7. The Old Home

Papa was never very happy in his position as Mr. Frank Hunt’s private chaplain and Sunday morning preacher (but not pastor) at the old Salem Church.

For one reason, the job gave him an uneasy rating as a minister. The Lutherans were glad enough to see one of their own faith at that post, but there was no organized lay congregation, no Sunday School. The whole project was irregular; hadn’t a leg to stand on.

Too, Mr. Hunt was in frail health and rarely felt well enough to attend church services. The other people in the neighborhood, if they went to church at all, had their own churches with Sunday Schools for the children. It was easy to see that Papa’s occupation offered him no challenge and no hope of improvement.

But the overshadowing reason that dwarfed all the other reasons for Papa’s unhappiness was the hateful fact that the job was a dole, a charity. Papa had always been underpaid for the amount of work he did. But that was ever so much better than being overpaid. Here we must pause for reflection.

A few months ago a long-time friend and colleague of mine had just resigned his pastorate of a great church to accept an endowed chair on the faculty of a great university. In explaining to me his various reasons for making this decision he used the phrase “security of tenure.” I replied that all the other reasons were excellent, but to have a job from which one couldn’t be fired or retired might be the ruination of a good man. No, sirree! Give me insecurity every time!

In our family there was a book called Farm Ballads by Will Carleton, a popular midwestern poet circa 1880. The book was illustrated by a handful of drawings appropriate to the text. The one I remember best was a picture of a bearded old gentleman and his wife in the back seat of a big farm wagon en route to their future home. The title of the poem was “Over the Hill to the Poorhouse.”

Later, this institution became known as the County Farm. The inmates were encouraged to cultivate small vegetable and flower gardens, partly to occupy their time and partly to pay for their keep. But the institution was still the County Poorhouse and it was not considered an honor to live there.

Such being the case, anyone who could move his hands and feet—and had a shred of self-respect left in him—shrank in horror from the prospect of having his Board and Lodging defrayed out of the Public Purse. So long as he could push a wheelbarrow or ride a load of manure, he proudly maintained his economic independence.

Now—this abhorrence of pauperism made pretty rough going for a lot of unlucky people who would have been pleased with a little wider selection of foods, and better clothing for themselves and their children—but their independence was too precious to be swapped for comforts acquired from the Township Poor Fund.