to back, keeping peace, sneaking sips, and listening in on all the gossip and laughter. It's really keen, and even though we're poor, I can't imagine that rich people are any happier than we are on Sunday afternoons.
Today there were no men playing cards, so we all stayed in the kitchen where it was warm.
"No sense lighting the kerosene heater in the front room," Mama said.
It felt strangely quiet at first, in spite of the crowd, and we all seemed to be talking extra loud and
laughing extra hard to fill up the room. By the end of dinner, though, everyone had relaxed and things seemed almost normal. The dishes were cleared away, Maureen and Marion put down for their naps, and the smaller kids sent across the hall to play where their noise wouldn't wake the babies.
Ma made hot chocolate for Maggie, Kitty, and me and poured more tea for herself and the ladies. Then we all set to work on the pocketbooks. I was glad Mickey wasn't around. He won't make pocketbooks anymore. He says it's sissy work. If you ask me, two cents is two cents. And anyway, what else are you gonna do on a rainy Sunday afternoon? Besides, it's a good excuse to sit there and listen to the grown-ups talk. They can say some pretty funny things when they get to laughing and passing that teapot around.
Today the talk was full of politics, with the election just a couple of weeks away.
"They say it's going to be a rout," said Mrs. Mahoney.
"Aye, and well it should," said Mama, her cheeks flushing with anger. "That man has no right in the White House. It's out on the streets he belongs, in one of his own Hoovervilles, and then see how he feels about the depression!"
Hoovervilles are what they call the little shantytowns that have sprung up all over the country since the depression began; makeshift towns thrown together by homeless, out-of-work folks. I haven't seen any, 'cause Ma won't let me go near, but there's sup
posed to be one in Central Park and another over between Riverside Drive and the river. Folks are living in shacks made out of just about anything they can find, I guess.
"Him that was supposed to be such a great humanitarian," said Mrs. Mahoney with a huff, "feeding all the hungry in Europe after the war. How can he turn his back on his own people now?"
"Daniel says Hoover's for government staying out of business," Mama said, "for lettin' the economy straighten out by itself. But I say, how long can we wait?"
"How long, indeed?" said Mrs. Mahoney. "Does he want to see every man, woman, and child out on the streets?"
Mrs. Riley, who had been very quiet, shook her head. "It's time for new ideas," she said. "Roosevelt is for the ordinary man, for helping the farmers and putting folks back to work. We need a down-to-earth man like him in the White House."
"Aye," Mama agreed. "Hoover's got his head in the clouds."
There was a sudden ruckus across the hall, and a pile of little Rileys came bursting into the room, shouting and swatting each other and waking up Marion and Maureen.
"All right, all right," said Mrs. Riley when the three women had gotten things calmed down some. "Now tell me what's the matter."
"Johnny won't be the daddy," yelled seven-year-old Alice. "He wants to be the mommy."
Johnny stood with a doll under his arm and his bottom lip stuck out.
"I always have to be the daddy," he said. "I don't want to be the daddy anymore. The daddy always gets drunk and goes to jail."
Mrs. Riley put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. Mama and Mrs. Mahoney glanced awkwardly at one another.
I looked at Johnny, standing there clutching the doll. Poor kid. Bad enough he had all them sisters to put up with. Now he didn't even have a pa to set him straight.
"C'mon, Johnny," I said, putting my pocketbook aside. "I want to show you something." I took his hand and led him into my room.
"Look, goofy," I said, hoisting him up onto my bed. "You're not cut out to be a mommy, take it from me." I pulled the doll out
Today there were no men playing cards, so we all stayed in the kitchen where it was warm.
"No sense lighting the kerosene heater in the front room," Mama said.
It felt strangely quiet at first, in spite of the crowd, and we all seemed to be talking extra loud and
laughing extra hard to fill up the room. By the end of dinner, though, everyone had relaxed and things seemed almost normal. The dishes were cleared away, Maureen and Marion put down for their naps, and the smaller kids sent across the hall to play where their noise wouldn't wake the babies.
Ma made hot chocolate for Maggie, Kitty, and me and poured more tea for herself and the ladies. Then we all set to work on the pocketbooks. I was glad Mickey wasn't around. He won't make pocketbooks anymore. He says it's sissy work. If you ask me, two cents is two cents. And anyway, what else are you gonna do on a rainy Sunday afternoon? Besides, it's a good excuse to sit there and listen to the grown-ups talk. They can say some pretty funny things when they get to laughing and passing that teapot around.
Today the talk was full of politics, with the election just a couple of weeks away.
"They say it's going to be a rout," said Mrs. Mahoney.
"Aye, and well it should," said Mama, her cheeks flushing with anger. "That man has no right in the White House. It's out on the streets he belongs, in one of his own Hoovervilles, and then see how he feels about the depression!"
Hoovervilles are what they call the little shantytowns that have sprung up all over the country since the depression began; makeshift towns thrown together by homeless, out-of-work folks. I haven't seen any, 'cause Ma won't let me go near, but there's sup
posed to be one in Central Park and another over between Riverside Drive and the river. Folks are living in shacks made out of just about anything they can find, I guess.
"Him that was supposed to be such a great humanitarian," said Mrs. Mahoney with a huff, "feeding all the hungry in Europe after the war. How can he turn his back on his own people now?"
"Daniel says Hoover's for government staying out of business," Mama said, "for lettin' the economy straighten out by itself. But I say, how long can we wait?"
"How long, indeed?" said Mrs. Mahoney. "Does he want to see every man, woman, and child out on the streets?"
Mrs. Riley, who had been very quiet, shook her head. "It's time for new ideas," she said. "Roosevelt is for the ordinary man, for helping the farmers and putting folks back to work. We need a down-to-earth man like him in the White House."
"Aye," Mama agreed. "Hoover's got his head in the clouds."
There was a sudden ruckus across the hall, and a pile of little Rileys came bursting into the room, shouting and swatting each other and waking up Marion and Maureen.
"All right, all right," said Mrs. Riley when the three women had gotten things calmed down some. "Now tell me what's the matter."
"Johnny won't be the daddy," yelled seven-year-old Alice. "He wants to be the mommy."
Johnny stood with a doll under his arm and his bottom lip stuck out.
"I always have to be the daddy," he said. "I don't want to be the daddy anymore. The daddy always gets drunk and goes to jail."
Mrs. Riley put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. Mama and Mrs. Mahoney glanced awkwardly at one another.
I looked at Johnny, standing there clutching the doll. Poor kid. Bad enough he had all them sisters to put up with. Now he didn't even have a pa to set him straight.
"C'mon, Johnny," I said, putting my pocketbook aside. "I want to show you something." I took his hand and led him into my room.
"Look, goofy," I said, hoisting him up onto my bed. "You're not cut out to be a mommy, take it from me." I pulled the doll out
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