I was two years out of college and floundering in social work when I got a telegram urging me to quickly volunteer for VISTA (the domestic version of the peace corps). It said my background would be good for working with migrant farm laborers. (It wasn't, but they were looking for people.) This was the start of the War on Poverty in l965.

We volunteers were flown to Oregon for "intensive" training - three weeks of classes (no tests) and three weeks of living in migrant camps (best part). There, some of us picked crops, played with and taught migrant kids a few things, dug dry wells, helped a tuberculin family, looked for Job Corps prospects, looked into migrant wages and living conditions, improved privies with lumber we solicited, and worked on a contaminated water problem. Some volunteers got into a labor dispute in their camp and were kicked out.

Living with the poor and receiving volunteer wages were basic to VISTA. We were paid $l80/mo., which seemed to be more than what some of poor families lived on.

We were asked by outsiders what we were doing and found it hard to answer. We asked our trainers what we were supposed to do later when we got to our assignments and were told, "You'll find out when you get there." When we got "there" and asked, our sponsors said, "We don't know; what were you trained to do?" (while telling the papers we were receiving "in-service, on-going orientation." As it turned out, only a few volunteers were assigned to migrant farm labor.)

I was assigned to Pecos, a half hour outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. It had l200 people (and lots of gossip). Outside town there were bald peaks of l3,000 feet and high alpine valleys, which were quiet but for the ring of a cowbell. Six miles away was a town of l3 families without electricity, and below was the Pecos River, from which farmers channeled water with 300 year old "ditches," governed by "ditch associations." On the horizon were silent storms of seemingly constant lightning.

The reddish, clay soil when dry was like cement and when wet, was sticky enough to pull your shoes off. During the rains it washed into the river, turning the falls a reddish color.

Some of the adobe homes had this coloring, which gave them a glow at sunset. When I first arrived, I drove past these, enchanted. The area seemed like a Shangri-la. No travel log had shown such a place. (Then too, there were the long gazes of the young, Spanish beauties.)

The people were said to be descendants of the Spanish conquistadors; and the towns were suppose to be some of the oldest in the U.S. The people and ballot were bilingual. When thinking about tearing down a house, the locals would say "We have to `throw' that house." When going to someone's house they'd pull up and honk for the person to come out - even in freezing weather. When invited for lunch, I was told they'd start "feeding" at 2:00. They thought nothing of eating a bowl of red chili - straight.

There were wedding celebrations that went on forever. At one, the bride and groom sat exhausted with dark circles under their eyes, while the revelers danced and drank and danced and drank.

On weekends there were other dances with drinking and fighting. (The drinks cost; the fights were free.)

About half the homes used natural gas, the rest wood. I bought several cords (4 by 4 by l0 ft.) of pi¤on wood to warm the two room adobe I rented. I had to chainsaw it into l ft. lengths and chop those up. Dry wood was for starting a stove or heater and green wood was for overnight heating, during which the sap hissed gently. Cedar wood was preferred for baking. The stoves and heaters had vents that could whip the flames into a roar or keep the coals glowing. Water jackets heated water and provided humidity.

Some people insisted food cooked on a wood stove tasted better. I tried it once, and ate out of the refrigerator the rest of the year. I used an outhouse, drew water from a well, and showered at the school.

My job was "community development," which was made to seem exotic, but was simply working on any feasible projects to promote the idea of self-help.

I moved into the less developed part of town and went around to merchants and whomever asking what the problems were ("felt- needs" in anti- poverty talk), saying the War on Poverty might have funds to help. I was directed to the leaders and their reaction was good. Then I went to public agencies to look for assistance.

Soon it was time to have a meeting. I made the preparations and as the hour neared, there were a spectacular sunset, a rain, and a wedding. I didn't expect many, but 25 came, an organization was formed, and officers were elected. The next meeting only four of the same showed up, and at one point the chairman turned to me and said, "What was the purpose of this meeting?" (Oh no)

The meetings continued and an acceptable issue came up - roads. We got "the county" to help haul gravel donated by Greer Garson's ranch. She contributed $200 and $500 was collected locally. Soon the county trucks and grader came out, and local trucks were enlisted. A compressor was borrowed from the Fish and Game Dept. for drilling boulders that had to be blasted.

