On 2002-04-06 06:52, Jenny Genser wrote:
Change in topic. Regarding the thred core question on whether we are early in 4T or late in 3T, here is an article from today's
Washington Post that describes life early in the last 4T. It combines an analysis of newly-released U.S. Census data with interviews from some surviving nonagerians.
Here is the link.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn...-2002Apr5.html.
Here is the article.
Glimpsing Time Before Depression Took Hold
U.S. Census Opens the Book On Washington Life in 1930
Pauline Jones, 93, says she starts the newspaper each day with the comics. She recalls the Depression days when boys her age would sell newspapers on the corner.
On Euclid Street that spring, the census takers found Wellington J. Voss residing with his sisters, Mary, Irma and Anna, who had just lost their pet Airedale.
Charles L. Kessler was still on his way back with Admiral Byrd's South Pole expedition, but he was counted anyhow at his father's home on Foxhall Road. Occupation: "Explorer."
And on East Capitol Street, the census tallied Helen A. White, a clerk's wife, who had just been saved by a blood transfusion after the birth of her 12th child.
The stock market had briefly revived, and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. A federal Prohibition agent had been murdered by rumrunners. And a "colored girl" on Wallach Place advertised for work as a maid. "Neat," she added. "References."
It was April 1930. "Is Every-bod-ee Happy?" bandleader Ted Lewis crooned.
In Washington, the U.S. Census Bureau had questions of its own -- 32, to be exact, posed in its detailed once-a-decade national head count.
Things seemed okay. A Chevy Roadster that spring cost $495. A man's suit, with trousers and knickers, $45. A five-course dinner at the Collier Inn on Columbia Road NW was $1.
You could be buried for $100.
Buck Rogers was in the comics. The planet Pluto had just been discovered. Nevada executed gambler Robert H. White in the gas chamber for murder.
On April 2, a pleasant Wednesday, the federal government dispatched 87,800 "enumerators" across the country -- 403 in Washington alone -- to conduct the 1930 Census. They were paid 4 cents for each name counted, 40 to 50 cents for each farm visited.
The tally took several weeks to complete, though the official day of record was April 1: How old were you, as of April 1? Were you employed, as of April 1? Though the general statistics would be public, the bureau assured people that their personal data would be confidential. It would remain so, by law, for 72 years.
Last week, that time was up. On Monday, officials at the National Archives snipped a red, white and blue ribbon across the huge nickel alloy doors to Room 400 and for the first time opened to the public the details of that long-ago count.
Penciled across tens of thousands of microfilmed broadsheets was a snapshot of America. Names, addresses, ages, employment, race, ethnicity, marital and employment status, military service, home value, and whether or not a family possesed that telling marker of success: a radio.
It was a portrait taken at a fascinating moment in the nation's history. The Roaring '20s had just ended, and the country, somewhat innocently, was starting to plunge into the Great Depression, and on to a global cataclysm.
Herbert Hoover was in the White House, or fishing on Virginia's Rapidan River, and Franklin D. Roosevelt that fall would be reelected governor of New York by a landslide. Prohibition was a decade old and almost out of steam.
On the phonograph that April, they were playing Duke Ellington's "Mood Indigo," Rudy Vallee's "Kansas City Kitty" and a number called "High and Dry," by Irving Mills and his Hotsy-Totsy Gang.
The Marx brothers, Al Jolson, Eddie Cantor and Ginger Rogers were in the movies. Cole Porter, George and Ira Gershwin and Irving Berlin wrote songs. And from the radio drifted "I Got Rhythm," "Puttin' on the Ritz" and, somewhat prematurely, "Happy Days Are Here Again."
The fourth decade of the 20th century was three months old. But much of the nation was still rooted in the 1800s.
Washington, like the rest of the country, was utterly segregated, and newspapers of that year carried accounts of almost monthly southern lynchings and other killings -- one black man was burned at the stake that February in Ocilla, Ga.
"It was awful," longtime black District resident Pauline Johnson Jones, 93, recalled last week. "It was a divided city, but we had our own life, our own society."
Jones and her four siblings were raised by their mother, a widowed postal worker, in a house in the 1600 block of O Street NW.
"The boys sold newspapers on the corner," she said. "Back then, there were 'extras,' and when the boys called out 'extra,' everyone would rush over to see what the latest news was." Heating and cooking were done with coal.
But there were also good times, she said. For Jones and other African American Washington residents of 1930, the good times were on the Black Broadway, as U Street between Seventh and 16th streets NW was called.
Just out of Armstrong High School, Jones dressed up and went to the Howard Theater, the Crystal Caverns and the Lincoln Theater Collonade with her friends.
"We heard Duke Ellington and all those great, great artists," she said. "And we did get dressed. People dressed in those days. We didn't have any jeans then."
Beyond the smart crowds on U Street, the census takers would find that nationwide, there were still 124,000 blacksmiths, 11,000 coopers, 111,000 draymen, teamsters and carriage drivers, and 5,000 boatmen, canalmen and lock keepers.
There were also 40,000 charwomen, 18,000 bootblacks, 19,000 icemen and 17,000 "healers."
But the 1930 Census also found clear signs that the nation was headed someplace new and exciting and mysterious. There were door-to-door salesmen and product demonstrators, along with 26,000 credit men, 67,000 elevator tenders and 6,097 aviators -- 66 of them women.
People seemed crazy for technology. Auto manufacturers were putting radios in cars, generating debate over the safety of such a move. How could one drive and listen -- or tune -- at the same time?
But people did. Harold Gray, 94, a retired Washington lobbyist, was a junior at George Washington University that spring. He recalled cruising the capital in a buddy's Model T. The city speed limit: 22 mph.
