Redacted for Privacy Tracy

AN ABSTRACT OF THE THESIS OF Lucinda S. Van Handel for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing presented March 20, 2003. Title: The Dry Country. Abstract approved Redacted for Privacy Tracy Set in the dryland farming country of Eastern Oregon in the late 1950's, this novel follows a year and a half in the life of a young girl as she comes ofage. A water rights dispute, the plight of nearby ranchers, disappointments in herown family and a harrowing encounter with a neighbor all contribute to her perception that,contrary to what her father has taught her, what matters most isn't owning the oldestwater rights. She comes to recognize that the world is much larger andmore complex than it had appeared from her remote mountain valley home. ©Copyright by Lucinda S. Van Handel March 20, 2003 All Rights Reserved The Dry Country by Lucinda S. Van Handel A THESIS submitted to Oregon State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts Presented March 20, 2003 Commencement June 2003 Master of Fine Arts thesis of Lucinda S. Van Handel presentedon March 20, 2003. APPROVED: Redacted for Privacy Major Professor, Representing Creathe Writing Redacted for Privacy Chair of Department of English Redacted for Privacy Dean of the Gradua I understand that my thesis will become part of the permanent collection of Oregon State University Libraries. My signature below authorizes release of my thesis to any reader upon request. Redacted for Privacy Lucinda S. Van Handel, Author TABLE OF CONTENTS Page Headwaters . 2 DogDays 1959 ............................................... 3 Indian Summer........................................... 19 Christmas...................................................... 33 ANew Season.............................................. 48 Almost Spring.............................................. 76 Spring Gatherings......................................... 91 Drought.......................................................... 121 Early Winter.................................................. 144 Ice-melt........................................................... 166 Confluence..................................................... 187 The Dry Country '1 Headwaters I remember coolness touching my face. I remember a wet smell. And I remember my feet wheeling in the air, reaching for something solid, feeling nothing but air. I must have been three or four at the time, because I was still small enough for my father's arms, and he was holding me out over the water of our creek. I might have squirmed a little, since I remember Dad shook me, then he said, "See that there?" I held very still, and he pulled me in close. I could feel his heartbeat as I looked down into the water, safe and sure. "That's our creek, and that's our water," he told me. "It comes all the way down the canyon from up high, where the snow is. Runs by a lot of places before it gets here. But when it does, it's ours." He put his hand under my chin, and looked right into my eyes. "You can't get by in the dry country without water," he said. "Remember that." Like a coat too large that's put away and is forgotten until it's needed, my father's lesson disappeared from my life for a while, hidden under the myriad other thingsa child learns as she grows. Did he teach it only that one time? What parent ever teachesa lesson only once? The year I turned ten, and the Carson family came to High Valley, it resurfaced. Until then, I had never questioned my father. And I never imagined that what came out of our creek might be as important to me as water. 3 Dog Days 1959 In late-summer mornings then, when the ground was warm enough for barefoot, the path from house to garden to barn was packed hard and smoothas a swept floor. That particular August morning, I had followed that path to the garden, to standon the mound that the large overhead sprinkler occupied, and look out overour farm, doing what my father always calledtaking stock.That meant turning in a circle and looking at all that was there, that day's work to do, what you'd done already, and what you owned. I've always felt glad Dad didn't take stock of me. Since I was the only child he had, anda girl, I might not count for much. But I meant to. Rain hadn't come for months, and there was no dew on the grass that day,or haze on the foothills, even though I had been up before the stars had disappeared. The snowcaps on the Wallowas topped only the highest peaks, and the mountains looked like the storybook Chinese brothers with their small white hats, standing guardover High Valley. "Christine?" my mother's voice floated out over the garden, calling me back. Some days, those snowcaps were the only coolness anywhere. I liked to lookup at them when I was working in the fields with Dad, when waves of heat rippledacross the canyon floor, making you feel even hotter. But looking at snow miles away never compared with cold creek water washing over your feet and up your legs. The creek was where I wanted to be that next minute, just as soon as I figured out how to get past Mother. Everyone, and everything, had slowed down in the heat. Buck, our old cocker spaniel, was just a faded russet bump in another cool spot, under the apple trees. They called these dog days, but Buck was almost invisible in the shade. The apple treesnear our long, winding driveway didn't bear much fruit any more, but they had been there since pioneer days, so there they stayed. Buck wandered out under them right after breakfast, and only returned at sunset. Broad stone steps, as oldas the trees, lay half- buried in the dirt. They provided his hideout. Our farm was divided from the road by those old trees, and the leaveson some of the branches always looked dusty, unlike the willows near the creek, whichwere fresh and green. The front of our house looked out on the apple trees and the road, the back on the creek and the willows. "Christine!" Mother's voice had taken on an edge. I couldn't ignore her for long, but I wasn't ready to give up. Jonathan Creek was down to a lazy trickle and seemed to be barely moving, like Buck. Only the wind was still active. Every afternoon, in the hottest hours, it stirredup dust devils in the fields. Later in the day, when it came around the barn and the house, it had a sadder sound, as if it were grieving about summer coming toan end. I was beginning to grieve, too, in my worry about school starting up. Mother slammed the back porch door. If she looked out the kitchen window, she could see the end of the garden, but her view of the sprinkler's small hillwas blocked by two large lilacs, so I was safe for the moment. On the other side of the creek, past the smokehouse and sheds, were the fields: Grass hay fields. The last of the bales had been stacked days ago into yellow andgreen buildings of curing grass and straw. The bales had strong orange twine, unchewed by mice, because I had walked through the fields every day in the hot sun and turned each bale, so that mice would have no time to bite through a single strand. I had stomped the unlucky ones I found underneath, and had my ankles bitten twice. When I turnedmy foot, several little white scars showed where their sharp teeth had reached throughmy 5 socks. I remembered feeling their small bones crunching beneath my foot, and hearing their final squeaks get quieter as I pushed down. Dad would never lift a bale of hay only to have the string break and the feed wasted. Every bale was secure. I had made sure of that. Mother might have gone to the other window by now, to look out at the barn and watch for Dad. Well, I was watching for him, too. He could come through the big double gate and up the driveway. Then I'd see him at the same time she did. The double gate was made of metal poles half as big around as our sprinkler pipe, and instead of shiny silver, the gate was dark blue, and stood out in an irritating way against the log corrals. It looked new all the time, and was always padlocked. Our barn, however, had faded to a red almost the same color as Buck, a kind of friendly red. Alfalfa and timothy were piled in the barn's loft, in fluffy piles. I had helped pitch hay until my shoulders ached, and when the mounds were too high for me to reach, I had scrambled to the top, above the haying crew, and shaped and rounded until the haymow was as beautiful as the mountains around us. The shady barn smelled of hay and animals and dust floated peacefully in sunlight coming through its cracks. It was one of my favorite spots, and a good place to hide. Last year, I had spent the early morning hours of the first day of school there, until Mother heard me throwing up in the hay and led me out to the waiting bus in shame. Since I had helped with harvest, I was sure things would be different. That wouldn't happen this year. But harvest was over and the hands had gone home. The last of our grain had run down into the red and silver silo days ago and the combines and trucks had headed down the road. The whole farm was very quiet. Across the big wooden bridge at the edge of the barnyard was the blacksmith shop, where Dad welded broken machinery, and patched irrigation pipe.

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