FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST

A CHAPTER  FROM  COPPER COLORED SKY


     Wavy ruts unreeled behind Uncle Cal’s old Model T.  My pigtails jumped with each bump as we bounced and plowed through  deep drifts of sandy dust in the lane. To my ten-year-old eyes the world seemed to be sinking in the vast sea of creeping drifts that stretched endlessly around us.
     Drought had tortured the land for three years and crops burned up beneath the blistering sun. The earth became ever more dry and huge cracks split the hardened clay which crumbled into dust that drifted across the land like desert sand.  It buried anything in its path, and often crawled up the sides of sheds and small utility buildings,  entombing them.  It crawled across the porches and into gaping doors and windows of empty farm houses. 
    Ceaseless wind whipped up rolling clouds of red earth as it carried away the once fertile farm land, hiding the sun like a dull, glowing ball. Skies were darkened all the way from the Texas panhandle to cities on the Eastern seaboard, and were reported by ships far at sea.

   "Look, more dust devils,” Aunt Marie said and pointed at slim columns whirling in the lane ahead. 
    “The wind's risin' too, " Cal replied with a worried look.
    Depression still clutched the world in bony fingers and fear walked the land.  Men from both farms and cities hopped freight trains and rode the rails, looking for work. They slept in barns and ate in hobo jungles, each contributing something to the common stew pot, a couple of potatoes or carrots, sometimes a wild rabbit. Chopping wood for a meal, or stealing corn and watermelons from a field were often ways they kept from starving. Here, in the Dust Bowl, there was very little growing.

     “Home at last,” said Uncle Cal as we rattled to a stop in front of the old farm house left to him by his parents. Sprawling across the hard, clay yard lay the shadow of a dying cottonwood tree. Cal hurriedly secured the cover of a hotbed containing seedling plants which he sold for a few cents apiece. 
     “He gives away more than he sells,” Marie said with a sad little smile. "Some people just can't pay now, and Cal can't turn them away." 
     After a supper of beans, corn bread and buttermilk, Marie looked tired and pale. Cal insisted she join him outside to escape lingering heat from the wood cook stove. “We gotta be careful,” he said and lovingly patted her swollen abdomen. Marie’s baby was due in six weeks; and was my reason I had been sent for a visit to help.  Marie's first pregnancy had ended at seven months. 
     After washing the supper dishes, I splashed the rinse water on my face, neck and arms to remove grimy, black necklaces and bracelets that had ‘grown’ in sweaty creases on my skin. A real bath in the big number two wash tub would have been a luxury, but water was doled out carefully. After mopping the kitchen floor with the rinse water, I poured it around an ancient rose bush by the back door and went to join Marie and Cal. He was playing his guitar and singing, "that daring young man on the flying trapeze."
     “That’s his feel good song,” Marie said. “He sings it when he feels good, or wants to feel good. He’s been hummin' it all week.” She playfully poked his arm. “What’s your secret, Cal?” He grinned, and continued strumming his guitar in the evening twilight.
     The wind increased raising huge dust devils that began dancing in the hazy field. In the distance, ugly dark clouds rose and moved across the prairie threateningly.

"Dust storm!" Cal said as he and Marie scrambled to their feet. We hurried inside as blowing sand stung my arm.

I helped Cal hang wet burlap sacks at windows and doors to filter out the invasion. With a table knife, Marie forced rags into cracks around the windows. Outside, a gloomy darkness crept closer.

 Through the window I watched rolling dust move closer like fog as it enveloped the barn, the outhouse, and sheds, swollowing them in the haze.  Most of the dust was fine like baby powder, insidiously invading lungs to cause dust pneumonia.  Larger grains of sand pinged against the glass like fine sleet.

    Marie's little dog, Skippy, cuddled beside me as we lay on my bed listening to wind whistle around the house and in through cracks in the old walls.   The Daily Tribune, used for wallpaper, swelled in and out with the wind, making the walls seem alive. I tried to read a faded strip of  Little Orphan Annie, but it was upside down and light from a coal oil lamp was too dim.  An old stock market news report was boring. I dozed off to the sound of the wind, and Cal’s little static-choked radio sputtering reports of bread lines, foreclosures and deserted farms. 

    For three days the wind blew, howling and whistling around the house with a haunting wail that didn't cease.  It blasted everything in its path, scouring paint from houses, cars and signs along the highway. I awoke to silence.  A thick sandy film covered everything in the house, even water in the fish bowl. It coated dishes, collected in glasses, and had seeped into a lidded jar holding dry beans.
     “Let's get some jam from the basement,” Marie said. “I’ll make pancakes for breakfast.” 
     A ghostly, unreal world awaited outside. Thick dust covered our bare ankles,  and stood in peaks atop fence posts. It lay in drifts that rippled across fields and climbed buildings and fences. Hidden deep in a bank of coppery clouds the sun glowed dully, like a big orange ball.

    Chaos awaited in the little dug-out basement.  Moving drifts had crept through the open entryway, collapsing shelves filled with glass jars full of vegetables and fruit.   A swarm of fat, green flies buzzed into the air, then settled back to gorge on the inedible fruit and vegetables that lay in a pile of broken glass and stained sand. 

    Tears sprang to Marie’s eyes when she looked at the devastation ,but were quickly hidden when Cal entered. He stared for a moment, then turned to help Marie out of the basement. She was biting her lip as she went in to make breakfast. “Stay with Cal,“ she told me. I heard what sounded like a muffled sob as she hurried inside the house.  

