
          Mississippi and the WPA
          Reviewed by Campbell, WillWill Campbell
          Vol. 12, No. 4, 1990, pp. 20-23
          
          If I were asked to name one agency of government which has done the
most good in my lifetime I would not hesitate. The Works Progress
Administration of the Great Depression. The WPA.
          For proof, I offer the newly republished Mississippi: The 
WPA Guide to the Magnolia State,
with a new introduction by Robert S. McElvaine. This volume, first
published 52 years ago, is about a lot of things. But to me, for the
University Press of Mississippi to consider it important enough to
publish a golden anniversary edition is a tribute to the agency that
made it possible in the first place. So I wish to join the applause
for the WPA. It seems appropriate, so that the majority of Americans
who were not even born when the book was first published might know
from whence it came.
          When millions of people were idle in the mid-1930s they were given
jobs. Thus few "street people." Not high paying jobs but something to
do for pay. My father, a yeoman farmer, among them. Because of his
work for the WPA he was able to save the family farm when crops failed
from drought, when what corn as did grow sold for five cents a pound,
shelled corn was worth a can of Prince Albert for the men, a Baby Ruth
for the children with nothing left over for the women, and the bank
came calling. I remember it well. This summer, at 92, my father died,
leaving the small Mississippi acreage to his children and
grandchildren.
          I also remember that the WPA built two ten-hole outhouses for the
East Fork Consolidated School which we attended. I was never allowed
to see the one for girls but the one for boys is vivid in my mind. I
was in the fifth grade. The day it was completed my friend,
J.D. "Wart" Pray, and I meandered down to look it over. The urinal, a
V-shaped cement trough, stretched the length of the back outside
wall. J.D. suggested that we scratch our initials on the glistening
surface of the still soft cement so that all the world would know we
had been there, sure that this sturdy structure would be there at
least as long as the world stood.
          The proud proprietor of this facility, the school principal,
appeared in the fifth-grade room shortly after we had resumed our
places. He moved directly to J.D.'s desk, bellowing with each
stride. "And who is H.B.?" I had feared at the time that leaving our
mark on the WPA outhouse might be considered a major infraction. So
instead of W.D.C. I had inscribed the initials H.B., meaning
nothing. J.D. answered that he didn't know who H.B. was, that he had
been "down the hill"-our euphemism for the outhouse-by himself. I sat
frozen in terror, certain that Mr. Stuart would soon exact from
J.D. the name of his accomplice. He knew that J.D.P. stood for
Jefferson Davis Pray, and that he had defaced this near holy
place. There had never been such an elaborate facility at East Fork
before. The inevitable five hefty licks of the rubber tube Mr. Stuart
carried did not persuade J.D., two years older than I, to betray the
trust of his little friend. The irate principal jerked J.D. from his
seat and fiercely directed him to the office. I knew that more severe
punishment awaited him there. I considered confessing that I, WDC, was
the erring HB. But I quickly convinced myself that J.D.'s swift glance
was saying that since he was going to get a beating anyhow, why both
of us. We heard the hard licks 

and J.D.'s loud yells. But the loyalty
held firm. He never told. And J.D. "Wart" Pray is still one of my
dearest buddies, despite serious ideological differences during the
civil_rights days in Mississippi. Such is the stuff of friendships
forged by the WPA.
          But the WPA did more than save small family farms and build
outhouses. They built parks, theaters, museums, roads, bridges,
gymnasiums, and many other projects of long-range public benefit.
          There were also arts programs known collectively as Federal
One. Under this umbrella were the Federal Writers' Project, the
Federal Theater Project, the Federal Art Project, and the Federal
Music Project.
          In addition to my father's road building job and the East Fork
outhouse I was further introduced to the work of the WPA through
Federal One, the parent of this volume. There was a program for people
in the various communities to read and study literary works as well as
to produce them. We were a close knit neighborhood, most of us related
by blood or marriage. The idea was for someone in the community to
organize and lead discussion groups among their neighbors. There was a
small stipend involved. Aunt Ruth organized such a group in our
neighborhood. On the appointed summer evening we-men, women, children,
and babies-gathered at Aunt Ruth's house. We had been told that a
supervisor of the project would be present and that it was important
that everyone enter into the discussion so as to impress her. The
adults sat in chairs in the parlor, yearling boys and girls sitting on
the floor, babies on pallets or in mothers' arms. Aunt Ruth announced
that we would be discussing a passage from the Bible, the book with
which we were most familiar and the only book to be found in may of
the households. She read from the eighth chapter of The Acts of the
Apostles. It was the story of Philip encountering an Ethiopian eunuch,
a man who was treasurer for Candace, rich queen of Ethiopia. Philip
found the eunuch sitting in his chariot, climbed up on the chariot
with him, converted him to the new Christian faith and baptized him in
a nearby stream. After reading the story Aunt Ruth did a brief
exegesis and opened the floor for questions and discussion. Uncle
Bill, Aunt Ruth's husband, having been coached on the importance of
lively discussion, was first to speak. Raising his hand to be formally
recognized, and given permission to 

