The Dust Cloud Followed Us As We Made Our Way Out Of Oklahoma

Reflection and Art Project 1930s

Teaching American History Yvette Edwards Paradise PDS 4th Grade Dust to Dust

The dust cloud followed us as we made our way out of Oklahoma. Its brown plumes rose above us ready to pounce if we were to stop. My mother and father refused to look back at what we had left behind. My six-year-old brother and I turned in our seats and watched the brown cloud descend upon our farm. I had seen far too many of these dust storms but they still caused my heart to pound in fear. A few weeks ago, we had lost the last of our wheat crop to the brown monster. It ate everything it touched. On that day, my father gave up his dream.

Now we are headed to California. My father tells us that California has thousands of farms. It is as green as a new stalk of corn. My father promises that we will stop and see the Pacific Ocean before he looks for work. I smile and hide the hurt of broken promises inside. I look at my mother and she smiles with her mouth but not her eyes. We have lived with my father's promises for many years. We have traveled many roads and lived in many different places all with the hope of finding a place to call home. I know that we do not have much money. We had to leave many of our belongings behind once again.

The days on the road are long and it is very hot in the truck. The four of us are crammed inside the cab like chickens in a coop. We stop every few hours to get out, drink water and walk around. We are eating only once a day. My mother sneaks my brother and I snacks when she can. But we are all hungry.

A week has passed and we are still traveling. We have reached a city called Las Vegas in Nevada. There are camps all over the city. My father decides to stop at one of the camps so we can rest. Tents are laid out like rows of corn in a field. People like us have come here in search of work. I hear the words "the depression" in many conversations around me. I don't know what that is but I can tell it's bad news from the sorrowful expressions on the their faces.

We spent a few days in the camp. My father talked to many of the men who had gone to California but had difficulty finding work. The farms there are owned by big businesses and they use many people from Mexico to work their farms. I guess they don't have to pay them as much. Many of the men in the camp have applied for jobs at the dam project that is about 30 miles away. My father decides that we will change course and go to the dam project to look for work. We drive on a dirt road for 30 miles. We bounce like rubber balls inside the cab as we drive over the rocks and ruts. The dust cloud behind us reminds me of the monster we left in Oklahoma.

We finally reached a camp near the riverbank in a canyon called Black Canyon. Streets with names like Riverside and Broadway presented themselves on makeshift signs. Tents, shacks and other structures dotted the desert landscape. We stopped at a wood shack that had a sign on the front. It was the general store. My father went in and met the owner, Mr. Emery. Mr. Emery came out and greeted us. He told us that we were welcome to find an open space and claim it as our own. Mr. Emery is an amazing man. He trusts people without question. The store is operated on an honor system where people take what they need and pay what they can afford. His store is left open all day and people leave their money in a box on a shelf. He also operates the water transport that takes the men to the dam site.

It has been several weeks now and we are living in a tent that was abandoned by its previous occupant. My father has found work on the dam project. He is drilling in one of the tunnels that will be used to divert the water from the river so the dam can be built. He is gone from dusk to dawn every day. My mother works hard at saving the food we have from the awful heat that suddenly hit four days ago. She tried digging holes in the ground to keep it cool. The ants thought it was a wonderful idea. My mother says that we will have to make do with the canned food we can buy from the store. My job is to get water for drinking and cooking. Every day, I go to the riverbank where some of the men have dug a hole. We have to wait for the dirt to settle to the bottom before filling our buckets. My brother's job is to stay out of our way. He is happy here. He has found horned toads, iguanas and kangaroo rats to be very interesting. There is also a small school here. I walk my brother to school each day but I do not stay.

This town we live in is called Williamsville by some and "Ragtown" by others. Mr. Claude Williams is the ranger who is in charge. He and his wife Dorothy have made our first few weeks here easier. Mrs. Williams showed me how to get water and how to cool down our tent by draping wet sheets from the ceiling. The heat has been unbearable. Summer has just started and already the temperature is over 110 degrees. I feel sorry for the babies who cry when it is too hot. Their mothers try to help by wrapping them in wet sheets. I take my little brother swimming in the river right before bedtime so we can sleep. We go to bed wet.

More and more people are moving here everyday. Since the construction on the dam has started there are many more jobs. There is talk that a town will be built near here with housing for the workers. I hope it is soon. The heat continues to climb every day. Curly, the baker says that it was over 120 degrees yesterday. When we are not doing chores, my mother and I take my brother to the river and cool down. Three days ago, a woman was found dead in her tent. Mrs. Williams said she died from the heat. The woman's husband didn't have enough money to bury her so all the families pitched in as much as they could to help. I am afraid many more people will die before the summer is over.

Today a dust storm hit hard. Everyone took shelter as best they could. Tents blew like tumbleweeds across the desert landscape. We huddled inside our closed tent and baked. My father has promised us a house in the new town. He says by next summer, we will be living in a real town with green grass and trees. I want to believe him. I wonder how my father can continue to dream about a better life. Our life is hard but my father's seems worse. He works constantly. When he comes home, he is exhausted. He is having trouble with his breathing and the company doctors think it might be pneumonia. But he still carries hope in his eyes. I see it there every day as he kisses me goodbye and hops on the water transport to the dam site. In August, the temperature was still over 100 degrees every day. My father came home early one day and said that the workers were striking. He explained how the company had transferred workers from the tunnels to another site and cut their pay. The workers had walked off the job. My father said everyone wanted better working conditions. That night, men with guns and clubs came looking for the striking workers. My father escaped with some other men and drove away. Construction had been shut down. We did not see my father for a week. When he returned, he said that the strike was over. The pay cut was going to stand, but the company had promised fresh water on site. They also moved up the schedule for building the housing for the workers.

The fall months brought cooler temperatures and our lives became much easier. In January, the company issued an order stating that everyone living in "Ragtown" was to be out by April 1st. In March, we moved into a two-room house in our new town of Boulder City. We have green grass and trees just like my father promised.

Author's Note

It has been 60 years since I first wrote this story. Today, I tried to draw a picture of the "Ragtown" that I remember. I chose oil pastels because they are large and my arthritic hands can hold them easily. Every time I attempt to choose a color I am drawn to the color brown because that is what I remember most. Everything was brown. The buildings, the soil, the people and the river were brown. The only spot of color were the sheets and blankets that people used as canopies over their "houses". I have agreed to share my story and picture with a class at the local elementary school. The lesson that I wish to share with these students is to never lose hope. I learned that lesson from my father.

"Ragtown"