Under the dust

This is a short story taking place in the midsts of the Dust Bowl.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had just had my sixth birthday and spring was soon turning to fall. I remember the gentle breezes the night before the cool and calming winds secretly whispering the tragedy that was to come. My family farm was no longer producing what it used to. The rich, fertile soil that once surrounded our shanty farm had been reduced to dry lose dust. I realize now it was an example of what was coming.

Clouded by my six-year-old naivety I woke up to the morning as any other. Ma was in the kitchen making breakfast Pa was reading the paper beside her. I had sat at the table waiting impatiently for my breakfast. Ma had just sat down the plate when the room suddenly darkened. I rushed to the window looking for the culprit of this strange phenomenon. The sky was pitch black no sun, no stars. No light and seemingly no hope as howling winds increased in volume and distance. I recoiled from the window in horror, seeing it swallow nearby houses. Ma handed me a damp cloth and told me to lie on the ground. She rushed frantically to shut the windows and block the door but she was no match to the wrath of Mother Nature. The room soon filled with gritty darkness. The dust had consumed our entire lively hood in a split second. My body was filled with fear as I was pelted by the tiny rocks and pieces of the wind's previous victims. Though it only lasted a few minutes it felt like treacherous hours.

When the wind finally calmed the effects of it were far from over. I could taste its dry harsh wrath burning my lungs as I inhaled. Ma layed on the floor exhausted and defeated. The wind had beaten her down and drained her emotionally and physically. Pa sat beside her rubbing her shoulders as a tear drew a line through his dirt covered face. That marked the first time I had ever seen him cry. Even when the drought had destroyed our crops my parents were adamant about sheltering me from life's hardships. At that point there was no hope for sheltering, it was painfully obvious that the following minutes, hours, and even years were going to be difficult. That there would be no quick and easy fix to this painful tragedy.

The following years became increasingly difficult. Just months after what they now call "The Dust Bowl" Ma died from what the doctors referred to as dust pneumonia. At that time, it felt like the wind had stripped me of everything. Our home was uninhabitable and payments were past due so our landlord had it bulldozed just after Ma's passing. With no income and no home surviving became a daily challenge. For a while we were stuck in a raggedy makeshift tent, made from a worn, tired blanket and a giant dead limb from a nearby tree. Days were spent begging on the street receiving scowls and abuse from the privileged passers-by. Crumbs were seen as a feast and water came from a nearby creek. Though recovery was difficult and survival was scarce my father and I made it through.

Eventually with hard work and effort, life got as close as it could be to normal. Looking back now I'm grateful for our survival. Though it happened many years ago it plays an effort in my everyday life. As much as we'd like not to believe it, our hardest moments in our past shape us into the people we are today. I guess the old saying is true, tragedies always make the best stories.