The Harness Family’s Trek to ‘Forney’
(Recounted by Andy Hopson from his mother Betty’s Notes)
On a rainy day in 1934, Lloyd and Lillian Harness loaded up their crank-start Ford pickup with their two children, four-year-old Lloyd Jr. and 15-month old Betty. The mood was solemn as Lillian’s parents, Granny and Grandpa Hayes, saw them off, wondering if they’d ever see them again. Parting with all that was familiar in Rocky Hill, Arkansas, they were headed to “the end of the rainbow”, a place my Mom, Betty, called “Forney”, California, a land of opportunity. “When I was older, Daddy said when he asked me, ‘Where are we going?’ I’d reply, ‘Forney, going to Forney,’” Betty later recounted.
Lloyd and Lillian had $12 in their pockets they’d gotten from selling their cow. All of their worldly possessions were in the back, consisting of bedding, canned fruit (in jars) and a couple of handmade hickory chairs, made by Lillian’s Uncle Lim.
Pickups were small in those days. Crowded in the cab with Lloyd driving, mom sat in the middle on Lillian’s lap and Lloyd, Jr. by the passenger window, which was broken and covered by a blanket to keep the rain out. Lillian’s brother Gus and his wife, Alice, followed in their unreliable old car. Lloyd and Lillian were both 21. Alice and Gus were 18 and 19, with a year-old baby, Dolores.
The first of countless flat tires was at Clinton, a few miles from the starting place and also Lloyd’s birthplace.
They finally made it to Pampa, Texas, where Lloyd got a job at an oil well. The job lasted until August and enabled them to trade the pickup for an old Chevy touring car, dark blue and a definite upgrade. At this point Gus and Alice turned back because it was too difficult.
“Mom and Dad slept beside the road each night,” said Betty. “We kids slept in the car. There was no need to fear other travelers. Most were in the same situation.
“Before we reached Gallop, New Mexico, we ran out of water. It was hot and the car overheated, so we stopped. That Sunday evening another vagabond told Dad that a man running a service station at the top of the hill was selling water for 5 cents a gallon. He filled the car, but it wouldn’t start. The station owner invited us to spend the night and he’d help fix the car the next morning. He didn’t. Instead he asked Dad to accompany him. Seems the government was thinning the herds of wild cattle. Fresh meat, of course, so Dad went, leaving Mother and us children to sell the precious water. I had four diapers, which Mother washed on the sly. The men brought home meat, so we ate well.”
Betty recounted that the station owner had been “fresh” with Lillian, and they were concerned about their safety. “He’d been digging a well with a bucket and pulley,” she said. “It seemed very deep. They heard a cat meowing at the bottom so Dad was lowered to retrieve it. Mom was scared when the owner seemed unconcerned (about pulling up Dad) and she knew she wasn’t strong enough to pull him up by herself. She prayed in desperation, terrified of the man. In answer, a young hitchhiker came. They brought Daddy up into the sunlight. The hitchhiker worked on the car and got it running. The problem was in the timer. Gratefully, we set off with our newfound friend, comforted that he could make repairs as needed.
“Bloomington, California was our destination,” Betty continued. “A cousin of Dad’s, Roy Files, already lived there and said he’d help Dad find work. When we arrived he’d just been released from the hospital. He had tuberculosis of the bones. His skin had running sores. He worked for the Wilkersons, who let us camp temporarily. We parked by a eucalyptus tree windbreak with a nearby reservoir.
“Later Dad drove his little family to Wasco, near Bakersfield, California, to be there when the cotton opened up. As usual, we lived in the car near an irrigation ditch, so washing clothes was not a problem. But Mom had no soap.
“Daddy picked potatoes for 50 cents a day and gleaned small ones for his family. Other laborers were in the same plight, so built fires to cook the potatoes. Canned peaches were for dessert. Mom cut peoples hair. No money but a matter of pride.
“When the cotton opened up, the owner let us stay in an old building along with another family. Mother worked like crazy to pick 100 pounds in a day. The pay was a penny a pound. Her fingers were raw, and due to the scratches, she developed an infection in her hand and arm. (She weighed 99 pounds.) They worked from the time the dew evaporated in the morning until they couldn’t see in the evenings.
“Mother cooked beans in a gallon can buried in the earth with coals underneath. She remembers how good they smelled along with corn cakes cooked in a cast iron frying pan.
“Times were looking up. For the prune harvest the owner furnished a tent. He advanced us a couple of dollars to buy food. This was in the Bakersfield area. The tent had a real wood floor with a small heater. Mom took advantage of the fringe benefit and filled the emptied fruit jars with canned prunes, and we ate all we could safely do. They were paid by the ton. It takes a lot of prunes to make a ton. Trees were shaken and pickers crawled around underneath to pick up the fruit.
“After the harvest we went home to Bloomington where Dad picked citrus fruit. Shortly afterwards we were in the San Joaquin Valley, where Mom and Dad picked apricots (my favorite). I remember the powdery earth beneath my bare feet. It felt good to explore but we never got out of their sight.
“About that time, Dad bought Lloyd and I both little pocket knives with marbled-looking handles. We whittled and ate apricots, quartered with our prize knives.
“Looking back, desperate though our parents felt, to little kids, home was where we ate and slept with our family.”
