by Kathy Clark Smith

Created on: June 26, 2009

I was standing in line to pay at the grocery store with two massive cartloads of food. The store was busy with long line ups that were snaking out into the corridor. The space I took up with two mounding carts and my 6'6" son was, shall I say . . . noticeable. An elderly gentleman walked up and stood behind me in line. He chuckled as he surveyed the situation and exclaimed "It looks like you're buying supplies for a diner!" That was all it took and we launched into a conversation.

He told me about growing up in Dawson Creek when the Alaska Highway was being built. It was bitterly cold for the men and a constant lack of food left the workers desolate. He continued on to talk about the "Negros camp" that were sent there; they themselves not believing they could endure the conditions. "But", he said "They stayed and built that highway. Where else were they going to go? They had work."

Intrigued with his history, I mentioned how much the writer in me finds personal stories fascinating. Encouraged and smiling, he leaned in and continued.

He was walking in town as a young boy and saw two United States servicemen gazing in the window of the local butcher shop. Their pants were worn and tattered and they both had flimsy winter coats on. They were hungry and cold as they stared at the abundance of food just feet away, yet achingly unavailable to them. I have often wondered what their stories were.

My new friend went on to explain that only a small percentage of men had work since jobs were far and few between. It was the Dirty Thirties and life was hard. He grew up with six siblings and his father died when he was fourteen years old. His mother was left with the task of raising seven children on her own. He glanced down at the carts of food and recalled how often the evening meal consisted of white bread drizzled with Roger's Golden Syrup and a cup of tea.

It was his job as a teenager to make the trip to the butcher shop to buy dog bones. He shrugged and said, "Everyone knew we didn't have a dog and somehow a little extra meat was always given to us."

As a single mother myself, I tried to imagine what life was like for his mother, raising seven children during the depression. I felt a kinship for her as I considered my four boys that I am raising. I imagined the fear and anxiety she must have felt wondering if there would be enough food to feed her children. Years ago I lived with that same fear but government assistance and the kindness of a prosperous community

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