Let Us Hope Until There Is No Hope Left

LET US HOPE UNTIL THERE IS NO HOPE LEFT

ANNA CUMMINGS

DEDICATED TO THOSE WHO CONTINUE TO HOPE

BRATTLEBORO, VERMONT

MAPLE LEAF WRITING PROJECT

COPYRIGHT 2017

Oklahoma, 1934

I wake up that morning, with the taste of dirt in my mouth. Everything in my quaint, little bedroom ( and the rest of the house) is covered with the grainy, browness. The bed, only wide enough for me, with no room to spare and long enough that my feet stick off the end. The newspapers that blanket the wall. The well worn rug. The door, slightly ajar, bearing a plaque with my name. Carol. All of it is cloaked in sand. When I rise, a small cloud of dust comes with me, shimmering in the late morning light.

It wasn’t always this way. It used to be different, here in Oklahoma. Stuff wasn’t always covered in grime.

They say the stock market crashed. I don’t know much about this. Only a small radio and our weekly newspaper brings news of the outside world. We were getting less and less for every sack we filled. So, we had to grow more and more. Ripping up fields. Not only us, our neighbors to. Soon after, those darned storms began. This farm that I live on has been hit several times by those “Black Blizzards” that haunt us nearly every day now. Pa says that we haven’t even seen the worst of it, and that another farm got its barn blown away. Ma says that those storms can’t get much worse than they already are.

Oklahoma feels like it's getting worse every day.

“Good morn-” Ma says when I walk in the kitchen. She heard me creaking down the stairs. Creak, thump. Creak, thump. Creak, thud. Then she breaks into a coughing fit so violent, it shakes the whole table. We all know and fear the dust pneumonia that Ma caught.

“Hey,” I respond, slumping into a dusty chair. “Where’s Pa?”

“Out,” Cough, cough. “In,” Cough… “The fields…” She coughs again, the hacking sound ripping the peace apart.

I grab a piece of bacon from Pa’s cast iron. By now, the thin slice is cold and greasy, slippery in my hands, but its food. We can not afford to waste food. We just can’t.

I open the front door. I don’t know where I am going, but there isn’t much to do. I’ll probably wander again. A cascade of dust falls into my hair and sets Ma into another hacking fit. The dusty, dry wind closes the door for me. Surveying the expanse of what was once food, and is now mostly dust and dirt, I sigh. Along the fence I walk. On occasion, I see rattlesnakes, pinned by their heads, nails straigh t through their mouths. Farmers say that’ll bring rain.

All of a sudden, a rabbit darts by my feet. That isn’t that unusual, except for that jackrabbit is followed by another. And another. Fear stabs at my heart, and I look up. Birds flee east. The wind blows behind them. They know what is coming, and so do I, from the east.

A mass of dirt and dust and debris is there, blocking the sun. It looks like boiling water. The few crops are pulled up or buried by earth. The sky turns black and the sun is blotted out. It sounds almost as if the Earth is screaming; a long gutteral scream. Out of the pocket of my feed sack dress, long empty of flour, I pull a pair of goggles. They are strange. Rubbery, they form onto your face to block any filth. My brown hair, though closely cropped, blows in my face, distracting me. There is also an attachable mask, but we couldn’t afford it like many things. Instead, out of another pocket, I pull a handkerchief. As soon as my face is covered I run. Each step starts the dusty sand billowing up. Oof! I trip and fall, rolling. If the situation wasn’t so dire, it might be fun. But, with that dustbowl behind me, only one thought stays in my mind; run. Make it home.

The house in my sight gives me one last burst. I hurtle in. Mercifully the door wasn’t stuck, and I slam it behind me. Stumbling over I wipe grime from the mirror. With my goggles on, I look plain silly! I begin to giggle. The giggle slowly turns to a hysterical laugh. I clutch my stomach, doubling up. The fear of that mad dash has gotten to me.

“ The doctor told me ‘bout this,” Ma says, between spits of coughing. I hadn’t even realized she was there, but where else would she be, out in the storm? Then, it strikes me. Oblivious, Ma continuous. “ He calls it dust dementia. Laughing at storms, taking shelter that's the farthest from you. I worry about you, Carol.”

“ Ma, Where’s Pa?”

“ Mercy forgive me!” She cries, her face pale under a veil of dust. “Let us hope until there is no hope left.” As if to reassure herself and me, she begins to sweep. As if she could sweep all the dirt and dust away.

The sound of dust on the windows is like long forgotten rain. Rain. I haven’t seen rain since I was seven. I still long for the feel of cool drops splashing my face, dampening earth, moistening the dirt. But I look out the window. Where once was fertile land there is now… nothing.

I feel my temper rising. It was under control for so long. My pop used to say it was like a dust storm. Without the right wind, it wasn’t there. But if the right wind was there, it came roaring. Stupid wind! Stupid dust! Stupid dirt! Stupid year! My anger as hot as the sun I throw myself to the floor. I cover my head and despair for everything. I feel the grit between my teeth. Time is nothing now.

*****

I can’t say how long I remain like that, but when I raise my head, the storm is still going. I force myself to stand up and walk out of the room.

