Editor’s Note:
Portions of an article by Irene Ambler in the March 5, 1981 issue of the Breeze were discussed at the April 27 Upper Vandalia Society meeting. The PWA privies in the article were actually WPA outhouses. There was no PWA. The WPA was the Works Progress Administration which was later renamed as Work
Projects Administration.
Popular nicknames for the structures include the Roosevelt Outhouse, the Roosevelt Room, the White House, the Relief Office, and the Eleanor. Some, when called by nature, excused themselves by saying they had to visit Miss Perkins, a reference to Frances Perkins, FDR’s secretary of Labor.
Irene Ambler’s article follows.
Sturdy Reminder of Depression Days
By Irene Ambler
March 5, 1981
This is the eighth week I have reminisced about the Great Depression. I could write about a lot of different phases of that era. I could talk about going creasy green hunting, or entertainment, or the lack of money, or any number of other subjects. However, this week I am going to talk about a great building project during the days of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The project for discussion will be in the field of public sanitation. You guessed it: the project is the building of the PWA privies.
Back during those days there were all kinds of programs going under the heading of alphabetical names, such as the PWA, the WPA. (I have never figured out the difference between PWA and WPA. One meant Public Works Administration and the other meant Works Project Administration, I think.) Well, anyway, the PWA or the WPA offered work for a lot of people during that poverty-stricken time. Many buildings were built – post offices, court houses, dams, public auditoriums and many other structures. Around here, however, the only construction I can think of was on the roads and on the outside privies.
Don’t know what we used for privies before that time; but I can tell you , the PWA privy was a pretty nifty little building. The way it worked was like this: you would make application for an outside comfort station, the owner would pay for the materials; and the worker would in very short order complete a snug little haven of rest for anyone who wanted one. As nearly as I can recall, the materials cost about twenty or twenty-five dollars. The base was built of extremely good concrete, the lumber was of the finest, and the door had a wooden latch which would hold firm even in the very strongest wind. I do not remember if the government sent someone around to inspect old privies to declare them sanitary or unsanitary. I do know that we had our own water and sewer system; but my dad thought it was a good program, so he had one built for us anyway. He also had one built behind the Breeze office; and whoever lived here at the farm had one built here also.
You could have one-holers, two-holers, or perhaps three-holers, although I never did see a three-holer. All of ours were the conventional one-holer type, because we never did believe a whole lot in togetherness when we sought the convenience of the outhouse. The one here at the farm is still here, although it looks a mite disheveled. It has an almost new concrete pit and foundation and stands in all of its glory at the back of the yard for all to see as a reminder of the Great Depression. We do not plan to tear it down; and Dave has been talking for many years of repainting it, buying new screens for the ventilators and fixing it up in mint condition. I wish he would hurry up and do it, because I would like to plant some flowers around it.
That old structure was the best place in the world for meditating or looking at the stars, or just plain old resting when one was tired. Nearly everyone had a fond nickname for his or her own private privy; but we called ours “Eleanor” in the summertime and “Little America” in t the wintertime. Many a quiet, warm night have I sat there, like a queen on a throne, laving the door open, and looking at the deep abyss of space and the millions of stars in the heavens. In wintertime I sat a long time, too, because I was usually so cold I could hardly move to get up. It wasn’t so bad to sit down on it after the initial shock, but getting up was pure torture, especially if the temperature was around zero.
Well, nobody was any more proud of the government-built outhouse than my dad. When the structure was completed, a very legal looking card was nailed up on the inside. The card said something to the effect that the toilet was built with government and citizens cooperating in the project and that the building had been inspected and approved as sanitary. At the bottom of the card was printed a replica of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s signature. I do not recall that any dedication ceremonies or housewarmings were held when the buildings were completed.
Many years passed; and the little house out in back of the Breeze office stood there in all its dignity and pride, a perfect example of the ingenuity and technology of man’s endeavors – not to mention as a memento of a time which had not been duplicated in American history. We all sort of like the little building because it had such dignity and durability and showed us that we could always manage regardless of how bad ties were. During the years following the Depression two bathrooms had been installed in the Breeze office. This should have been a signal for my dad to have the backhouse removed. But would he have it torn down? No, he would not.
As Hurricane became more and more progressive and as more and more people had their inside plumbing, I suppose the little house in back of the Breeze office became a humiliation and an eyesore to some of the town fathers. Anyway, my dad received many orders to tear down the offending structure; but he held steadfast and ready to fight to preserve the little building. Each and every Halloween the little privy was turned over. Every morning after Halloween my dad hired someone to place it back on its foundation. We tried to get him to get it torn down and removed; but he said it was his and he was going to keep it.
