumping gas that he didn't pay attention. Anyway, there was a sudden explosion, and we saw flames shooting up in the air. We hit the street running and ran at least a block before even turning around. When we did, we saw the attendant holding an extinguisher and spraying the fire, which was almost out. When we finally got up the nerve to return to the car, we asked the attendant, who was still shaking, how he had the courage to run into the store, get the extinguisher, and return in time to put the fire out. He explained that beneath the concrete under the pumps was a thousand-gallon tank of gas, which would have caused a major explosion if the car was left to burn. Amazingly, the car suffered no damage, and we continued on our way, making sure to remove the lamp before anyone could put gas in the tank.
I found that during the years of the Great Depression a spirit of people helping one another prevailed. Most people had a sense that "we're all in the same boat together." For instance, I didn't own a car —in fact I never owned a car until I was twenty-nine. I always hitchhiked because I didn't have money to go on buses or trains. Hitchhiking was easy. I never had to wait more than ten or fifteen minutes to get a ride, and people would go out of their way to help me get to my destination. I think it was partly this attitude that helped bring the country through the Depression. One of the things I always have felt about the Depression is the spirit of community and helping one another that came alive. It is regretful that it takes such a calamity for this to happen on a wide scale.
The Depression spurred a number of programs—known as "alphabet soup"—to provide work under the New Deal, such as WPA (Work Project Administration), CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps), NRA (National Recovery Administration), HOLC (Home Owners Loan Corporation).
When I entered Ohio State University in 1936, the country was in the throes of the Depression, and I was so poor I could hardly pay the tuition—even though it was only about $100 for the entire year. Jobs were so few that all I could find was a "meal job"—that is, one or two meals in exchange for a shift waiting tables or washing dishes.
To satisfy my need for cash I created a couple of entrepreneurial projects. I bought what must have been the first custom-designed high-fidelity amplifier and record player, which wowed everyone who heard the sound. I used it to put on dances at fraternity and sorority houses for $8 a night. I had always been interested in music since Joe Sitler sat me down and made me listen to classical music in high school, only now my musical choices were popular dance tunes of the day. This enterprise not only provided a source of income, it gave a boost to my social life. Often when I arrived at the fraternity or sorority house, others would want to take charge of the record player, so I could dance with my girlfriends all night.
Another entrepreneurial venture was to go from house to house in suburban neighborhoods selling what was then a new invention—sponge mops. I would simply ask the lady who came to the door if she would like her kitchen floor mopped for free. Many women, like my mother, had given up having maids after 1929 and found themselves reluctantly doing all the household chores. These women never refused a free floor mopping, and they recognized the convenience of the sponge mop over the standard string mops, which needed to be rinsed by hand. I sold one every time and made $1 for every sale.
One summer I even got a job, with help from my dad, at Standard Oil moving kerosene lamps from one job location to the next, following the diggers and welders as they built an oil pipeline all the way from Texas to Cleveland. For this I was paid $1 an hour—high wages at that time. Even though I was earning money, it still wasn't enough to attend school full time, so instead of paying tuition I audited courses, reading the same books but not receiving credit. That didn't bother me because I refused to enroll in the required Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) on principle as a Conscientious Objector. This meant I couldn't get a diploma anyway. I was uncomfortable with the officer status I would receive after graduating, and even then I had already decided I was not going to fight in any war. This was the beginning of my resistance to militarism.
During my time in Columbus at Ohio State University, book learning was a secondary factor in my overall education. Most important at the time was my new interest in painting and drawing. I shifted the courses I audited to the art department. At first, my interest was just curiosity; I wanted to understand why certain artists like Rembrandt are recognized as "great artists" while thousands of others are not. Exactly what made them great? It took more than a year, but slowly I began to understand. One of my teachers, Hoyt Sherman, was especially helpful. He was an accomplished painter and architect who had developed certain techniques to break the conventional way most people view drawing. He had written a well-known book entitled Drawing by Seeing, which explained his methodology. For example, he would turn familiar objects like tables and chairs on their side or upside down and have his students learn to draw them from that perspective. Or he would darken the room and rapidly flash abstract drawings onto a screen for students to draw. In fact, he even had a special building built on the campus to help develop these techniques. Cezanne and Rembrandt were his idols, but to understand them it was necessary to understand abstraction. So influential was he at the University that the dental school required all first-year dental students to take his course in drawing. He convinced them by scientific studies that his method significantly increased peripheral vision, which was an aid for dentists and artists alike.
While I was at Ohio State, I became part of a small student group of "dissidents." A half dozen of us came together because of our similar anti-war beliefs and perhaps because of creative leanings we shared. Some of us lived together in a loft above a local saloon. Bill Lisky wanted to be a writer; George Bernard Shaw was his role model. Three of us were painters, and one of us was the philosopher "in residence." We also had a nonresident guru who was a theosophist—a follower of Madam Blavatsky—steeped in Hindu and Indian philosophy. Our staple diet was oatmeal—at all three meals! We did a little scientific study and found that oatmeal comes closest to providing a complete balanced diet. It's also very cheap. Altogether an odd bunch, we had a sense of community due in large part to our common decision to oppose war and particularly not to join the military, even if drafted. I believe all Conscientious Objectors, no matter what position they take (whether to go to jail or not) feel this strong connection to one another, just as people who turn out for a demonstration, a vigil, or a march feel a sense of community. But the higher the risk or sacrifice, the stronger the feeling.
