Aid for the Aged

I

I AM a recipient of ‘Aid for the Aged.’ This fact is stated on the monthly checks for $35 each received by my wife and myself from the County of Los Angeles.

I have just finished the most happy, serene, untroubled year of my life, not excepting the years of my childhood. That nervous irritableness and sense of strain have left me; I do not have to catch the 7:15 to the city, punch the time clock, or put through the driving day’s work. I am a free man with sufficient income to live on decently with economy and with no worry for the future. I employ myself at what I think is worth while without regard to the money I may make out of it. There are scientific institutions and art galleries free to me, and, best of all, a great public library, comfortable and beautiful, where I may read and write and browse through the learning of all the ages, receiving as much courtesy and attention as a rich man could command. When the sun is shining, when my garden invites me, when I look at the mountains only a few miles away, I feel that these things are for me.

I have not known a moment of boredom this year. My only trouble has been an occasional nightmare in which I have dreamed I was back on the old treadmill. The satisfaction I have had out of life during this year is something my philosophy had not led me to think possible over so long a time. I sang with Rabbi Ben Ezra: —

Life is not really like this. Its vicissitudes will catch up with me again, but I have had one nearly perfect year, this sixty-ninth of my life.

I was tired; I needed a long rest. I wanted to forget the cold concrete milk plant and to let the sun of California soak into me. I wanted to spend some time at the seashore and in the mountains, to read the books I had long wanted to read, and dreamed of writing something worth while from a rather varied life’s experience. It was surprising how soon I succeeded in forgetting.

The really great and worth-while change which has come over my life is in the sense of security. The manager of the largest concern in its line on the Pacific Coast had a favorite expression: ‘If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.’ He was really not at heart a hard or unjust man, but he had more arbitrary power than any one man ought to have. If you didn’t like it, what could you do? You could walk the streets hopelessly looking for a job; you could take up one of the miserable house-to-house selling propositions where you might make three or four dollars a week; you could quickly get into a desperate situation where you must apply for public relief, if you were young and unmarried you might be a man, tell the boss where to go and take to the road; but otherwise you would think of the wife and children and answer, ‘Yes, sir— yes, sir.’ This is that freedom which working people are urged to preserve inviolate.

Yet I did not hate my job. Last year I was doing a very active day’s work and was rather proud of still being even a small cog in the industrial machine; and I was still more proud of having been able to maintain my home during the years of depression and to continue the education of my two children to where they could do something for themselves. These children were not born until we were middle-aged.

The routine and the drudgery were tiresome, and I put through the physical labor with an activity which was somewhat of a bluff. What the younger men did so easily cost me an effort. I became quite a proficient actor in the art of pretending to be ten years younger than I was. I think I got away with it.

Beginning in Philadelphia, I had been working pretty steadily for fifty-three years and knew of no immediate reason for stopping. On the Company’s records I was fifty-eight, nine years less than my real age, and I suppose fifty-eight is the limit of the liability department for plant employees. At any rate I was gently dropped with two weeks’ pay and no rational explanation given me, my age not mentioned.

I could see that the factory superintendent. was sincerely troubled at what he was obliged to do. He tried to place me in the office, but without success.

I was feeling pretty blue as I came home that night and hated to break the bad news to my wife, but, as in several previous crises of our lives, she had more courage than I. I thought of the beginning of Washington Irving’s sketch, ‘The Wife’: ‘I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune.’ Naturally we had known this event could not be indefinitely postponed, but still we were not really prepared for it. I was past sixty-seven, and the depression was still with us. I was too old for the WPA. There was no likelihood of any employment at all.

What had I to show for over half a century of almost continuous labor? First, a son and daughter, fairly well educated and now able to look after themselves. Second, a little home, mortgaged. Third, a few hundred dollars of life insurance. We should have to cash in on most of this immediately in order to live while we got our bearings.

We had made several expensive errors of judgment in our lives and had possibly not been as saving as we might have been. We had just lived a reasonably civilized life, such as we felt we had a right to live, except that we never had been able to afford the medical service we thought we needed. In our earlier days we could manage this to some extent, but later the moderate increase in our income never kept pace with the increased cost of medical service. The very poor seem to receive this service, and those with incomes well above the average. The claim that the average-income group may have their bills adjusted accordingly is the bunk.

