The Dust Bowl: A Thimbleful of Hope

by Michelle Jabès Corpora

  I pulled and pulled, but every time I got the door open a crack, the buffeting wind slammed it shut again. “Ugh!” I screamed, hitting the door with my fist. “Open!”

  I was fixing to punch a hole straight through that door when a hand came out of the darkness, taking hold of that iron ring with me. Even though it was as dark as midnight, I’d recognize that big, leathery hand anywhere.

  Pa!

  I turned to see my father appear out of the gloom, blown in like an angel without wings. He was wearing his own goggles and blue bandanna over his face, and his black hair and beard were coated with dust. Pa wasn’t a big man, but Ma always liked to say that he had a big spirit, and I knew that stubborn barn door didn’t have a chance against his strength.

  Pa gave me a nod. Ready?

  I tightened my grip on the iron ring and nodded back. Ready.

  Together, we heaved at the barn door. My muscles screamed as I pulled with all my might. C’mon, c’mon! I thought, my heart thumping in my ears. Finally, the door flew open, hitting the wall of the barn with a terrific bang.

  Yes!

  I ran inside, pulling Thimble along with me. Pa tumbled in after us, shutting the door and the bellowing storm out behind him.

  The first thing I did was rip the goggles and bandanna off my face and cough up a heap of dust. My throat was scorching. I ran over to the little trough and scooped out handfuls of water to drink and splash onto my face. By the time I stood up again, I could see that Thimble had walked up to have a long drink, too.

  I reached over to stroke his neck. “Good boy,” I said softly. “We’re okay now.”

  I heard a skritch! and turned to see my father lighting a match, touching the flame to a few candle nubs we kept lying around the barn. Pa carried one over to me, and in the warm yellow light of the candle, I could see that he’d taken off his goggles and bandanna, too.

  I almost wished he’d kept them on, because I could see, plain as day, that Pa was spitting mad.

  “D’you have any idea how dangerous that was?” he shouted. “What were you thinkin’, runnin’ out in the storm like that?”

  “I-I was just thinkin’ about Thimble,” I stammered. “He coulda died out there.”

  “You both coulda died out there!” he said. “He’s only a horse, Ginny—you’re my girl! You can’t jus’ do whatever you want, whenever you wanta do it.” He crossed his arms. “Maybe your ma’s right. Maybe I been lettin’ you run wild for too long.”

  “But see,” I said, opening my arms wide. “Everything turned out jus’ fine! You’re fine, Thimble’s fine, I’m fine . . . This dress might need to be put out to pasture, but other than that—”

  “Ginny, this ain’t no time for wisecracks. This is serious.”

  I swallowed, my throat stinging. Even through all the hard years—when the corn crops failed, when we had to sell the cattle, when Ma had to start making clothes out of flour sacks—Pa always managed to go on with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. This was different. And I didn’t like it one bit.

  “Pa, I’m awful sorry,” I said. “But listen, I—”

  “Naw, Ginny, you listen,” he interrupted, his voice low. “Your ma and I are tryin’ our darnedest to keep this farm goin’ and this family strong. Now, I know we ain’t perfect, but we are tryin’ our very best.”

  Pa sighed, a sound that seemed to go straight down into his bones. “If we’re goin’ to make it through it all,” he finally said, “you can’t be actin’ like this, Ginny. You jus’ can’t. I got so much to worry ’bout round here—I can’t be worrying ’bout you, too.”

  My cheeks burned. If I could have melted into the floor right then, I would have.

  Pa’s face flickered in the candlelight, the shadows making him look older and tired. “Is that clear?” he finally said.

  “Yes, Pa,” I answered, looking at the floor.

  A silence fell over us then, and together we listened to the duster blow as it passed over, rattling at the barn doors and shutters like a phantom. Pa stood by the window, looking out, his hands on his hips.

  I ran my fingers through Thimble’s mane, feeling all kinds of things, all of them bad. I felt awful about making Pa so angry, but at the same time, I was angry, too. What was I supposed to do? Just leave Thimble out in the storm? He wasn’t just a horse—he was my friend. Why couldn’t anyone understand that?

