Missoula’s “Poverty Row” – 1918
A Look At Missoula’s Poverty – 1918
A letter to the editor in The Daily Missoulian in 1918 caught my eye when reading about another big problem Missoula was facing at that time – the Spanish Influenza epidemic. The letter was written by Captain Richard G. Guest who headed the Salvation Army in Missoula. This heroic young man passed through Missoula’s history with barley a glance.
You’re Welcome, Captain.
Editor Missoulian: May I take the opportunity of thanking you for the very realistic description you gave of the conditions found among the poor in Missoula. As I have gone about this week, asking help for this cause, I have been astonished at the large number of people who have referred to the article written in Sunday morning’s paper.
I have been in this work for a number of years, our cause has caused some comment, the newspapers have been at our service, but I have never had an article written that has brought such bountiful returns, or caused so much talk.
In the name of humanity among whom I labor, I want to thank you, and all those who have helped to make our Christmas effort, as far as it has gone, a success; we still have some days left before Christmas, our lists continue to grow; we shall appreciate all the help given to “keep the pot boiling.” Yours serving humanity,
Captain Richard G. Guest.
The above letter to the editor appeared in The Daily Missoulian on December 12, 1918
https://www.newspapers.com/image/348684053/
The article which Captain Richard G. Guest referred to appeared in The Daily Missoulian on 12/8/1918. Keep in mind this article was written in the midst of the deadly Spanish Influenza epidemic of 1918, as well at the end of horrific WWI.
The article is quoted below:
OTHER SIDE IS USUAL SIGHT TO CAPTAIN GUEST
Missoulian Reporter Learns Something of Missoula Unknown Before.
Service Stars Seen In Our “Poverty Row”
Brave Women Strive While the Men Are Away With the Colors of America.
You people of the upper crust, sitting snugly before your fireplaces, little do you know of the other side – the squalor, the suffering, the poverty within your midst.
“The Garden city” is your name for Missoula. It is a garden city. The vast majority of its people are living well. The majority has never felt the gnaw of hunger.
But somewhere on the north side, in the shadow of a mountain, is Poverty Row. Cowering under the perpendicular base of a hill, stand rickety mansions that people call “home.”
“There is no poverty in Missoula,” you say.
That is what a Missoulian reporter said before he accompanied Captain Guest of the Salvation Army on his daily tour of mercy.
But he doesn’t say that now. He has seen the other side.
Entering “The Other Side.”
It was yesterday in the late afternoon when Captain Guest left the haunt of automobiles and well-clothed people and strode through by-streets and alleys. The December sun was shining when he emerged from a tangle of roundhouses and engines, and walked up the street beneath the hill.
Before shabby fences confronting shabbier houses, dogs lay sprawled. They dragged themselves to their feet and barked uncertain welcome to Captain Guest. They dovetailed with the surroundings.
But the windows of the houses stood out like fire from the flapping boards and blistered paint.
In them were service flags! And faded at that. They had been there for a long time. And on all that Poverty Row there was but one flag with a single star. One held five. Another four. And two held three!
There is where the sacrifice is. On that street cringing beneath the hill. The “men folks” were fighting the hun. And the women are fighting the poverty.
The Youngster Is Glad.
Captain Guest lifted an unhinged gate from its place and entered a yard. From behind a corner, a shocky head appeared. Then a mouth spread over a dirty face in joyous greeting. The little figure scudded through the door. “Ma,” he shouted, “here’s Cappin’ Guest.”
“Ma” came from the room where invalided “pa” was lying, and held the door open for entrance. She smoothed a soiled apron and tucked in a lock of lifeless hair.
“Come in, Captain. Come in.” And she wrinkled her face further with a smile.
The inside of that room was bare, save for two stools, a table, a box of a stove, and a wheel chair from whose depths peered the face of “little brother” – all eyes and smiles for Captain Guest.
No Complaints There.
There was no complaint, even though the Salvation officer inquired as to the woodpile, the children’s clothing, grandfather’s medicine and the daughter’s husband who had “run away.” There was not a whimper.
But Captain Guest wrote something in a book before he left.
The door groaned open and “grandson” toddled in, saluted from under a soldier hat, and pointed a little finger to the service flag in the window.
Four doors up the street Captain Guest opened another gate. From a woodshed came sounds of an axe chopping on wood. Captain Guest quickened his pace.
Captain Scolds “Mother.”
“Here, Mother,” he called. “I told you I’d chop that wood.”
“Mother” came from the woodshed, hobbling on a stick. She hung her head like a child caught stealing jam.
“Thought I’d better keep ahead a little, Captain,” she explained. “No tellin’ when snow’ll come.”
Together they entered the house, the hand of Captain Guest co-operating with the stick.
“That medicine helped you, didn’t it, Mother?” he was saying.
“Yes. It burns like fire,” she answered.
Within the room was the cooking stove, the table and the bed. On the table was a coffee pot.
“Must have my coffee these afternoons,” said “Mother,” as she placed the urn out of sight.
Again there was no complaint. But Captain Guest wrote something in his book again, and left a new formula for the remedy of rheumatism.
“Let us pray,” said “Mother.”
Captain Guest knelt, and “Mother” labored to her knees.
“Oh, Father in Heaven, help ‘Mother’s rheumatism and help – “
It was over, and they rose again. At the door the mercy worker paused.
“Did you get the money to pay that $2.50 tax?” he asked.
“Yes,” said ‘Mother.’ “I borrowed it. My, but it hurts me when I climb those stairs at city hall.”
Captain Guest wrote again in his book.
The next place was the home of three boys in khaki. Their mother met Captain Guest at the door. Within that door were homely attempts which hinted of something better in days gone by.
The Shrine of the Household.
On the wall, surrounded by a massive gilt frame, was a group picture of a company of marines.
The mother caught a glance toward the picture, and pointed with pride, “There is my boy,” she said, “up there in the top row.”
Then from a clutter of bric-a-brac on an ancient buffet, she took a snapshot, framed in metal, of three “Yanks” in uniform, her boy was one.
“They went through it all,” she said, “and came out without a scratch. I’ll have a wonderful Christmas this year, Captain.”
The little lady seated herself on the sofa beneath the picture of the marines. Again that ghost of better days entered the cramped room. She sat with fingers entwined, elbows out and figure rigid. Given long gloves and a flare-sleeved gown, the tin-type would have been complete.
She Needed Nothing.
“Anything needed?”
That was the final question of Captain Guest.
The little lady smiled happily. “No,” she said, “my allotment came today.”
It was nearly dark when Captain Guest left poverty Row, under the hill. He wrote in his book as he walked.
“The Salvation Army hopes to bring Christmas to those people,” he confided to the reporter.
The above article appeared in The Daily Missoulian on December 8, 1918.