The Big Count

Ever since the first census was taken in 1790 (there were 3,929,214 people in the country not counting Indians), the U.S. had reacted to the process as enthusiastically as a growing boy getting his height chalked up on the kitchen wall. Over the years a few census takers had been pinked by squirrel guns or heaved down long flights of stairs, but the percentage of objectors was unbelievably small--in 1940 the Government did not find it necessary to prosecute one census evader. As the 1950 census taking began last week, the country smirked as happily and self-consciously as ever.

In 1950 this good temper was a little harder to explain, for beyond simply counting noses, the Government was setting out on a curbstone character reading of the country. One citizen in five who had reached the age of 14 was being asked how much money he made. The 140,000 census enumerators--all of them equipped with red, white & blue portfolios as big as window shutters--also wanted the answers to 418 square inches of questions in fine print.

Counting the Chickens. Farmers were being asked not only to count their children, but also their cows, sheep, pigs and chickens, and to tell the Government what kind of hay balers and corn pickers they were using. And, like city dwellers, they were also being asked to recall how many wives they had married and when the last wedding had been held.

Did John Citizen have a toilet? If so was it inside the house or outside--or did he just have a privy in the backyard? Did he have a television set? A refrigerator? A furnace? If so, did he use coal, coke, wood, utility gas, bottled gas, liquid fuel, or electricity? Did he have a kitchen sink? Where did he live--in a house, apartment, flat, trailer, tent, boat, railroad car, rooming house, hotel, jail, or tourist camp? If he rented a furnished house, what would it rent for unfurnished?

Though politicians of the old school had cried vehemently that the U.S. citizen wouldn't stand for this sort of thing, the citizenry, generally speaking, seemed fascinated at the close attention it was getting. Like President Harry Truman--who gathered his family together at the Little White House at Key West last week and answered questions by Canadian-born Mrs. Eileen Nolte, a Navy petty officer's wife--most invited the census takers inside and, in many cases, offered them coffee, cake, or a slug of bourbon.

T Night. The Bureau of the Census had been getting ready for the big job for two years, had not only trained a force of 8,764 supervisors, but had given examinations to each of the 140,000 enumerators and had put them through four days of training. It had printed a million maps which showed boundaries, streets and houses in more than 200,000 districts. It had prepared to hire 8,500 people to tot up the results.

It had also been put to a lot of trouble? deciding just how to reach all the people in the country. Enumerators were prepared to move by airplanes in Alaska and Maine, in Coast Guard cutters to offshore islands, in canoes, rowboats and snow caterpillars, or by horseback in the more remote hills and backwoods of the U.S. (the Government allowed census-takers $2.50 a day for "horse procural" when necessary).

The census takers did not always have smooth sailing. An enumerator who called at 337 East 56th Street in Manhattan reported that a blonde answered his ring, pointed wearily to the cold towel around her head, and said: "I'm in no condition to talk to anyone." In many big cities the census takers had to call in interpreters to get their information. There would probably be more difficulty next week when contingents of male enumerators observe T (for transient) night, and descend in one swoop on the inhabitants of flophouses, skid roads and missions.

But the nation's general attitude seemed best summed up by a flustered but delighted Daughter of the Confederacy in Atlanta, Ga., who said: "I can just hardly wait to see how it comes out." The best preliminary guess: a population of 151 million people--an increase of 19 million since 1940.

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