It may be said we should have done better, that we should have laid up store for this time which had now arrived. Perhaps so, but it can probably be demonstrated that for the majority to do this, as society is now organized, is impossible. We had passed through the rather usual vicissitudes of American life. I have been employed or been in business in eight states during these fifty years, and have believed at times that I had taken that tide at the flood which leads on to fortune; but, alas, I was each time caught by the ebb. Still, I had always managed to keep my head up just a little above the crowd, and most of my life, as I look back on it, has been at least interesting.

What did old folks do in the days when we were young? When most people lived on farms, the problem of the aged was probably not so acute. There was work for grandpa and grandma, and at least plenty to eat. Still, in those supposed halcyon days, there were laborers and village people who had nothing to look forward to but dependence on relatives or the county house. ‘Over the Hills to the Poorhouse’ had a very real meaning. As to what that poorhouse might be like, there is a picture in The Hoosier Schoolmaster.

But what of the times of our own youth in a large Eastern city where already most people had lost all tradition of farm life? We remembered very well. The old people just lived in with their children. This we were resolved not to do if we could possibly help it. I thought of my mother living alone for many years and of her saying, after returning from visits with her children, ‘How thankful I am to have this house to come to.’ She had a little home of her own and a Civil War widow’s pension.

No, it is not well to live in with even the kindest and most thoughtful of our descendants. We know we are dependents and our freedom has gone. We help to crowd their household; they cannot quite live their own lives on our account, and we certainly cannot live ours. We are ‘in-laws’ to one of the family, and only great forbearance will prevent ugly clashes. Except in rare cases we are a serious financial burden. Should the next generation start out so handicapped? And, for those who have no relations able to do anything, is the county farm or direct relief the just or wise answer?

II

Fifty years ago in Philadelphia all my relatives and most of my acquaintances were Americans who considered themselves middle-class. We had all kinds of jobs in offices, stores, factories, the building trades, and transportation. Most shopkeepers and professional people were not considered in any different class, but outdoor common labor was not to be considered.

There were ‘hard times,’ periods of great unemployment, and at all times it was something of a tragedy to get out of a job. When this happened, some would get months behind with their rent and manage to run up surprising accounts with the grocer, the butcher, and the milkman. They borrowed money if they could, and pawnshops flourished, but I never was personally acquainted with anyone who received public help. I did know of some, however, who came very close to starvation. There were philanthropists and charitable organizations, but these, I remember my grandmother saying, were ‘not for the likes of us.’

This was the tradition in which my wife and I had grown up. But California had a state pension, and pensions did not seem quite the same as public help — not now at any rate. I could remember when my father did not like to admit his Civil War pension, but the time came when his widow was proud of hers and thankful for the independence it gave her.

There had been for a number of years in California what was usually called a state pension for the aged. From what was generally known of its operation, it had but little more than one virtue — it was a beginning. It paid $20 per month as a rare maximum allowance. Applicants must be not less than seventy years old and absolutely indigent, with no relatives who could by any possibility be made to support them. I heard of an old scrubwoman, past eighty, who had an application pending for about a year. It was finally granted the week she died.

But another day seemed to have dawned. The great depression and its aftermath were causing all sorts and conditions of men to take thought, as they never had done before. A very comprehensive Social Security Act had been passed, affecting most people in one way or another, and one provision seemed to concern us vitally. Its general effect was that the Federal Government would duplicate any amount up to $15 per month which a state might grant to persons sixty-five years or older. California had promptly taken up this proposition by making its maximum appropriation $20, which made possible a pension of $35 per month. It was not, however, called a pension in the acts of Congress and of the State Legislature, though most people, we were thankful to note, persisted in calling it such.

The provisions of this act for ‘aid to the indigent aged’ were liberal. We might possess real estate to the value of $3000, own $500 worth of personal property and a small life-insurance policy, but could have no income, earned or unearned, above $15 per month each. The real rub was in the question, ‘Are your children able to provide for you in full, or to what extent if any?’ Our son and daughter were married, with one child each. They were maintaining their own little homes, in which there was certainly no room for us, and for them to contribute anything of consequence toward maintaining us in our own home would be a very serious handicap to them.

But to apply to the county Welfare Department for ‘aid to the indigent aged’? Throughout the country millions of the young and able-bodied have had to apply for public relief. In earlier times some would have rioted and some would have patiently starved. Perhaps the modern ways were the best. At any rate we decided to let no scruples stand in the way of our applying for the state ‘pension.’ Nothing seemed quite so important to us as freedom from worry and from uncertain and precarious dependence on our children. We had looked out for them for twenty years, but we would not handicap them for the next decade or more if we could help it.