  As if he knew what I was thinking, Thimble nuzzled me, his velvety nose rubbing the side of my face. I reached back to rub him behind the ears the way he liked it. He nickered softly and leaned against me. I pressed myself against his side and tried to let the feeling of his breathing calm my own.

  Suddenly, the storm outside didn’t seem so terrible compared to the one in that barn.

  Chapter 3

  Blown Away

  It was a good long while before that duster blew over. When it was finally quiet outside, Pa cracked the barn door open and peeked his nose out, sniffing the air like our old farm dogs used to do.

  “Looks like we can rest easy now,” he said, his voice cracked and dry. “Storm’s done.”

  “What time is it?” I asked, standing to brush some grit off my dress. I’d taken a seat on a hay bale that Thimble was nibbling on. He tossed his head and huffed loudly through his nose when I got up, like he was saying, “Time to go? Thank goodness!” I reckon my horse didn’t like being cooped up any more than I did.

  Pa opened the door wider and peered outside, the setting sun lighting up his face with an orange glow. “Prob’ly sometime after seven o’clock,” he muttered. “Still got a bit of light left.” He propped the doors open, and I blinked into the sudden brightness. I followed him outside, Thimble trailing behind me.

  “Well,” Pa said, as he stopped to survey the land. “Ain’t that a thing to see.”

  I gasped as I finally got a good look at what the duster had done to our poor farm. It was bad, real bad. Everything that had been set outside was strewn all over the place, bent, beaten up, or just plain broken. There was nothing left of the veggie garden Ma had planted. All the little tomato plants and cabbages she’d nursed from seeds were gone. But what the storm had taken wasn’t as bad as what it had left behind: Rolling hills of red dust covered everything as far as I could see, ankle deep out in the cornfields, waist deep in the drifts. It was like we’d been transported to the desert or maybe even another planet.

  “Ma’s garden . . . ,” I said. I picked up one of the little wood sticks she’d used to mark where the seeds were planted. She’d written POTATOES on it in fancy letters, like putting that in the ground might magic them into growing, even without any rain. I gripped the little stick in my fist until it hurt. Thimble knocked his head into mine, like he knew I was fit to bust and he was trying to calm me down. I rubbed his snout and sighed. I had every right to be mad, but the problem was, there weren’t nobody to be mad at. I guess I could just be mad at the whole world for the drought, the dusters, the heat, and everything else—but what good would that do?

  “Brush off a bit and head on inside, Ginny,” Pa called out. “Your ma is prob’ly out of her mind with worry by now, so don’t let’s keep her waiting no more.”

  I nodded and followed Pa to the front of the house, tying Thimble back up to the hitching post. Before I went inside, I filled up his nosebag with plenty of oats and fitted it on his head. “I’ll be back later,” I whispered. He flicked an ear at me and tucked into his meal.

  When we walked into the kitchen, Ma was sitting at the supper table, her head in her hands. Her blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders like a silken waterfall, making her look beautiful and sad. I touched my own blonde hair and thought that I must look like something the cat dragged in.

  Hearing the door open, Ma looked up and said, “Oh my gracious, you’re alive!” She ran toward us, and at first, I wasn’t sure if she was going to hug me or hit me, but in the
end she just grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” Then she turned to Pa. “I hope you’ve talked to her, Joe, ’cause you know that girl won’t listen to me!”

  Pa’s mouth was a hard line. “I talked to her, Lina,” he said. “Don’t you worry none about that.” He glanced at me with a look that could fry an egg. I gulped.

  Ma tried to smooth my wild hair but quickly gave up and sighed. “I’m gonna go take a look out in the yard,” she said. “See about cleanin’ up some things.”

  But Pa held her back. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna change from now till mornin’,” he said. “I’m starved, and Sam and Alice been waiting purty long for their supper, too. We oughta get everybody fed ’fore it gets too dark.”

