Times were hard. So everyone said. In clubs, lodges, at the grocery store. Even in church the pastors sometimes referred to the nation's trials. Uncertain of what all that implied, I accepted prevailing opinion. Townspeople tended to stoically persevere. If someone remarked, "Lotsa  rain again today,"  the response might be, "Just like yesterday and the day before." Though World War II gradually diminished the Depression's effects, townspeople were slow to notice, acting as if things had always been this way. Other regions may have suffered more—longer soup-kitchen lines, higher suicide and crime rates—what mattered was here. Americans were asked to sacrifice; rationing was instituted. Many had little they could be called upon to sacrifice. What else could they do but muddle through? As a child, this was all I knew. What my elders told me. We ate plainly prepared meat and vegetables. In our German-Irish community in which farming was the mainstay, a decent meal would be chuck roast in gravy, plain carrots and peas, potatoes, boiled, mashed, scalloped or fried. Corn on the cob, white or yellow, in season. Chicken. I loved chicken, especially Southern fried. This earned me, when I reached for yet another helping, the sobriquet of "piggy." We had fish sometimes. Rock and catfish I remember were plentiful then. Shellfish not as often. Too expensive. Pie, ice cream for dessert. To drink, milk, coffee, water from the faucet. Putting on airs was considered bad form unless you were among the privileged few: inveterate cranks, whose antics were tolerated, or the affluent, who it seemed received carte blanche to act however they chose. Two main streets, north-south and east-west, intersected the square, which consisted of three banks and a department store; rippling out from the hub were small clothing shops, groceries, dime stores, a pharmacy with soda fountain and candies, antique dealers, several fire stations, barber shops, eateries, a newspaper publishing plant. Churches reinforcing the town's moral fiber kept flocks on the straight and narrow. Most churchgoers were Protestant, the bells at their places of worship silent between Sabbaths. The Catholic steeple tolled the hour and half-hour daily and on Sundays overwhelmed the rest. Image:  Click to enlarge images. Familiar scents emanated from lumber yards, grain depots, livestock in surrounding fields, from trolleys in transit, service-station gas pumps, ice cream in cones, the mix of pharmaceuticals and confectioneries at drug stores. Tobacco, though, was the pervasive smell. Most folks smoked, inhaling and exhaling awake or falling asleep. Pipes and cheap cigars. Farmers wadded their cheeks with chaw. As Norman Rockwell cover material, the town would have been ideal. Architecture ranged from short of grand to mundane. A few elegant town houses defied the years.   Upper-middle-class homes could be quietly elegant. The rest was a mishmash: small, neat and tidy to ramshackle. A maze of utility wires crisscrossed rooftops.  Period autos, Fords, Chevvies, Plymouths, Buicks, progressed a block at a time on the two main arteries, stoplights keeping traffic slow. A horse-drawn produce cart or a wagon overloaded with drifting hay might delay the flow more. Pedestrians nodded, smiled and exchanged leisurely greetings with friends and acquaintances, who once out of earshot were  often berated. Those who got ahead of the Joneses studiously minimized it. Such dissembling might go, "Aw, shucks. I been savin' years for this. Thought I couldn't swing it after losin' big at my business. Then I figured what the hell?" Yeah, yeah. Where's he takin' that money from? We lived on a quiet east-side block of modest single homes and duplexes—a middle-class neighborhood edging toward seediness. At one end was a small plot, informally a park. Across from it a walled cemetery; at the other end, a sprawling one-story factory that produced a variety of brushes. Freights entered and left town, near where we were located, regularly. The engines usually emitting wisps, rather than plumes, of smoke and steam. Rails were in the middle of the street, passing the park and a Catholic cemetery; motorists pulled over when locomotives chugged forward. A wave to the engineer brought one in return. Farmers, accompanied by wives and kids, flocked to town on weekends to shop and chew the fat (in addition to chaw), their teens imparting hoedown flavor to the sedate milieu. Those of drinking age quaffed beer at saloons. In the fall, farmers held sway at the county fair, where horses, steers and hogs were judged, sold and bartered. As the principal municipal event, except for presidential candidate's whistle-stops, the fair attracted the professional class. Many bought annual passes. The grandstand overflowed for harness racing and tractor pulls. Carnies offered rides and assorted attractions such as midway strippers. "Step right up to this tent. See tha hootchie-kootchy, a sight for sore eyes." Cracker-barrel politicking determined mayoral candidates. "Feel like runnin', Robert?" "No, siree. Wouldn't win." Robert might have had a toothpick in his mouth that his tongue moved from side to side. "You got the votes for sure. GOP, ever'body loves you. The office won't weigh you down. Your business won't miss a beat." "Nope, Charlie. What about ole Clem here? He's a lawyer. Holding office a while can help the practice." "Well, ole Clem here is not tossin' his hat in. First, I'm a Democrat. No Democrat stands a chance. Conservative Democrat, but that don't cut no ice. Government doling out money I'm against. But when citizens are bad off as now, I'm glad if tha government’s helpin' em out.” Ole Clem probably had a stogy hanging from his lips that had gone out. Mostly, it came down to two or three. The best liked, regardless of qualifications or agendas, won. After that, the mayor became a low-profile figurehead, active only in ribbon-cutting and commiserating after severe weather passed. The city and county councils passed innocuous don't-rock-the-boat measures, rarely if ever risking, say, substantial tax increases that would have brought opprobrium and frequently opted for inane resolutions and proclamations expressing civic or patriotic pride, allowing them to steer clear of troubled waters. Little attention was paid to mayors' private lives if no scandals erupted. The local newspaper rarely ran exposés of any kind within the county, preferring to fill space with paid ads, obituaries and social activities, which reflected the establishmentarian owner's stance. Outside city limits, broad expanses of contoured farmland and pasture aroused subdued but abiding appreciation among natives, attracted photographers and landscape artists as well. This fertile terrain provided a backdrop that, while striking, countians could take for granted until seasonal changes revivified it. Then might come a remark like: "My, ain't it pretty this time a year!" A drive through the country was like churchgoing—you might be  a trifle indifferent on any given Sunday, unsure your soul would be saved, but somehow you felt better for having attended. Next Page: Grandparents.