“GRAPES OF WRATH”; F. D. R.: BIRD TALK
September, 1939. I stare at a small item in the San Diego paper. Such a few words to set my life in a new direction!
“The migratory labor problem will command the attention of the first meeting round table of the League of Women Voters Sept. 26, when Dr. Edna Hawley Seamons will review John Steinbeck's ‘Grapes of Wrath’…”
I've read Steinbeck's sensational, heart-breaking best seller, renting it in La Jolla for 10 cents, finishing it in one-day long session. Can this really be happening in my native California? This brutal treatment of Oakies and Arkies drifting into the state in thousands to work in lettuce fields and seasonal fruit picking.
The San Diego Union deplores this inrush, viewing the penniless migrants from draught-plagued, worked-out midwestern farms with horror—like a cloud of locusts.
But here is a woman's group that actually cares. I go to the meeting, listen to attractive, intelligent Dr. Seamons. The whole meeting is exciting, even though only about fifteen women come.
At the next meeting, young Dr. Seamons reviews Carey McWilliams “Factories in the Fields”. I read it in astonishment: mechanized farming equipment on great land holdings—contrasted to hovels and starvation wages for the migratory workers and their families. How did this take place? I want to be
I join the San Diego League. Learn about the strictly nonpartisan policy of the National organization: “We do not support candidates; we only support issues.” A group that studies and acts.
Now the Gull Project and editorship of the W.B.B.A. must share time with LWV. Soon I am Program Chairman. How vivid—the first meeting I actually schedule myself—a luncheon round table, getting notice in paper. Wash my hair, put on my best suit, arrive early. Wait. Three ladies—just three—appear. Non-plussed, I conduct the meeting anyway. Two of these ladies are old members; but the third, the blessed third is a newcomer—quiet, precise, friendly—and she joins. My efforts have not been wasted, after all.
I find that the California State League in its Program of Work 1939-1940, includes two items:
under “ACTION”
Educational opportunities for the children of migrants equal to that of the other children in the public schools of California.
under “STUDY”
Improved facilities for the housing, health, and employment of migratory laborers.
How did my new friends wangle it? Carey McWilliams himself will be the speaker at a public dinner meeting to be held in the House of Hospitality, Balboa Park on Nov. 27, 1939. After publication of his new book, Governor Olsen appointed him State Director of Immigration and Housing.
This public meeting rouses plenty of attention, and a big crowd comes. Nine of us go in from La Jolla, including Miss Josephine Seaman, staunch civic leader, Martin and Leila Johnson, Frank and Virginia Gilloon. Director McWilliams speaks in strong
Now it turns out that Mrs. Griffing Bancroft, sister-in-law of Associated Farmers leader, Philip Bancroft, has joined the San Diego League, and demands equal time for him as speaker.
O.K. It is done. The meeting is set for February, 1940, at the U.S. Grant Hotel. At the same time, the senate La Follette Civil Liberties Committee is probing this pressing problem in Los Angeles. On February 22, 1940, the San Diego Tribune-Sun headline on our San Diego LWV meeting is:
FARMERS TO CONTINUE FIGHT AGAINST RED CONTROL
BANCROFT ‘ANSWER’ TO LA FOLLETTE
COMMITTEE QUIZ
Hot as a firecracker is the subject of a living wage for the migratory workers, and their right to strike. My league friends are proving to be a stubborn and tenacious group, with strong state and national support, in trying to work out legislative solutions to tough problems.
My own political awakening has come a little late. My first vote in 1932 was for Republican Herbert Hoover. After all, he was the patron saint of Stanford, wasn't he? And we shouldn't Change Horses in the Middle of the Stream—should we? My mother was a relentless and highly vocal Hoover supporter. Dad much less so. But my new CalTech friend, Marston, says without embellishment, that he might vote Socialist. A horrifying thought! And his CalTech boss, Professor Robert Emerson is eloquent on the need of change—the NEW DEAL, of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. In fact, Bob and Mother get into such a high old argument in defense of their candidates, at some canyon picnic we take, seems to me the only thing that brought blessed end to the wrangling was a large freezer of fresh strawberry ice cream.
But I recollect, still in 1932, standing at Pasadena's Colorado Street and Hill, near the Junior College, watching a small impromptu parade of FDR followers, mostly young and looking somewhat sheepish, raising their small hurrahs amid the silent disapproving stares of Republican Pasadena. The quiet thought penetrates—maybe I am really ignorant about my country. What is going on?
My 1936 vote is for F.D.R.
And now, in September, 1940—what d'you know?—President Roosevelt is coming to San Diego for a speech. Moreover he will drive down, the paper announces, from Los Angeles on main highway 101, passing at a set time, the “four corners” on the mesa close to Scripps.
Yes—I want to go see him—this famous man, crippled, indomitable. The third term of course is a major issue—no president before has run more than twice. But I don't share the San Diego papers constant attacks on W.P.A. workers “leaning on their shovels.” Federal funds have helped struggling little Scripps a lot—extra lab workers to speed research, money to make our housing livable. All of San Diego has benefitted by money for housing. Our LWV has visited some of the defense and navy housing springing up at nearby Linda Vista, a formerly empty mesa, with indeed—a lovely view, and green lawns for children to play on between the rows of plain but practical homes.