  Ma nodded and went to help Gloria ladle the soup and pull the biscuits out of the warming drawer. Maybe Pa really did want his supper, but I thought it were more likely that he didn’t want Ma to see her poor, blown-away garden just then. The day had started so nice, maybe he just wanted it to end that way, too.

  I went to sit next to Gloria at the table. She was the spitting image of Ma—tall and elegant as a willow tree. “You’re filthy,” she said, wrinkling her nose when I reached to grab a spoon. “Ma’s gonna have to hose you down in the yard ’fore you go to bed.”

  I shook a little extra salt into my bean soup. “Aw c’mon, Glo,” I said. “Why you gotta be so mean? Ain’t you glad I’m alive?”

  Gloria snorted and took a dainty sip of her soup. “There ain’t a duster in America strong enough to blow you away. I weren’t worried for a minute. Still, you’re filthier than a pig in mud, so I’d ’preciate you keepin’ your distance till you get a bath.”

  I smiled to myself and tucked into my supper, crumbling bits of biscuit into the bowl. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started to eat.

  “Hey, Joe,” Mr. Wilson piped up. “Could you turn on WKY? Prob’ly just ’bout time for the news.” Sam Wilson and his wife, Alice, lived on the farm next door. They used to grow a dozen or more acres of wheat on their land, along with keeping chickens and a few dairy cows. But since the drought, their luck had run out just like everybody else’s.

  “Sure thing,” Pa replied and walked over to switch on our little Crosley radio.

  A few bars of familiar music played until a crisp voice began to speak. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Here is the eight o’clock news for today—Sunday, July nineteenth, nineteen thirty-six.”

  We all ate in silence as the man on the radio said all the things we were so used to hearing:

  “Millions of Americans are still out of work, even as the economy improves—”

  “A record-breaking heat wave continues to scorch the nation—”

  “No end in sight to the historic drought hitting the Great Plains, as savage dust storms destroy farms and homes across the region—”

  Click.

  I looked up to see Pa at the radio, his weathered hand on the dial. Instead of the newsman, soft piano music started to play. “Not really in the mood for the news, after all,” Pa explained. Everyone nodded in understanding and turned back to their soup.

  A lady’s voice, thick and rich, spilled from the speaker. “I wished on the moon,” she sang, “for something I never knew, wished on the moon, for more than I ever knew . . .”

  The song made my heart hurt, though I couldn’t quite figure out why.

  When supper was done, I helped Gloria wash and dry the dishes, and we all said our good nights to the Wilsons. It was full dark outside then, and quiet except for the rhythmic chirping of the crickets. I went to my bedroom to change, and I was brushing the dust from my hair when I overheard Ma and Pa talking in the next room.

  “I know how much this land means to you,” Ma was saying, “but we got to think ’bout our family, ’bout our girls. We got nothin’ left here, Joe. You keep sayin’ that next year’s gonna get better, but how long can we keep waitin’? My cousins got a nice little place in the valley in California, and they say there might be a job there for you. I could start doin’ some sewing work again, and—”

  “We’re not goin’,” Pa broke in, his words as heavy and unmovable as stone. “We got three generations on this land, and I ain’t fixing to be the one to leave it behind. I’ll get one of them WPA jobs buildin’ roads and bridges, and we’ll jus’ have to tighten our belts for a while till this weather breaks and we can get a good crop growin’ again.”

  “Our belts are plenty tight already, Joe,” Ma argued. “What we got left to sell, anyway?”

  Pa didn’t answer right away. And in the quiet of that moment, a fright took hold of me, like I knew something terrible was about to happen.

  “We can sell Ginny’s horse,” Pa finally said.

  I gasped, his words like a punch to the gut.

  No!

  “Feedin’ and carin’ for ’im ain’t cheap,” he went on. “And I bet I could get a purty good deal for ’im in town. He’s a fine beast, after all.”

  “I s’pose we could sell ’im,” Ma said carefully. “Guess I’m surprised to hear you say it. You’re always the one tellin’ her to ride and—”

  “Things change,” Pa replied coldly. “Can’t afford to be sentimental when we got to worry about gettin’ food on the table. I’ll talk to Ginny now. She’ll hear sense.”