speak, not generally a part of
marital mores in Amite County, Mississippi in this rural depression
era, he asked his question.
          "Yes, yes," he began. "I have a question. What is a eunuch?"
          Aunt Ruth, embarrassed by her husband's question, looked at the
visiting supervisor, a woman none of us knew. The woman nodded that it
was the discussion leader's responsibility to deal with any
inquiry.
          When vexed Aunt Ruth pronounced her husband's name as "Beale." "Now
Beale!" she pleaded.
          Uncle Coot, as we knew him, had been urged to participate, to ask
questions. So he persisted. "What's a eunuch?"
          A few of the older boys and girls snickered. The adults sat in
squirming silence, waiting for Aunt Ruth to answer. "Beale. Now
Beale. You know what a eunuch is."
          Uncle Coot, getting impatient and sensing that he had asked an
inappropriate question, asserted himself further. "No, Ruth, I
understood everything you explained except what a eunuch is. Now if
you know yourself, just tell me what it means."
          Aunt Ruth, seeing that he wasn't going to let go, made answer. Soft
but awkward. "A eunuch is like an ox."
          Uncle Coot was on his feet, roaring with incredulous laughter. "Now
Ruth, you know damn well no ox didn't get up in a chariot with a man!
Now what the hell is a eunuch?"
          That pretty much ended our literary evening but I lived it again as
I examined the new edition of Mississippi: The WPA
Guide to the Magnolia State.
          With a helpful new introduction by Professor Robert S. McElvaine of
Millsaps College the book takes the young back in time half a
century. At the same time it reminds my generation of how many things
have changed in, to us, so short a time. And how many things have
remained the same.
          It is a one volume history of one of our most complex states, going
as far back as history can go. It is an archaeological and
geographical study, an outline of four centuries, a treatise on
religion, folkways, education, architecture, music, arts and
letters. It is also a detailed guide of twenty-four interesting tours,
from the Delta to the Gulf Coast. And it is a fascinating reading
experience.
          Young readers will be appalled to learn that in a serious book of
the 1930s it was written of black citizens:
          As for the so-called Negro question-that, too, is just another
problem he has left for the white_man to cope with. Seated in the
white_man's wagon, and subtly letting the white_man worry with the
reins, the Negro assures himself a share of all good things.
          But it was written, and yes, believed, and the WPA did us a service
by having it recorded so that we never forget.
          Maybe it is a weakness of the book that we know the names of none
of the researchers and writers. A few of the photographers, like
Eudora Welty, are named but not the wordsmiths. They were people who
could write but were not well enough known to make a living at it. So
the WPA paid them small amounts to weave their patterns of beautiful
words about what they knew best--Mississippi and 

her people. Did some
of them, like Miss Welty, go on to become celebrated authors? We
aren't told. And maybe it is just as well. Still and yet, maybe there
should have been a byline for the men and women who put these words to
paper and received in return a small check from the WPA. Words such as
these:
          
            
              The earth is not ours, and if we should doubt, 
we need only to
look to the clean, unsodded plot flanking the church-house. Here
sunlight by day and moonlight by night glide down cold marble
headstones and are absorbed in dark, oval-shaped mounds; and here we
gather once a year to hold Memorial Services for our fathers, who came
over the mountains and down the wilderness with just such a zealous
preacher leading them. We came out of the land and we will return to
the land, and, the preacher's voice drones on, we will be contented
there.
            
          
          It would be an ambitious project for someone to search the
records. From Harry Hopkins, administrator for the WPA, to county
courthouses, bank and family records and elsewhere to let us know what
happened to the hundreds of Mississippians who strung pretty words
together because that was what they did best and because there once
existed a federal administration that believed in feeding the hungry
and clothing the naked. As for me, I will be content knowing that the
words were written and are once more available to us. 
          
            Will Campbell's most recent book is Covenant, with
photographs by AI Clayton. Mississippi: The WPA Guide to the
Magnolia State, with a new introduction by Robert
S. McElvaine, is available from the University Press of
Mississippi.
          
        
