Federal Writers Project - Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt

M. J. HOLT

FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, a Cengage Company

Copyright 2019 by Marilyn J. Holt
Five Star Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Holt, Marilyn J., author.

Title: Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt / M. J. Holt.

Description: First edition. | Farmington Hills, Michigan : Five Star, 2019. | Identifiers: LCCN 2018040005 (print) | LCCN 2018046727 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432852115 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432852108 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432852092 (hardcover)

eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5211-5

Subjects: LCSH: Federal Writers ProjectFiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction

Classification: LCC PS3558.O415 (ebook) | LCC PS3558.O415 C66 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.54dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018040005

First Edition. First Printing: May 2019

This title is available as an e-book.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5211-5

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Printed in the United States of America
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To my mother, Vera, a modern-day pioneer woman

During the Great Depression, the Federal Writers Project employed out-of-work writers, poets, teachers, and librarians in every state, most U.S. territories, and in Washington, D.C. Their job was to write travel guides and local histories, to collect folklore and songs, and to interview elderly men and women for their life stories. In the states of the Great Plains, ravaged in the 1930s by drought and dust storms, project workers collected the reminiscences of homesteaders and town builders who settled the Plains, had known joy and hardship, and experienced years when the rains did not come. The workers and pioneers portrayed in this book are imagined, but the events they refer towhether the blizzard of 86, grasshopper swarms, or life in a prairie townare based on historical fact.

The back side of the shovel slammed down on soil already tightly packed. John Featherstone ignored the spasm of pain rippling through his old muscles and brought the shovel down one last time. Hed promised the girl he would take care of things. He gave his word, and, once a man did that, he was dutybound. Maybe hed said what he did because the girl had always been friendly, never making a judgment on him. Or, maybe it was the way she reminded him of someone hed known long ago.

Didnt matter, he told himself, as he knocked loose dirt from the shovel. The thing was done. He tramped back through the trees to his horse. He stowed the shovel in a leather sheath tied to the saddle. Absently running a hand across the horses neck, he glanced at the sky. Rain was coming. All day, moisture had been building in the air. Now, it was just a matter of time before heavy, gathering clouds opened a floodgate of spring showers.

Giving the horse one more pat, he mumbled, Lets get this finished and go home. Fine by you? The old man eyed the horse, took the shake of its mane as a sign of agreement, and walked back the way hed come, gathering clumps of winter-killed underbrush to cover the bare earth. He picked his way down to the riverbank, stiff knees creaking, and began gathering rocks the size of melons. It took time to carry these up the embankment and scatter them to look natural. Finally, for good measure, he pulled over a downed limb from a cottonwood tree and angled it crossways on the stones.

Fat drops of rain began to plop against his hat and jacket. Slowly, the rain increased until it fell in a steady shower. John Featherstone stood studying his handiwork. He thought of the girl again and hoped shed remember to do exactly as he told her when she got to town.

Taking one last look toward the grave now hidden by nature and his helping hands, John Featherstone worked up a good mouthful of spit and sent it flying.

Rest in peace, you sorry son of a bitch, he growled.

An open window allowed a breeze to move the air in the stuffy room. Noises from the street drifted up. Barely visible through a canopy of trees was the dome of the state capitol. Ignoring the view, the sound of automobiles rumbling over brick-laid streets, and the occasional shout of a pedestrian, Inez Fletcher sat behind her desk. She was a stoutly built woman, wearing a dress that strained to contain perspiring flesh. She glanced at the young woman across from her.

Opals Grove in Dobbs County will be our base of operations, she began. Its the county seat, centrally located in the state. Mrs. Iris Hewitt, the president of the local historical society, will be in charge there. Shes a real go-getter. Even as I speak, shes signing up the old folks and scheduling interviews.

Ellen nodded. She knew the Works Progress Administration job involved writing down the life stories of people who had settled in the state before 1880 or who had been born there before that date. The project piqued her curiosity. But the prospect of being employed interested her much more. Prosperity was supposed to be just around the corner, but, for Ellen, it seemed a long way off. There was a growing sense of desperation in her search for work.

By nature, Ellen was optimistic, but the last few months of knocking on doors and writing letters that went unanswered or brought rejection chipped away at her confidence. It felt like little pieces of herself were breaking away. Shed gone about her job search methodically. Months before graduating from college, she began to look for work. Applications were mailed to every newspaper in the state, and she visited those she could reach in a days drive in the aging Packard roadster that had once belonged to her cousin Louise. When she learned that no one was hiring a good copy editor or eager young reporter, she turned to the states few radio stations, hoping to write jingles or radio plays. Usually, the people she met were sympathetic, but the answer was the same. No openings, especially for a young woman fresh out of school and with no family to support.

Inez Fletcher took a breath. Ellen waited, trying not to glance at a seam that was beginning to tear along one sleeve of the womans dress. There are seven positions, two of which will be filled by local writers chosen by Mrs. Hewitt.

The knot in her stomach tightened. While waiting in the hallway to be called into Mrs. Fletchers office, Ellen heard someone say that at least fifty jobhunters had shown up the day before. With that many applicants, Ellen reasoned, the odds were not in her favor.