  I was sitting at my vanity mirror when Pa came into the room behind me. We locked eyes in the reflection, and right away I could tell he knew that I’d heard everything. “You can’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “You jus’ can’t.”

  “I’m awful sorry, Gin,” Pa said. He was looking at me, but somehow it seemed like he was far away. “But this here’s the way it’s gotta be.” He squeezed my shoulder once, gave me a kiss on the top of my head, and then walked out.

  It wasn’t until I ran outside and buried my face in Thimble’s mane that I let myself cry.

  Chapter 4

  Not for Sale

  I must have made it back to my bed sometime that night because the next thing I knew, I was waking up to the sound of Ma rattling around in the kitchen. I slipped out of my room to see her piling all kinds of things on the kitchen table: a white ceramic vase, a glass cake plate, and the teacups with the pink roses inside. “Ma, what’re you doin’?” I asked.

  Ma looked over and flashed a quick smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, jus’ puttin’ some stuff together for your pa to sell in town,” she said. “Don’t need these things no more.”

  I picked up one of the delicate white teacups. Ma had always kept them in a secret place in the cupboard, only taking them out for special occasions. “But I thought you loved these,” I said. “Didn’t Nana give ’em to ya when you and Pa got married?”

  Ma gently took the teacup back and placed it with the others. “S’okay, Ginny,” she said softly. “It’s not important.” With that, she turned around and kept sifting through the cupboards, studying each item she found there.

  I looked down at the teacups, clustered together like a pile of abandoned puppies. How could she just sell them off like they meant nothing? A hot anger rose in my cheeks. When Ma wasn’t looking, I swiped one off the table and hid it under my bed.

  A few minutes later, Pa walked in from outside, kicking the dust from his boots at the door. “I got the truck loaded up with all the extra equipment I could spare,” he said to Ma. “Gloria’s out takin’ care of the chickens. That duster left the coop in a right mess, so I tol’ her to do her best cleanin’ it out. I’m headin’ up to Boise City now ’fore the heat sets in.”

  “Wait, you ain’t taking Thimble today, are ya?” I asked, my heart starting to race.

  Pa’s nostrils flared, and he looked at the floor. “I got to, Ginny. Better to get it over and done with—waitin’ is only gonna make it worse. I’m sure I’ll find him a nice new home.”

/>   At first, I wanted to scream and pound the floor, but I knew that wasn’t going to do me no good. I could see from the set of Pa’s jaw that his mind was made up. But pretty soon I got a better idea, an idea that just might keep Thimble home with me a little longer. “Okay, Pa,” I said softly. “But how ’bout I come along with you to town?”

  Pa looked surprised, like he was expecting me to start a fight. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “Ma could use your help cleanin’ up round here.”

  “How you gonna get Thimble into town without a rider?” I asked. “You tie him to the truck and try to lead him, he’ll spook. He don’t like bein’ so close to all that noise.”

  Pa blinked. I just stood there with my hands clasped behind my back, as sweet and pure as a church choir on Sunday. Finally, he put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Fine,” he said. “You can ride him into town. But I don’t want no funny business, y’hear?”

  I nodded and ran to get dressed.

  After pulling on my overalls and getting Thimble fed, watered, and saddled, I was ready for our ten-mile journey to Boise City. Pa got into the old truck, which had taken him all morning to clean off, and I hoisted myself up onto Thimble’s back, and we were off. Truth be told, if we had been going for any other reason, I would have been excited. But as it was, the hunk of cornbread that Ma had given me to eat was sitting in my stomach like a brick, heavy with worry. Thimble seemed to know something was wrong. His body was tense, and his ears swiveled constantly, listening to the sounds of cars and people that only got louder as we rode into town. I reached into my pocket and felt for the sugar cubes I’d swiped from the kitchen before we left. They were kinda mushy from the heat but not too bad. I needed them if the plan I’d cooked up was ever going to work.