Every Great City

Southland Times, Issue 23676, 26 November 1938, Page 13

Every Great City

Short Story

By

Gregory Clark

T? VERY city,” said Jimmie £4 Frise, “should be forced to have a great tract of farmland, 40,000 acres say, somewhere not far from its boundaries.”

“So what?” I asked. “Instead of families going on relief,” explained Jim, “they would go to the farm. Instead of packing the city with unhappy and unfortunate people, you would transfer them to dwell and labour amid the healthy country.” “Jim,” I admired, “you’ve got something.” “In proportion to its size, went on Jimmie, “each city and town would have to purchase and maintain, somewhere not too far from its limits, a tract of farm land, so many acres a thousand of population. This would be a civic farm, organized as a part of the city’s interior economy.” “With a city commission,” I suggested, “like the parks commission or the waterworks committee, managing it.” “Precisely,” said Jim. “On the farm would be a central headquarters building with offices. Scattered strategically over the very large acreage would be the barns, implement houses, stables, greenhouses and sc forth. And, in proportion to the need, a large number of beautiful little farm cottages of various sizes, each with its little sheds, hen houses and so forth.”

“How beautiful,” I agreed. “With morning glories on the south walls.” “In addition to the individual farm cottages of various sizes,” pursued Jim, “there will be.central large residences for single unemployed men and single .unemployed women. With recreation rooms, libraries and so forth.”

“Like the Y.M.C.A.,” I offered. “And the Y.W.C.A.,” agreed Jim. “Now watch what happens. A family applies for relief in the city. Instead of being given a measly handout once a week, instead of being driven from pillar to post in the brief, sure and certain decline down hill toward the slum, this family is transferred to the big farm. Baggage and all.” “Go on,” I begged. “On arrival,” said Jim, “they will be assigned one of the farm cottages. They will report to the headquarters offices for examinations as to their fitness and qualifications for the various jobs. A farm needs many kinds of help beside ploughmen and milkmaids. It needs carpenters and roadmenders, horse-shoers and harness makers.” “Oh, boy,” I confessed. “I see it.” “The farm being run,” explained Jimmie, “by expert managers from the agri-

cultural college, and the work being done by squads and platoons under farmer foremen, the man of the family will be assigned to the type of work to which he is suited. The wife will mind the hou*? Rud some chickens and

a small garden. The children will attend the farm’s splendid modem schools,” “Russia couldn’t beat this,” I declared.

“Work would not be excessive,” said Jim, “especially at the start. Each night there would be regular serial lectures going on in the headquarters’ building, lectures for beginners on the rudiments

of farming, advanced lectures for those who had been on the farm some time.” “Pretty educational,” I demurred. “Oh, no,” said Jim. “There would be a movie theatre, a dance hall, library, churches, clubs . . . headquarters would be quite a large model village.” “And they could run down to the

city,”. I asked, “whenever they liked?” “Certainly,” said Jim. “They would earn wages for their work. The farm would be a straight business proposition. Its products would be marketed in the stores the same as any other farm produce.”

“A farm with a sales manager?” I offered.

“Certainly,” said Jim. “Lots of unemployed salesmen will turn up at the farm. But the great thing about the idea is that it will turn the tide. It will start people, who are unsuited to city life, back toward the land. For years and years, people unsuited to farm life have been moving into the cities. This has been made easy for them, because there are all kinds of organizations for training country people for city life. The big stores operate training schools. We have great technical and commercial schools for teaching people, both day and night, how to do city work. But we have no organization at all for teaching city people how to live on the land.” “This would really be a back to the land movement,” I agreed. “That’s the whole secret of it,” said Jim. “We talk about going back to the land, but there is no way of going back to the land except by going. And darn near perishing in the attempt. The civic farm is the solution. Those unsuited to city life will be naturally selected, because having failed to make the grade in the city, they apply for relief. That is the selection. They are then sent to a managed farm, with every kind of farm work to be done, from cattle raising and dairying to market gardening and poultry raising; and all the mechanical features of farming. They are initiated into the land. They come at it as pleasantly and cheerfully as farm people come to the city.” “Still,” I said, “I know some people on relief who wouldn’t leave the city for a million pounds.” “As there would be no relief,” explained Jim, “they would simply have to go to the farm. Then if they hated the farm so badly, they could do the other thing: they could work up enough energy to get a city job. And keep it. But no relief.”