Traffic lights and stop signs were few, he said. And out in the country, one could tear along at 50 mph. "In my youthful driving experience," he said, "I got a couple of speeding tickets."
Richard Beale, also 94, of Asbury Methodist Village, in Gaithersburg, was then a 22-year-old resident of 14th Street NE. He got his first car in 1930, a four-door Ford. But he recalled that driving was done with care: "You had to watch out for the horses and wagons."
It was aviation, though, that had seized the public mind. The news was filled with airplane stunts -- barnstormer Roscoe Turner flew with his pet lion cub in the cockpit -- cross-country hops and weekly air tragedies.
The papers carried aviation weather, and some had aviation pages. The Alexandria Gazette reported that the George Washington airport, three miles south of the city, would be the American terminal for the new trans-Atlantic Zeppelin line. Service was expected in July.
That February, an actor's ashes were sprinkled from an airplane over Broadway. Two weeks later, a deaf man was killed parachuting from an airplane to try to regain his hearing. That June, the birth of Charles Lindbergh's first child made front-page headlines.
And as the enumerators went to work, Western Air Express promised to get travelers from Washington to California in the fabulous time of 49 hours.
That year, the census would estimate 122,775,046 U.S. residents -- about 108,000,000 whites, about 11,000,000 blacks and about 1,700,000 Mexican, Chinese and Native Americans. The District's population was 486,869 -- 72 percent white, 27 percent black. Maryland had about 1.6 million residents, Virginia 2.4 million.
Forty percent of the nation's families reported that they had a radio. In the capital, 54 percent of families owned radios. In Maryland and Virginia, 42.9 percent and 18.2 percent of families, respectively, owned one.
Nationally, 60 percent of males and 61 percent of females over 14 said they were married. Only 1.1 percent of males and 1.3 percent of females said they were divorced. In the District, 59 percent of males and 53 percent of females were married. In Maryland and Virginia, 59 percent of males and females were married.
Children ages 5 to 9 made up the country's largest age group, as they did Maryland's and Virginia's. Adults 20 to 24 made up Washington's largest age segment.
There were 4 million people across the country who said they were illiterate.
The stock market crash the previous fall had been gigantic. Historian T.H. Watkins has written that in five hours of trading on Oct. 29, "Black Tuesday," the modern equivalent of $95 billion vanished in a financial Armageddon.
But by April, things seemed to have recovered. The so-called "little bull market" had taken hold. "The signs of vigor and confidence are as unmistakable as the signs of spring," The Washington Post said the day before the census. "The winter of discontent is over."
It was at this moment, as the nation blithely teetered at the edge of the Depression, that the census takers left on their mission. The baseball and horse racing seasons were starting. Please, the bureau told its enumerators, "write legibly."
They tried.
As they spread through the city that month, knocking on doors, sitting at kitchen tables, chatting on doorsteps, they touched all the city's communities.
At 1524 East Capitol St., they found the White family: William, 34, his wife, Helen, 33, and their 12 children ranging in age from 11 years to 2 months. (Their census entry shows they had 6-year-old twins.)
According to a newspaper account of the time, Mrs. White had been saved by a radio station's blood drive held after she underwent postpartum surgery two days before. Her husband told the census he was an unemployed clerk, and veteran of the "WW," the World War.
On Rhode Island Avenue, near Logan Circle, the census found millionaire lawyer Walter Denegre, 50, who described himself as retired. Also resident were his wife, Bertha, 50; 10 servants; and his chauffeur's three children.
On Wallach Place NW, in the Shaw neighborhood, enumerators called on the family of James P. Kestersom, 55. Someone there had just placed a classified ad in the paper looking for work. "GIRL, colored," it said. "Neat. Wants job, pantry work or maid; references."
The enumerator recorded that Kestersom, an unemployed government laborer, lived with his wife, Lena, 50, who described herself as a working "child nurse"; their daughter, Sylvia, 12; and a "lodger," Catherine Josephs, 20. The family reported that they owned their $7,000 house and a radio.
On Euclid Street NW, the census found Wellington Voss, 33, and his sisters, who had just placed an ad seeking their lost Airedale. Voss described himself as a "newspaper writer," and his obituary 44 years later in New Hampshire noted that he had once worked for two Washington papers.
At 1600 Foxhall Rd. on April 9, Leroy P. Kessler, 53, a Navy Yard electrician, and his wife, Katherine, 48, were still awaiting the arrival of their explorer son, Charles, 25.
He would be home in June, when Adm. Richard E. Byrd returned from the expedition that had taken him on his sensational flight to the South Pole the previous November.
Some people the census just missed. The day before it began, the ashes of Dr. Clara Nicolay, a retired teacher who had lived in an apartment building on Second Street NE, had been sprinkled by friends on the Potomac River beneath the blooming cherry trees.
And some people barely made the cutoff.
On April 12, enumerator Olive C. Peters visited the home of George C. Brown, 81, charter member of the Frederick Douglass Relief Association, and his wife, Emma, 56, and recorded them both.
Brown had died April 1, according to a newspaper death notice, living just long enough, apparently, to make the census date of record.
By summer, the work was done. By then, the stock market was headed down again. In September, the Nazis made electoral gains in Germany. In November, there was a bank panic in the South. And in December a big New York bank, with $202 million in deposits, went under.
Fifteen years of war and economic depression lay ahead. But gazing back over seven decades last week, Pauline Johnson Jones said: "I feel very fortunate. I look back over those years and remember how very close we were. We had a very wonderful life."
Staff researchers Bobbye Pratt and Mary Lou White contributed to this report.
? 2002 The Washington Post Company