So I visited the local office of the County Welfare Department. Over the window where I made my first inquiry was a notice to the general effect that ‘the old-age provisions of the Social Security Act are not a pension but aid to the indigent aged.’ The time was not far gone when my reaction to this notice would have been a precipitate retreat out the door, but now I persevered. The pleasant and courteous young woman at the window did not discourage me. After a few questions she said we appeared to be eligible and an appointment was made for my wife and me to appear two days later and meet an investigator. Before this person, a middle-aged woman, we signed answers to various questions, dealing with our real estate, personal property, insurance, income from any source, names, addresses, and occupations of our children. We had thought our age might be difficult to establish positively, but we were told that the age shown on an insurance policy some years old would be accepted. People are not in the habit of overstating their age when applying for life insurance.

We must, however, produce sworn certificates from people who could testify that we had been residents of California at least five years. We were told to wait for an investigator who would call at our house. He came in a few days — a kindly, courteous, middle-aged man who verified and checked over our previous statements and examined our real-estate and insurance papers. He told us of the great number of applications and thought it would be from two to three months before ours could be passed on. The tactful courtesy of this gentleman and of the people we had met in the office was something we had not expected. An applicant for a credit account with a department store could not have been more considerately investigated.

Then came the trying delay and uncertainty of the next few months, during which our meagre resources were strained to the limit. Quite likely some of this delay was unnecessary. At any rate some urgent letter writing and phone calls seemed to have their affect, and we were granted the full amount allowed by the law. The average payment is somewhat less.

III

So in our old age we have been provided with a living income which seems certain for the rest of our lives. While we do not feel at all ashamed to take it, we are very appreciative, knowing what our lot would have been without it. We understand, as many do not seem to, that others must work for all we receive of food, goods, and services. It should be remembered, however, that this is the case with everyone living on income he docs not earn himself. Two hundred dollars a month or $30 every Thursday does not appeal to us. Even admitting the possibility, the foundation of such a plan is only a disguised sales tax proposing to take crippling sums from those now working. The plea that transferring the spending from those who work to those who do not will wonderfully stimulate business docs not seem to make sense. The people undoubtedly must have more purchasing power if they are to consume the possible production of the country. A way must be found to induce or force distribution of the great accumulation of funds now lying idle. Here may be found a way to finance a real national old-age pension system. Meanwhile, just taxes, which all must pay, are the only possible source for most of the money needed.

Most old folk are not grasping or unreasonable, but many have been taken in by profiteering demagogues, riding high on the present wave. Of course there are some honest dreamers, without whose help the others would not get far. These advocates of pulling money out of the air are fond of sneering at the contemptible size of our present allowance, but we do not feel that way about it. We certainly could use a little more money to very good advantage and are hoping the present Congress will grant an addition of $5.00 per person to the present monthly allowance to the states, which in California would certainly be passed on to the pensioners.

Some profess to wonder how we can live on such a pittance, but we only wish all of our age throughout the country were as well off. The provisions in the bills now being considered by Congressional committees, making such payments uniform throughout the country, are surely worth considering.

It may be of interest to know on what scale we can live on this monthly $70. We are not paying rent, but the monthly payments on our house, taxes, and insurance amount to about $19. Living in California, we heat entirely by gas, have an automatic water heater, washing machine, vacuum cleaner, and radio. We have a telephone, which we pay $2.00 per month for and use only six or eight times a week, being charged extra for some of these calls. The telephone is the one modern utility which a very large number of families — in this section, at least — feel compelled to do without.

The average cost of provisions and household needs is $23; gas, electricity, water, and phone will average $8.00. These items, with the payments on the house, make a total of $50 per month. This would appear to leave a fair amount out of $70 for transportation, clothing, medical service, and even those unforeseen incidentals which are always cropping up; but in reality we find ourselves running very short toward the end of the month.

As in most of our past life, we have very little margin left for medical service. Our income is higher than that allowed by the county for free service, even if we wanted it. Like anyone else, we could go to the County Hospital in a desperate case, and a lien for the charges would be placed on our little property and the account farmed out to a collector.

We do not think it possible to own a car or to maintain one, although almost everybody in California has some sort of car.

But we are really quite contented. Do you think we shall get that additional $5.00 this year?