“But there will always be misfits,” I argued, “who can’t fit either into city or country life.” “My scheme,” said Jim, “would identify those cases, clearly and unmistakably. Such people could then be enlisted into special battalions. Sort of labour corps. It isn’t their fault they are misfits.. But it isn’t our fault either. So why should we have to carry them? If they won’t fit either into city life or country life, then we enlist them, automatically.” “It isn’t freedom,” I' protested. “It isn’t for them, but it is for'- us,”

said Jim. “That’s the thing we have to face sooner or later.”

“After all,” I confessed, “there really aren’t many misfits. Mostly it is because there isn’t a chance to fit.”

“The civic farm provides the chance,” declared Jim. “I bet thousands of families and single men and women. will graduate out of that civic farm on to the land, successfully. As soon as a family has demonstrated its fitness to go on to the land on its own, then government back-to-the-land schemes can be invoked.”

“It’s a swell idea, Jim,”- I sighed, “but the farmers will prevent it.” “Why?” demanded Jim.

“They don’t want the cities spreading trained farmers all over the country in competition,” I explained. “Farmers look on cities as places to send their children to make good. And besides, they find the market for farm produce bad enough as it is without great civic farms pinching the best market in every community.” “Farmers can’t prevent cities from setting up civic farms,” retorted Jim. “All right,” I said, “then the real estate interests, the big mortgage and loan companies and property owners will squelch the idea. They don’t want population moved out of cities. Where would rents go, if we started moving even the unemployed out of town?” “The big property owners,” retorted Jim, “are being taxed out of existence to support the unemployed.” “All right then,” I, finally submitted, “industry itself and organized labour wouldn’t let us move the unemployed out of town, because industry likes to have a nice big batch of unemployed around, to keep wages down. And labour likes to have unemployed around as a horrible example of industry’s original sin.”

“If I ever go into politics with this idea,” cried Jimmie, “it will go through like a house on fire.” “You were born and raised on a farm, weren’t you, Jimmie?” “Yes, and when all is said and done,” he said tenderly, “it is the loveliest, freest, happiest life of all.” “Look here,” I said, “what do you know about soil? I’ve got to do something about my garden. It’s nothing but sand. I’ve put in about ten loads of what they call loam, but it just looks like plain ordinary earth to me. And it seems to sink right down through the sand.”

“Why don’t you get a couple of loads of good heavy clay?” asked Jim. “Where could I get some clay?” I asked. “I never heard of anybody offering clay for sale.” “You can get clay anywhere,” said Jim. “Why not borrow'a little truck from one of your storekeeper friends and just drive outside the city somewhere and shovel up a load of clay?” “I’ll order it,” I said hastily, “from the man I get the loam from.” “What?” snorted Jim. “Order a load of clay? Why, how can you call yourself a gardener if you just telephone for a load of clay ... I suppose

somebody else will do the spreading of it around and forking it in?” “Yes,” I admitted. “I have a man do that kind of thing. You see, Jim, my part of the garden is appreciating it. That’s my share. If I didn’t appreciate the garden, naturally, there would be no garden; and then there would be no work for my gardener. You seehow.it works out? The trouble with cities is, people do more than their share. We city people are hoggish. We are bears for work, ’as they say. If everybody took it easier, there would be plenty for all.”