No one ever used the outside toilet; and it was really very clean and shouldn’t have offended anyone. After many years (either in the late 1950’s or early 1960’s) he finally said that he believed he would have it torn down because the foundation block and the concrete floor was cracked and it would be sort of dangerous for anyone to attempt to sit with comfort and safety on the seat. Actually, it sort of, by that time, favored the Leaning Tower of Piza and would give one the feeling of being on a listing ship to go into it.
Well, as I said, he was just about (but not quite) ready to tear it down, when something happened which put all his good resolve right out the window. Two little black-suited gentlemen, carrying attaché cases and wearing little round hats with little red feathers came around with an official-looking paper which didn’t ask him to ear it down, but ORDERED him to tear it down. These two drones were from the State Department of Health, who had, no doubt been called in as back-ups for the local Hurricane fathers. Well, I could say that these two men made the dirty stuff hit the fan, but I won’t I will say, however, that my dad handled the situation in such a gleeful and in-command way that I actually felt proud of him and I, too, was ready to fight.
My dad read the paper with the official order and then he looked right straight into the faces of these two bureaucrats and said in a very dignified manner, “I can’t tear down that building.” One of the men said, “I’d like to know why you can’t get rid of it. We’re ordering you to tear it down.” My dad said, “If I tear down that building, I will have to get permission from the President of the United States.” The answer came from the bureaucrats that they couldn’t understand what he was talking about; and my dad said, “There’s a sign in that toilet which is signed by Franklin Roosevelt and it says that the construction was a joint effort of the federal government and that anyone who defaces the construction will be subject to a fine. Now, you know that I don’t want to get myself and you boys in trouble by tearing down that toilet.” Well, these two little important-acting fellows were just flabbergasted and as angry as they could be. They felt that they wouldn’t be outdone, though, and the next remark coming from one of them was, “Well, we can bring someone in here to tear it down.” My dad said, “It is my duty as a citizen to protect the laws of this country and I’m going to do it. The first person who lays a hand on that toilet is going to jail, because I will get out an injunction against him.”
The two men stormed out of the office, saying that they would be back; but we never, to this day, ever heard from them or saw them. Neither did anyone else ever mention the demolition of the little house out behind the Breeze office. The little thing stood there until the following Halloween, at which time the local boys pushed it over again, damaging it so badly that even my dad didn’t think it could be repaired. So he had it torn down and hauled away. We hated to see it go.
Honestly, those PWA or WPA privies were a needed commodity and a real convenience for those who had them; and there were many who had them. They were constructed in a good manner, were sanitary and furnished a real need. They also furnished employment for many men who had to feed their families by the very hardest. Wages were based on the number of persons in the employee’s family. I never heard of anyone making more than $37.50 per month, which was the only thing which stood between the family and starvation. A lot of men during those days were proud, self-reliant and independent. They were not looking for hand-outs. They were looking for work in order to support their families in a dignified and respectable manner.
There were commodity stations throughout the country. The Putnam County Commodity Office was located in Winfield. Staples such as beans, flour, sugar, meal, lard, butter and other necessary foods were given to those who really had the need for them. Most of the fathers who had to go to Winfield were not happy that they had to get free food; but they had to pocket their pride and manage as well as they could. One time at Winfield soup bones were being handed out. Long lines would be formed by those who found it necessary to get the commodities. There were not enough soup bones to go around and it came down to the place where two men were waiting and only one more soup bone was available. A furious fight ensured between the two men; and a trial was held, with the charge of assault and battery being lodged against the man who was left out. That is a pitiful situation; but as we know, those were desperate times; and probably both men had hungry children at home. I do not remember how the case was resolved; but I do not believe that either one should have been punished.
Free garden seeds were also available at the commodity station. Many, many people profited by the free garden seeds and raised big gardens, which helped them through the summer and also during the wintertime with the canned and preserved vegetables. At that time we could get pretty large packets of garden seeds for a nickel or dime. Can you imagine anyone being poor enough not to be able to buy a few packages of seed? Well, there were plenty of people in that condition. A penny is a fortune if you don’t have it.
Well, shucks, I was going to tell a lot more tales; but I don’t have room. I’ll be back around this way again next week. If any of you have any particular Depression stories, call and tell me about them and I’ll write about them. As I said last week, I have had such an overwhelming response from this series of stories, that I’ll just keep writing until you get tired of them.
