.
. . (I)n late 1934, I would guess, something began to happen.
Some kind of psychological deterioration hit our family circle
and began to eat away our pride. Perhaps it was the constant
tangible evidence that we were destitute. We had known other
families who had gone on relief. We had known without anyone
in our home ever expressing it that we had felt prouder not
to be at the depot where the free food was passed out. And,
now, we were among them. At school, the "on relief"
finger suddenly was pointed at us, too, and sometimes it was
said aloud.
It
seemed that everything to eat in our house was stamped Not To
Be Sold. All Welfare food bore this stamp to keep the recipients
from selling it. It's a wonder we didn't come to think of Not
To Be Sold as a brand name.