        I knew from Marie's letters to my mother that the lost shelves of food in the basement had been assembled a heavy price.  They had raised what they could by carrying water, bartered for much of it, and spent long hours over the hot wood stove to can their winter supply..
          Cal inspected the hot bed and small garden.  They had been whipped by the wind and almost buried in drifts that banked up against the tractor shed and against the big iron wheels. The machine had long ago died when  gritty sand had sifted into its fuel system and gear box.
          There was no sweet jam or pancakes for breakfast. Cal silently sopped up the thin, watery gravy on his plate with a piece of biscuit and popped it into his mouth.   He sat chewing as he stared out the window. Marie refilled the percolator with water and added a teaspoon of fresh coffee grounds to the old ones. After three days the coffee looked a little weak.
          “No-one will buy plants now,” Cal broke the silence. “I’m gonna plant them myself! That was the last dust storm. Rain's comin'!”
          “The last storm? Rain?” Marie stared in surprise. “How do you know?”
          “The Gypsy fortune teller said so!”
          “Fortune teller? Oh no! That’s been your secret?”
          “Yes,” he said eagerly. “She said the next storm would be the last. She said the rain would come within days.”
          “Cal, don’t be a fool. Look at the sky. It’s not gonna rain!”
          “The plants are gettin' too spindly,” he insisted. “If they're not  planted now they’ll be worthless.” Desperation crept into his voice. “The plants are all we have left to make a crop, Marie. You heard the news. I HAVE to try! If I don't, we’ll lose the farm. I know they’ll grow. I’ll make 'em grow!” he banged his fist on the table.
          “Of course they’ll grow,” she relented. “Of course they will. We’ll help.”
          “No,” he said. “The baby…”
          No amount of argument would stop Cal from planting, nor Marie from helping.  We hauled water to fill barrels along the field.  At dawn, Cal was plowing with a borrowed horse, red clouds rolling into the air like smoke behind him.   In overalls, Marie and I began the planting. While she crawled awkwardly on hands and knees, placing each plant in the ground, I filled and refilled a big bucket from the barrels, then poured a tin can of water onto each plant.
          I soon ached all over, but the field was turning green again. We were winning! Our sweaty faces were dirt smeared as we headed to the house to eat a lunch of left over biscuits, and to add water to the pot of beans for supper.
          “Dam this drought!” Marie burst out suddenly.  It was the only time I ever heard her swear.  I turned to see tips of green leaf showing here and there where we had planted that morning. The creeping drifts of dust had moved insidiously, like a snake, covering the plants, smothering them, leaching away their moisture.  We fought back tears as we frantically clawed to extract the smothered plants. Skippy, who had been sleeping under the house in the shade, heard us and struggled through the drifts to paw at Marie’s arm, whining in bewilderment.
          The plants were shriveled and almost dead. But, Marie would not give up as she clawed at the ground.  “Get more water!” she commanded.
          The nearest water barrels were all empty, so I headed for the cistern, the bucket banging against my leg. My arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets as I struggled back toward the field with the heavy bucket of water.  My wet fingers began to slip from the handle.  With horror I watched the heavy water bucket fall and water gush forth to magically disappear into the sandy ground.   Frustration filled me as I tugged at the big cistern handle again. Water splashed onto my bare feet with every step, leaving only a few inches in the bottom of the bucket when I arrived at the field. Uncle Cal was already there, his jaw set fiercely as he glared at the encroaching enemy.
          “Cal, what are we gonna do?” Marie cried.
          “We can’t give up!” he said fiercely. “I’ll gather up the plants while you girls fill the tub to keep them in. It should start raining soon! We’ll replant them then.”
          Forcing ourselves to believe him, Marie and I worked furiously to fill the big tub. When Cal returned, the water bucket he carried was crammed with limp plants drooping over the side. He let the bucket drop and sat on the ground beside Marie, his eyes haunted.
          “You’re right, Marie. I’m a fool. I don’t know anything about farmin'. It’s not going to rain. I just wanted to believe so desperately.”
          “It’s all right,” she crooned as she put her arms around him. “It’s all right.”
          “I wanted you to have the things you need,” he said. “You and the baby.”
          They sat clutching each other silently, trying to absorb their loss. Their tractor and fields had been lost, their food reserves destroyed. Their hopeless crop was lost in a desperate, foolish gamble. There would be no way to pay the mortgage and the farm would be taken.. It wasn't just the sweet, red jams and green tomatoes sinking beneath the dust, it was their hopes and dreams. It was their future.

          This was my first real glimpse into the grown up world. I didn't think I wanted to go there.

          Suddenly, Skippy ran and jumped into the tub. Yapping happily, he paddled and whirled, splashing water all about him.

          "Skippy has the right idea!" Cal said and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He held Marie at arms length.

          "Lady, you need a bath." They both laughed.

          He swept her up and dumped her gently into the water. They laughed together as they splashed and wrestled. Then, their eyes met and held. Marie leaned on his chest and began to cry. For a long time he sat beside the tub, rocking her swollen body gently as dust devils danced across the field.

          The precious water from the cistern served multiple duty.  We took baths and washed our hair, and gave Skippy a bath. We washed windows, scrubbed the floors, and washed the old car. Finally, the dying cottonwood tree greedily soaked up what remained of the muddy water.

          While Marie and I did the supper dishes, Uncle Cal strummed his guitar under the old tree. The hopelessness in his heart seeped into his voice. "Down in the val....ley,  val..ley so loooooow."

          I sat on the front steps watching a dust devil dancing in the field when Marie went to join Cal.  After a long silence they began to sing..."He flies through the air with the greatest of ease..."

          Sudden tears came to my eyes and I understood beyond my years. Together, they were able to overcome their fears of the Depression and the Dust Bowl..for a little while at least.

          Together, they gathered strength to face tomorrow as they ignored the dancing dust devils.

          Together, ...

          If I could be that brave, I thought as I watched the dust devil whirl away into the distance, maybe the grown up world wouldn't be so bad after all.

  

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