“If you would do a little of the spade work- in your garden,” said Jim, “you’d understand it more and appreciate it a great deal more.” “No,” I disagreed, “I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work. What I love about a garden is the wonder of it. In January I love to go and stand in the middle of it and think, ‘How beautiful all this is, and I got it just for the asking.’ No labour or toil, no dirt, no anything. Just tell somebody, who doesn’t care, let there be beauty. And there it is! That’s what gets me.” “Well,” said Jim. “about this clay, now. I don’t believe I would order clay, even from somebody you know. Because, after all, there is clay and clay. He might go and pick up a load of junk from some building excavation, full of dear knows what; or maybe a load from some vacant lot, full of weed seeds that would ruin your garden in two weeks. No. If you want a load of clay, select it yourself. From some nice farm land, where you can see what you’re getting.” “I wouldn’t know clay if I saw it,” I confessed.

“I’ll come with you,” offered Jimmie. So I borrowed the grocer’s second truck, a little old thing that would hold very nicely all the clay I needed. And after supper, Jim and I, in old fishing clothes, sallied forth to the country’s edge. We drove quite a way before Jimmie saw clay. He saw sandy loam and clay loam; sand and loam; some was too gravelly and some too dusty. “As a matter of fact,” said Jim, getting back into the truck after one of his frequent dismountings for inspection, “the kind of clay I have in mind doesn’t seem to be very common around these parts. Why, when I was a kid, every time I came into the house my feet were the size of hot water bottles with thick blue clay.” “It’s* getting dark,” I pointed out. “It won’t take five minutes,” said Jim, “to shovel on a load when we find it.” “Shouldn’t we ask the farmer for it?” I asked.

“Puh,” said Jim, “what farmer would begrudge a little load of clay?” At Jim’s suggestion, we started turning along side roads and lanes and presently, just as the sun was shining its last glorious farewell we came to a little gully with a thin creek through it, and with a loud cry, Jim identified, on the banks, the veritable blue clay we had been seeking.

“Back her in this gate,” said Jim. Which I did.

“Toss me up the spade,” said Jim. Which I did also.

With a few expert flourishes, Jim flung aside the dry outer integument of soil and began cutting free large wet gobs of pallid heavy clay. I got down off the truck and started to roll up my sieves. “Hey,” came a voice from the little hill above us. A figure was silhouetted there. “What’s goin’ on there?”

“Oh, hello,” cried Jim. “We’re just taking a few spadefuls of this clay.” “Clay?” said the man, starting down the slope, with his dog. “Where you from?”

“We’re from the city,” said Jimmie. “My friend here wanted a little clay to tighten up his garden soil. He’s got nothing but sand ...” The farmer, a long and bitter man, stared at us coldly. “Let’s see,” he said. “You come all the way out from the city to here for a load of clay?” “That’s it,” said Jim, starting to bend for another spadeful. “I don’t believe it,” said the farmer. “Coming away out here for a load of clay? You’re crazy. Or you’re crooked. Get out of here!”

“But just a minute,” cried Jim. I got back behind the truck wheel. Quickly. “Come on,” said the farmer roughly, swinging" his arms and legs, preparatorily. “Git.” “But surely,” said Jim, shoving the spade angrily aboard .the truck. “Just a load of clay.” “It don’t make sense,” said the farmer. “There’s all kinds of grafters. What are you really up to? Come on! What is it you’re after?” “Clay, I tell you,” we both stated angrily. ' “Come on,” said the farmer, with great finality. “Git.” And he spat on his large dark rough right hapd. So we gitted. - “Can you beat that?” cried Jim. For sheer hard-boiled suspicion? We’ll look for clay somewhere else along here...’’ “Nix,” I said, “we’re going home. I’ll order it as usual.”

“It’s not dark yet,” said Jim, leaning out and watching the roadbanks with an agricultural air. “People are too suspicious, Jim,” I said.

“He’s just mean,” Jim said. “Not him,” I disagreed. “He’s just naturally suspicious, and reasonably so It’s like that back-to-the-land plan of yours, about the civic farm. People are too suspicious.” “It’s a queer world,” sighed Jim. “Yes,” I agreed, “and I’m going to let the usual chap haul my clay and the usual chap fork it under. And, as usual, I’m going to enjoy my garden when it arrives.”

“Without doing any work to earn it?” protested Jim. “In this life,” I explained, “it’s as near as we’ll ever get to the Garden of Eden.”