I drive up to the top of the hill by myself. Quite a crowd of people is waiting here. The well-dressed man standing next to me says, almost in apology, “Didn't come to see the candidate, came to see the President”.
I came to see both. At last, the long black touring car, with top down approaches, flanked with many other cars. It slows for the crossing, without quite stopping.
Yes, there he is, just like his pictures, hatless, looking tanned and healthy, the cigarette in the long holder, clutched jauntily in his teeth. He looks at the crowd waiting, seems to see each of us, personally. He waves and grins. He is gone. I hope he wins—even
October, 1940
I'm in Mary Fay's house, standing on one foot then the other, my purse, my papers in my hands, dying of impatience.
“Come on, Mary. Gosh we've got a lot to do.”
It's our BIG NIGHT. Yikes—what's happening tonight! Just the little San Diego LWV with its 75 hard-working members putting on the biggest shindig in town. Dinner at the biggest hotel—the U.S. Grant. Wow—the reservations!
I'm the program chairman. She's the president. It's our baby! Mary tucks in a stray lock of her soft fair hair. She is on the San Diego Board of Education. She is good looking, intelligent; she's my friend. “Let's go” she says, smiling.
Now we are in the huge conference ballroom, jammed with buzzing women. No prominent Democrat is going to let those darned Republicans beat her out. And vice-versa! Mary gavels for silence. Welcomes the crowd.
Here am I, introducing the speakers. The Republican State Committeeewoman is Mrs. Paul Blaisdell, imposingly large, impeccably dressed, filling the hall with impressive sentences. Strongly she supports Wendell Willkie, denounces a Roosevelt third term. The applause is loud.
Now—the Democratic National Committeewoman, Helen Gahagan Douglas. The handsome movie star, wife of Melvyn Douglas. She has beautiful dark-brown hair and eyes. She is a political storm center; she is bucking the main Democratic organization. She pushes away the microphone “I don't need this. She speaks dramatically, emotionally for FDR and his New Deal policies. Especially his vital social legislation. How right she is—I think in yearning.
But my control of the meeting is sternly fair. Five minutes to each for rebuttal.
“I didn't understand it would be only two issues.” says Mrs. Republican unexpectedly. Ouch—have I slipped up? But no, my
It's over—the speakers thanked, and gracious. The hall is empty. What have we accomplished? Has a single voter changed her mind? Or are they only, as we Leaguers like to laugh, confused at a higher level? At least San Diego League is on the map.
April 1941
“Peter, will you be president of the League?”
It's my good friend Martha Thomson, fellow board member, nominating chairman.
“Gee.” I say in astonishment. What an honor. What fun it would be, in our vigorous growing group—over a hundred members now. But I have a delightful, more pressing responsibility … And just being foreign policy chairman is a lot to handle.
Reluctantly I refuse. (But my most exciting League years are still ahead.)
Bird Talk Spring, 1940
I'm on my way to Pasadena, all by myself.
Marston is out at sea, with Syd and Dick Tibby. There's a big Cooper Ornithological Club conference at the University of Southern California. I'm on the agenda, to speak on the Pacific Gull Project.
We've had two years of color banding now, including Great Salt Lake, Utah, and lots of fine records. Those young gull do get around. Up and down the coast, of course. But the inland nesting Californias—how fascinating to get positive survey records, scarcely a month after banding, at both coast and following river valleys. The Utah birds spread out like a fan, in all directions … from Canada to Mexico.
So—my first big speech. How carefully I have listed the records. But first I've got to get there. A night at the folk's house
But the folks aren't home either. Mother is at an Art Conference—her water colors are really good; she is exhibiting widely. Dad is retired, and up at Pacific Grove with sister Jean, Bill and little Elizabeth; a new baby is on the way. Bill is working at Stanford's Hopkins Marine Station again, after the exciting Copenhagen jaunt.
How silent is the familiar house at 866 N. Chester, with all its memories. I stare at the wall phone; I could call a dozen friends. But I don't. . Why don't I?
Up early, eat a snack, study Marston's L.A. map. What's the best route? I miss my husband, who would know.
Into the swift traffic maze I go; whoops where's my route? Pull off on a side street, map again; must be out of date. But I'm a persistent cuss, even if, as Marston says, “My bump of locality is a hole”. I find USC; I even, from a dozen great buildings, find the right conference room.
It is full of earnest research ornithologists. Men paid for their work. I hastily get the program. My talk was set for 11 A.M. It is already 11:10 and someone else is speaking.
But never mind, an official tells me—I can speak first in the afternoon …
July, 1940
Los Coronados, Mexico—for the last time. This is the best banding trip of all, with the most experienced banders, the nestlings just the right age. An L.A. Times reporter and photographer go along, clambering gingerly with us over the slippery rocks. A full page of beautiful rotogravure comes out, of flying white gulls, of busy banders in unflattering costumes, handling the nestlings. It's great—even if the paper does label our Westerns as California Gulls.
But best of all is the brisk article on the Sports page, captioned admiringly, HARDY BIRD BANDERS.
Recognition at last!