Boxcar

The boxcar camp, a row of twelve wheel-less red boxcars arranged in two lines of six on a flat beside a stream, becomes the Joad family's final settled home in California. It provides a dry, draftless shelter during the cotton-picking season, but the rising floodwaters during the winter rains force the family to abandon it, and it is within this boxcar that Rose of Sharon gives birth to a stillborn child.

Physical Structure and the Camp Community

The twelve boxcars stood end to end on a little flat beside a stream, their wheels removed. Up to the big sliding doors, slatted planks ran for cat-walks. They made good houses, water-tight and draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car. No windows, but the wide doors stood open. In some of the cars a canvas hung down in the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary. The Joads had one end of an end car. Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe. Even with the wide door open, it was dark in the ends of the car. Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle of the car. The Joads had been lucky. They got in early enough to have a place in the boxcars. Now the tents of the late-comers filled the little flat, and those who had the boxcars were old-timers, and in a way aristocrats. The narrow stream slipped by, out of the willows, and back into the willows again. From each car a hard-beaten path went down to the stream. Between the cars the clothes lines hung, and every day the lines were covered with drying clothes.

Life and Work in the Boxcar

Each night Ma unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them up again. And every day they went into the fields and picked the cotton, and every night they had meat. On a Saturday they drove into Tulare, and they bought a tin stove and new overalls for Al and Pa and Winfield and Uncle John, and they bought a dress for Ma and gave Ma's best dress to Rose of Sharon. In the evening they walked back from the fields, carrying their folded cotton bags under their arms. They went into the store which stood at the crossroads, and there were many pickers in the store, buying their supplies. The Joads' end of the boxcar became a domestic space. Ma built a fire in the tin stove, and the stove was wine-colored with heat. Rose of Sharon sat on a box beside the stove. The family ate together, and the tarpaulin that had once separated the two families was taken down, making the car one shared space. The Wainwrights lived in the other end of the same car, and the two families became close, sharing meals and worries. The boxcar was also the site of important family decisions. It was there that Ma learned from Winfield that Ruthie had told other children about Tom hiding, and it was there that Ma decided she must send Tom away. It was also there that Al announced his intention to marry Aggie Wainwright, and a small celebration was held with pancakes and sirup.

The Flood and the Stillbirth

On the third day of the rain, the sound of the stream could be heard above the drumming rain. Pa and Uncle John stood in the open door and looked out on the rising stream. At both ends of the camp the water ran near to the highway, but at the camp it looped away so that the highway embankment surrounded the camp at the back and the stream closed it in on the front. Pa said, "Seems to me if that crick comes up, she'll flood us." The men worked all night to build a levee, but a cottonwood tree tore through the bank, and the water swept into the flat. The water crept up the cat-walk and into the car. Al tried to start the truck, but the motor was full of water. The family built a platform inside the car, five feet wide, six feet long, four feet above the floor, and piled their possessions on it. Rose of Sharon, who had been sick with a cold, went into labor. Ma and Mrs. Wainwright attended her. The pains came close, and Rose of Sharon screamed. The baby was born dead. Mrs. Wainwright held a lantern over an apple box in the corner. On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy. "Never breathed," said Mrs. Wainwright softly. "Never was alive." Uncle John took the apple box and waded into the flood. He set the box in the stream and let it go. The water crept over the floor of the car, and the family huddled on the platform. The next morning, Ma insisted they leave. Pa carried Rose of Sharon through the breast-high water to the highway. The family abandoned the boxcar, leaving Al and the Wainwrights behind to wait for the water to go down.