Like me, the other members were auditing classes but were not trying to get a degree. The Depression had changed our world view and had strengthened our resolve not to follow an individualistic path but to work together and find a new, less explored path. We all agreed on one thing: we would not join the military when the war began, which we all saw as inevitable. But when the war actually did come, only the "philosopher in residence" joined me in going to jail. The pressure from family and other friends was very strong.
Another important factor that influenced my attitude toward war was anti-war movies such as "All Quiet on the Western Front" and "The Big Parade," which I saw as a youngster of ten or twelve. From Sycamore Street I would walk the half mile to the only local movie house, and for 25 cents I could watch the latest Hollywood films—many of which were war films with "dog fights" in the air and so forth. In fact, the world of space and airplanes interested me a great deal, and I spent a great deal of time making model airplanes. The gory movie scenes made a big impression on me, and my sense of the indescribable tragedy of war stayed with me.
Alex King, one of the nonresident members of our dissident group, came from a Mennonite farm family near Wooster, Ohio, not far from where my uncle's farm had been. He became a good friend, and we talked often about his father's farm. His father was aging and Al, with no brothers or sisters, was the only heir to the farm. Al was a talented pianist, and he wanted to pursue his love of music rather than farming. We were both facing the draft, but Al would automatically get CO status (all Mennonite men did) and be allowed to stay on the farm to help run it. Many farmers, doctors, and men with specialized professions were being given this deferment because they were needed for the "war effort" at home. My experience growing up left me determined to get out of the city and work in the country. I remembered fondly the summers on my uncle's farm, so I suggested to Al that we work together on his farm for at least a year; by then I should have learned a great deal about farming. He agreed, and with his father's approval we set out to take on the hundred-acre farm.
Al was somewhat familiar with the idea of organic farming, which was just beginning to be heard of. In fact, even within the Mennonite community a discussion was going on over the issue. The community was split between the progressive and traditional way of life. Although not as radical as the Amish, the traditional community shied away from using machinery, including automobiles and tractors. They did not use synthetic fertilizers, herbicides, or insecticides but rather used methods such as composting and crop rotation and continued to use horses. The "progressives," on the other hand, were embracing modern ways: using synthetic fertilizers to increase productivity, utilizing tractors, and trying out other mechanized implements. The organic farmers were somewhere in between—although they wanted to stay with traditional organic methods, they also wanted to utilize modern machinery and explore new methods. Al instinctively wanted to farm organically, so we set out to learn from some of the traditional farmers. (We did not know it at the time, but Louis Bromfield was also setting out to experiment with organic farming on his farm nearby. His book Malabar Farm, published in 1946, was one of the first to challenge "modern" chemical farming).
We ran a small rotation of hay, corn, and wheat; oversaw the small fruit orchard; and managed twelve milking cows. I remember harvest time well. Before the combine was invented, men used the threshing machine, and all available hands in the community would take turns working on one another's farms loading sheaves of wheat onto the wagon and into the machine. I had great fun passing from farm to farm; never had I worked as hard as I did that season. The women would cook everything for us , so we were well fed—and tired as dogs by the end of the day.
Al was a dissident not only from regular society for his anti-war beliefs but also from his own church as well. While agreeing with the Peace Church position of the Mennonites, he couldn't accept their "Hellfire and Brimstone" theology. I came to have a deep appreciation of the Mennonites but, like Al, could not accept their theology. I liked the Mennonite way of life for the same reasons I liked my uncle's farm when I was a boy. I was rejecting the urban way of life for its sterility. I think I realized intuitively that it was not sustainable. At the same time I wanted to belong to a group or community in which people worked together for the common good—as the Mennonites do.
I remember one incident that got Al and me in trouble. Mennonites have strict rules of behavior tied to their religious beliefs. One of them is absolute abstinence from alcoholic beverages. The summer I was there was a very productive season for fruit. The black cherries in particular were prolific. Al and I decided we should make wine from them. We stored the cherries in glass bottles in the basement where they couldn't be seen and then more or less forgot about them. One day we were sitting around the table, and suddenly there was a terrific explosion from the basement. Al and I looked at each other and tried to keep from laughing. I think his parents had to do some penance at church for our misbehavior.
Shortly before my year with Al on the farm was over, I received a letter from Jack Weigle, another dissident friend from the university. He had not lived in our loft but met with us occasionally. In his letter Jack told me about the plans he, his older brother Gene, and Gene's wife, Bea, were making to set up an intentional community near Bennington, Vermont. This venture was being shaped by Gene, who was a musician, composer, and visionary. Gene had built his own house outside of Cleveland, where he was the organist for a local church. The house was an exact replica of the typical New England salt box design, including the lead glass windows. Gene had long planned to escape the city and start a cooperative farm somewhere in the East. Jack invited me to join them, and without hesitation I accepted. After spending the winter with Al's family I accompanied Jack, Gene, and Bea to Vermont in the spring of 1942.
The time I spent in Vermont was so short (because I was arrested six months after my arrival by a Federal Marshall) that I don't have a clear memory of it. I can remember working in the woods with the team of horses we bought. I remember Gene playing and singing folk songs, which were not yet popular then. Gene was a first-rate musician, playing organ, piano, flute, and violin, and was also a composer. After the war he taught music composition at a midwestern university.
At some point during my stay in Vermont, I went with friends to visit Scott and Helen Nearing in southern Vermont. I was impressed by how much they had accomplished toward self-sufficiency in food and by the house they built themselves. When I later heard that they had moved to Maine, I thought it must have been a heart-wrenching decision to leave all they had built, including a gravity collection system for gathering maple syrup, a major source of income for them.