route 66: the main street of america, the mother road    I  igor etxabe - “Easy”, she said. “You got to have patience. Why, Tom – us people will go on livin’ when all them people is gone. Why, Tom, we’re people that live. They ain’t gonna wipe us out. Why, we’re the people – we go on.”
- “We take a beatin’ all the time.”
-“I know.” Ma chuckled. “Maybe that makes us tough. Rich fellas come up an’ they die, an’ their kids ain’t no good, an’ they die out. But, Tom, we keep a-comin’. Don’ you fret none, Tom. A different time’s comin’.”

And the companies, the banks worked at their own doom and they did not know it. The fields were fruitful, and starving men moved on the roads. The granaries were full and the children of the poor grew up rachitic, and the pustules of pellagra swelled on their sides. The great companies did not know that the line between hunger and anger is thin line.

And money that might have to wages went for gas, for guns, for agents and spies, for blacklists, for drilling. On the highways the people moved like ants and searched for work, for food. And the anger began to ferment. Now Tom said “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy, wherever a hungry newborn baby cries. Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and hatred in the hair, look for me Mom I’ll be there. Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ for a place to stand, or decent job or a helpin’ hand. Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free, look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me.” Well the highway is alive tonight, but nobody’s kiddin’ nobody about where it goes. I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light, with the ghost of old Tom Joad.