When people saw the work start, they cooperated with money or work. It lasted three weeks and brought great improvement. A water truck was rigged to settle the gravel, and later culverts and lumber for a bridge were obtained. People came from other towns to the meetings; and later a meeting with the governor was arranged where pavement was promised.

Such luck after only two months made me heady; but as it turned out, very little happened the rest of the year.

In working on these projects, I visited the homes, and noticed in talking to the man and his wife, I was soon talking to the man. Also that only two women shyly showed up at one meeting and looked like they wanted to crawl out under the rug. On the outside at least, it was a man's world. I got some female VISTA volunteers to organize the women; and whereas the men's meetings were formal with minutes and procedure, the women's meetings were informal, crazy, and fun.

They had a tamale sale that quickly raised over $l00, but didn't know what to do with it. I said the men's organization might use it on the road and asked one of the men. There was a long pause and he answered begrudgingly, "Well ... the women can give it to us ... but we don't want any damn female telling us what to do." (Hilarious, but I bit my tongue.)

"Community development," as it turned out, was anything but "technical." It meant: - making no promises, - "planting" ideas so other people would think they thought of them, - a few people did most of the work, - the ones that criticized the most, did the least, - many wanted something for nothing, - you could lead a horse to water, but you couldn't make him drink, - sometimes the boat had to be rocked diplomatically, but firmly, - 20% of those who said they would come to meetings showed up, half late, and occasionally one boozed, - everything had to be kept strictly practical as people got sick of meetings, - anti- poverty workers could be dreamers, and - exposure to the "outside world" and an education enabled an outsider like myself to help with the reading, writing, math., thinking and coordinating with public agencies, but also could lead to taking oneself too seriously.

People believed everything was political (somewhat truer here), and the poor man had no chance. There were a lot of envy and jealousy. Some believed anyone who got ahead had to be cheating. He was resented and envied. Other obstacles were the spoils system, nepotism, and the "compadre" system of each child having a godparent. These caused problems with law enforcement. And too, the district attorney was said to be lenient in order to gain votes.

On the other hand, the people had superior human values. They would raise their relatives' and other people's children. They were gregarious, human, genuine, warm, good natured, polite, and hospitable. When there were lulls in the conversation, they didn't feel they had to fill in; they enjoyed the quiet.

This was the War on Poverty and I was supposed to be working with the "poor," but "low income" was a better term as these people were poor in money and rich in everything else - family life, friendships, enviable mental health, and a healthy, robust, close to nature, lifestyle. This was especially true of one prison guard, his wife, and ll kids - a wonderful bunch - like something out of THE SOUND OF MUSIC. Income aside, the rich would have traded places with them in a second.

Anti-poverty work was frustrating and disillusioning. I worked hard and was lucky; however, I had thought I'd get more done. I wasn't surprised to hear some volunteers accomplished nothing in their year.

We volunteers got a lot out of our experience - far more than we contributed. We didn't bring big changes, and sensible volunteers weren't "radicalized" (as claimed by one article).

A few years later at a party in New York I ran into one of the "field support" people who had visited me in Pecos. She was sitting on the floor. I tried to talk to her realistically about poverty work. She didn't want to hear it, made up excuses, and looked out the window with glazed-over eyes.

Later in the mid 80s I saw Sargent Shriver on TV explaining the War on Poverty and the Peace Corps (both of which he headed). I found his reasoning full of holes. These incidents were symbolic for me. They showed this type of work draws idealists. I had learned my lessons, but these two were chasing dreams that could never be.

Later in the 90s President Clinton started Americorps, his version of what I had been in. Did his staff contact me and other former volunteers? No. Would they have taken a balanced approach to my views? No. It goes on. Some people learn; some don't.