The static electricity against the barbed wire fences is a horrid sight. Blue flames erupt. The air tingles. Some people drag chains around to get rid of the static. I don’t. That means being careful. Just the other day, two grown men shook hands and the shock made them fly off their feet! Squinting against the fury of the storm, I can see those snakes. What the men who put them there for luck are thinking now must be something like; Were we wrong? Did the rattlers bring the storm instead of oppose it?

An aroma of bread and beans strews itself about. However, it's nothing compared to the aroma of must.

Dust, dirt, must, grime. That is truly what this year holds. Will it ever rain? I think not. But, I must remember Ma’s words. Let us hope until there is no hope left. I hope Pa is safe. But what if he’s not? Again, despair seizes me. Letting out a primal scream, I let loose, and sink to the floor, sobbing. I ignore the dirt on my floor. I just cry. I cry for Pa, for Ma, for dust, for rain. I have to get out there and find him. As soon as the storm is over, I will.

The storm lasts all the rest of the day.

*******

That night I sleep in Ma’s room, on the floor. I want to be close to her. Her coughing keeps me awake. Even as tired as I am, I don’t sleep until the sun is about to rise. The wind sounds like a demon. Even then, it is a fitful doze. Dreams of dust covering our entire house haunt me. I think of how dangerous it is to be caught out in the storms. When the sky turns black and the dust gets blown by a gale. If Pa was out in the fields, it’s not likely he survived. In my sleep, I curl up. The morning comes too early or perhaps I fell asleep to late. I awake to the sound of chirping birds. The storm must be over. Breakfast is the same as dinner. Bread and beans. That bacon the other day was a rare treat. Ma and I sit solemnly, hardly glancing up from our meager meals.

“ I thought I might… look... in the plains,” I say, breaking the silence.

Ma doesn’t talk immediately but I know she knows what I’m looking for. “Be careful. Go quick.” She coughs.

Immediately, I rise from the table. I push on the smooth checkered tablecloth with my left hand. My anger and temper are gone, only the sadness remains. The floor is rough on my bare feet. However, dust fills the cracks, making it easier to walk on. That is probably the only good thing about the dust.

Outside is bright and sunny. The dirt sparkles. I don’t put on shoes because they’ll get filled with sand. Walking here is difficult. In some spots, massive piles of earth pile up, because they can’t get through the fence. The fences are covered in tumbleweeds, which blow cross country. Some people eat those tumbleweeds, calling them russian thistle and making thistle pickles. Here and there, pitiful crops poke up from the ground. Maybe they to tell themselves, Let us hope until there is no hope left.

I chance a glance up. The sky is cloudy. Clouds. Real honest to God clouds. They could be dust, a pessimist voice chides. Better head home where it's safe.

I trudge along with miniature dust storms erupt wherever I step. The overcast skies reflect my mood. Even the prospect of rain cannot cheer me. I have lost. The dust and the dirt have taken part of me. After this, me and Ma will have to live in squalor in the camps in California. Just the other day, yet it feels so long ago, the Thompsons left town. They rode in a buggy barely big enough for them, let alone all their possessions. They put their mattress on the roof and hung pots on the outside. My family doesn’t even have a car.

What has this world come to? If life only about sweat, blood, and tears? There must be something more. Beyond the dust and dirt. I struggle on as a breeze blows sand into my face. Overhead, the clouds roll in.

Through the haze I see my home. From here, it looks so small. Yet, it has such a big part of my life. From providing shelter from storms to providing shelter from my emotions, I love it as it is.

But I do wish Pa was still there.

Abruptly, I spy a figure standing lone and tall. His wide brimmed hat tilted low. I see his face for it is guarded from the elements by a ragged scarf. The dark jacket he wears flaps in the wind. He is dressed in overalls too. I cannot place him in my mind. The sky is overcast now.

I slow down. Who is this man? What is he doing here? He may be here to help, I chide to myself. Remember, hope.

The man lowers his scarf. He has a expression of peace, but even from here I can see in his eyes that he is worried. The skin on his face is wrinkled, leathery almost. Reality jolts me. I know this man. He is my Pa. My Pa of whom I thought was lost. George Kendall.

Bliss fills me. I feel as if I could float up to the sky. Happiness, cheer, don’t began to describe it. I run shouting with ecstasy. All the filth in the world can’t stop me.

“Pa!’ I whoop. “Pa!’

Ma, hearing my shouts peers out the door cautiously, but when she sees Pa she smiles with gladness. We all converge on our shabby porch, laughing and hugging and kissing. We are safe from the world of dust for now. Apparently, hoping was all we needed. All of a sudden, we hear a rumble. Warily, we look up, but see no dust storm.

“How did you ever make it?” Ma asks.

“I hid in an old shed.” He responds. No other words are needed.

The clouds are not of dust, but of water. The drops fall, striking the dirt with force. We all gasp. I giggle. Then I chortle. I break out laughing as if I haven’t a care in the world. I spin, with my chin up. I catch the water in my mouth. The last time I saw what feels like a miracle now, I didn’t appreciate it. I sure do now.

It runs down my cheeks, along with my tears of joy. Rain.