Pledge of Allegiance

Wallace


PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE

I was taught the Pledge
at a very young age.
Stand arrow straight.
Raise your hand to the flag.
Speak clearly.

We don’t do it
that way anymore.
We still stand straight.
We still speak clearly.
But we place our hands
across our hearts.

Raising our hands up high
looked too much
like a "Heil Hitler" salute.
That may be, but it’s awfully hard
breaking an old habit.



© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Old style pledge and new style pledge photos courtesy Library of Congress.

Better Than New

Milly


BETTER THAN NEW

I go to the movies
to look at the fashions.
I study Schiaparelli’s designs
in the magazines.

Lucky for me, Mother
and Grandmother never
throw anything away.
They’ve kept their old dresses
and using a little
Yankee ingenuity
I take apart those frocks
and make them over

better than new.




© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. July 1943 Vogue fashion spread, and poster stamp, from author's personal collection. Photo courtesy University of Maryland.

Scrap Metal

Nancy


SCRAP METAL

We took the wagon round
to the back of the barn
and dug through the trash heap
to find dozens of old tin cans,
a rusted tractor seat, one
cracked iron skillet, two
bent bicycle wheels (from
George’s daredevil days),
snippets of bailing wire too short
to use, and an old umbrella
with just a tatter of black cloth
on its ribs. These we piled upon
the wrought iron gate that
had guarded the graveyard
that held the bones of
grandma, and her mother and father,
and the baby that had died
before daddy had even been born.
We hoped mama wouldn’t see it,
but if she did, we’d say it was
for Georgie. For bullets to
keep the enemy away. For tanks
to stop the enemy’s advances.
For anything that would help
keep my brother out
of that family graveyard.




















© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Photo courtesy Library of Congress. Poster courtesy Northwestern University Library.

The Clean Plate Club

Peter


THE CLEAN PLATE CLUB

In the Great War, Mom was a member
of the Clean Plate Club. She says we
have to be members, too. "It isn't
voluntary--it's mandatory!" She tells us
over and over. And over, again!

I never had a problem being a member
of the Clean Plate Club, I love to eat—
even vegetables. My little brother, though,
is always being scolded and called,
"Hitler’s Helper." That’s what happens

when you’re fussy. I cannot understand
what cleaning your plate has to do with
winning the war. As a matter of fact,
I think Stevie’s lima beans should be
saved and sent to the troops as ammo.

When you let them sit on a plate long
enough, they become deadly. Stevie
and me have a plan. From now on,
he’s going to sneak his vegetables
under the table to me. That way we’ll

both be members of the Clean Plate Club,
Mom can stop nagging, and Hitler will
have to find another new helper.






















© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Lima bean can label from author's personal collection. Posters at the top and bottom courtesy Northwestern University Library.

Infinity

Patsy


INFINITY

The number of hours it takes
to fill a potato sack to the top
with milkweed pods.

The number of life jackets
that can be stuffed with the fluff
collected by seven girl scouts.

The number of sailors
who will not drown because
they’ll have new life jackets.

The number of movie stars
my friends and I can name
in an afternoon spent picking pods.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Children with milkweed pods photo courtesy UNH. Ship photo from author's personal collection.

The Bus

Emily


THE BUS

The bus is fairly crowded.
A dark-haired girl
of about my age
sits alone in the seat
opposite mine,
her face turned
toward the window.

A woman of my mother’s age
climbs aboard.
She could be
anyone’s mother—
a typical American woman.
She walks down the aisle.
The girl turns to face her.

The woman stops.
Her face contorts.
She purses her lips.
"Ptttt!"
A glob of spit flies across the aisle.
"Go back to Japan!" she hisses
as the girl wipes her face.

It’s funny how everyone
on the bus suddenly
finds something of interest
to look at through the window
or down at their feet—
including me.


© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Photo courtesy Library of Congress.

I Don't Even Know Him

Harry


I DON'T EVEN KNOW HIM

Dad said, "Uncle Sam
called and he needs me."

Grandpa said, "He owes
it to Uncle Sam to go."

Who is this Uncle Sam?
He's never come by the house.

He's never been at Grandpa's
for Thanksgiving dinner.

Mama can't say his name
without busting out in tears.

You know what? I don't think
he's my uncle at all.

There's one thing I do know--
he's taking daddy away.

And I. Don't. Like him.


© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Poster courtesy National Archives.

Boarders

Sallie


BOARDERS

I sure don’t like sharing
my house and my mama
with the rest of the world.
But, for the duration,
we will have boarders
'cause as Mama says,
"We gotta keep body and
soul together, somehow."


© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Photo courtesy Library of Congress.

Square Dance

Cora


SQUARE DANCE


I’ve always watched
the hands of women
as they sat on front porches
knitting and crocheting.

The dance of wool and needle
is a mystery to me.
I’m a lefty and somehow
my hands don’t dance.

But now I’ve got a
good reason to master
the complicated steps—
the Ladies’ League.

The Ladies’ League
is collecting squares.
Six inches by six inches.
Knitted or crocheted.

My square will be
joined to someone else’s.
And ours to yet another’s
until a blanket appears!

A snuggly warm blanket
for a cold and lonely soldier
who dreams of once again
dancing with a girl.


© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Photo courtesy Library of Congress. Poster courtesy Smithsonian National Museum of American History.