Housing for Poor People in 1940

A true story from the rural South.

Housing for Poor People in 1940

 

By Elton Camp

 

(This is a true short story from North Alabama)

 

            Today’s younger people will have trouble relating to the dilemma of low-income folks when it came to the matter of living quarters.  Housing projects and income-based rent didn’t exist.  Less prosperous families got by as best they could, often renting a single room in a private home.  This was the case with my family in 1940 when I was still a fetus. 

 

            My parents’ room, obtained prior to Mother’s pregnancy, was in an older house owned by an elderly couple who felt it their duty to accept renters due to the severe economic conditions of the late 1930s.  The bath and kitchen were shared with the landlords.  When the Braggs rented to them, they cautioned, “Now we’re old and don’t want any children around here.  We’re letting you have the place under those terms.  No children allowed.” 

 

            Mrs. Bragg was a humped, shriveled little woman with many deep facial wrinkles.  She kept her straight hair pulled back and worked into a bun.  Her everyday attire consisted of dark-colored dresses with no pattern that ended several inches above her high-top shoes.  Thick, wrinkled, brown stockings looked almost like an extra layer of skin.  She spoke with a distinctive Appalachian drawl and accent. 

 

The eat-in kitchen was large and light due to its many windows, yet had only the most basic appliances.  The stove was white enamel and stood on high legs.  It had many chips off its surface that showed the black material underneath.  A brown, wooden icebox preserved food.  The deep sink looked like a trough to water animals. 

 

A sun porch at the back, a couple of steps lower than the rest of the house, served as an informal sitting area in nice weather.  The spare bedroom was what they rented as an efficiency apartment.

           

Behind the house grew an extensive, well-tended garden. Corn stalks stood neatly in rows, beans ran up poles in the shape of a teepee, yellow squash peeked out from velvet leaves, and watermelons were bunched in a corner.  A second gate, crudely constructed of boards and hog wire, was at the back of the garden.  It opened into a narrow, unpaved alley.  Rarely used by vehicles, the alley had two ruts of bare ground with lush green weeds in its middle. 

           

A narrow, dirt path led at a sharp angle from the other side of the alley to the rear entrance of Mr. Bragg’s real estate office in town.  Amusingly, his firm was named for his partner and himself as “Cheatham and Bragg.” 

 

            “Surely he must know how that sounds,” Mother said, followed by a chuckle. 

 

            “If he does, apparently he doesn’t care,” my father agreed.

 

My parents’ room was heated with an unvented kerosene heater.  Winter, unfortunately, corresponded with the early part of her pregnancy. 

           

“I can’t stand the smell of kerosene.  It makes morning sickness so much worse,” she complained when she was home on the weekends. For the rest of her life, she couldn’t tolerate the odor of kerosene since it triggered such unpleasant memories.  “It makes me feel sick every time I smell it,” she said with revulsion. 

 

            Her employment ended with the start of the summer break since it was the policy of the board of education that teachers be discharged when pregnancy became evident. 

 

            Since the Braggs had specified “No children,” my parents moved just prior to the birth, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Bragg.  She’d been eagerly looking forward to having a baby in the house again, but failed to share that change of view with her renters.

 

            “I wud ’ave been like a grandmother t’ hit ’n’ helped y’u wif hit,” she said.  “I wish ye’d tole me y’u wuz goin’ t’ move,” she lamented. 

 

            Any who have a hankering for the “good old days” should realize that living conditions were far different in ways that weren’t always pleasant.