Pandemic-related shortages hark back to another time

“Bubbe, I have a random question.”

Abby’s random questions could range anywhere from arcane trivia to philosophical conundrums. This time, it was prompted by last year’s run on certain items as the number of COVID-19 cases increased with every passing day. Shoppers wheeling carts loaded with bales of toilet paper and tissues, stacks of disinfectant wipes and bottles of hand sanitizers became a common sight, as did empty shelves and depleted stocks.

Stores initiated limits, a form of unofficial rationing, to ensure fairer distribution until the supply caught up with the demand.

“Bubbe, do you remember rationing?”

My answer was yes and no. My memories are those of a teenager, aware of shortages and living with the rationing of foodstuffs and other civilian goods, but also shielded from the problems and difficulties faced by adults. 

As I recall, the first items on the rationed list were gasoline and tires. Both were strategic materials needed by the military and for aid to Great Britain during World War II.  For people who depended on their vehicles for work, it was a hardship.

We were not affected. Like the majority of our neighbors, my parents did not own a car. Street cars had routes on all the main arteries leading to downtown. A token with a star in its center brought you to or from downtown. A token and a transfer took you from one end of Providence to the other. The streetcars provided excellent transportation, although quite often a bit crowded. For students, there were strips of half-price tickets to be used only when traveling to and from school.

Sugar and coffee were the next items in acute short supply, as well as some canned goods, because aluminum was needed for the war effort and more food was needed for the growing number of troops, especially after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

In May 1942, every person had a ration book. My father had to register all the members of our family at a local board staffed mostly by women volunteers. Each member of a family, from the oldest to the youngest, received a book of stamps. The stamps had point values; a can of tuna or peaches, for example, had a price tag but also a number of points. Both money and points were needed for a legal purchase.

Sugar had its own stamps because the amount you could buy, even when it was available, was strictly limited. Many of our neighbors complained loudly about the lack of sugar. I do not think it presented a problem for us, as my mother baked mainly for holidays or special occasions. My parents also drank their preferred beverage – tea – “Russian style,” with only a little bit of lump sugar.  One little oblong lump lasted a whole day. (It is a lost art since Domino changed its sugar to granulated.)

To ease the coffee shortage, the populace was urged to drink ground chicory, either by itself or combined with coffee. That bitter brew had a short surge in popularity. It did not pass the taste test.

If you could not find butter for your toast or to fry your eggs, you were advised to use oleomargarine. This oleaginous substance bore no resemblance to the spreads in today’s markets. “Oleo” came in a white brick with a bead containing yellow food coloring embedded in the top. The directions told the consumer to break the bead and knead the coloring into the brick. Voila – butter facsimile! But no matter the color, the blob still tasted like Crisco.        

Losing a ration book could be, if not catastrophic, then certainly a hardship for a family. I almost caused one such hardship. Entrusted with a shopping list, money and the precious ration books, I was sent to First National, on Broad Street in South Providence. I left the store with the books in one pocket, the change in another, and two bags of groceries. The groceries and the change arrived home with me, but the ration books were nowhere to be found. We retraced my steps, but no luck. It meant having to reapply and do without until new books were available. 

Then came a phone call from the manager of the First National.  Someone had found the ration books nearby and brought them in.  Thank heavens for their good deed – and the telephone book!

During those days of rationing, we also recycled.  Cans were carefully washed, flattened and saved for the monthly collection.  Cellars and attics were emptied of broken metal toys, unused appliances and old tools for the scrap-metal drives.

My own personal hardship was the rationing of leather shoes and boots – three pairs per person in 1943, two pairs the next year. Leather was needed for combat boots and for the leather jackets favored by the Air Force. 

Of course, new dress shoes were mandatory for Pesach and for Rosh Hashanah, and new shoes and boots were needed for school. But somehow, my new shoes became old and worn in about a month.  I kept our neighborhood cobbler in business replacing soles and heels, but even the finest shoe polish could not hide the scrapes and scuffs. To keep me shod,  someone had to give up a precious coupon. When the shoe rationing ended, the sigh of relief at our home was audible.

The shortages and rationing made life difficult, but we knew we were part of the war effort. We were doing our part to support our troops and defeat our enemies. 

GERALDINE S. FOSTER is a past president of the R.I. Jewish Historical Association. To comment about this or any RIJHA article, contact the RIJHA office at info@rijha.org or 401-331-1360.