Prairie Summer

Prairie Summer

Suzanne Marsh

June, 2000 Bartlett, Texas

Having just moved from Buffalo, New York to Bartlett, Texas was a major shock to me. The weather was incredibly hot. It was the second straight month of temperatures over the one hundred mark. I was already questioning myself as to what had ever possessed me to move to Texas. I went into town to the Red and White grocery store, it was more convenient that driving to Taylor or Temple those were both roughly twenty miles away. While I was in the store I saw a grizzled old man, purchasing groceries. He was in line behind me, once again I began to complain about the heat and the weather in general. The old man, his blue eyes vibrant smiled, then began to tell me about the summer of 1935, and the Dust Bowl. My eyes grew wide as did the clerk's and several others waiting in line. He began his monologue.

July, 1935

“I was a kid the summer of 1935 and my folks took my sister Kit and I to visit our grandparents in

Dalhart. The trip took all day in dad's 1932 Model B Ford Sedan. It is a trip I will never forget.

We left at five o'clock in the morning, it was cooler to drive then and easier on the tires. There

was no air conditioning in the cars back then only open widows. The closer we got to Dalhart,

the hotter it became. Dad had all the windows open, mom, sissy and I were all fanning

ourselves with paper fans Mom had purchased for the trip. We got off the main road in Dalhart

and started down the dirt road that led to grandma and grandpa Schmidt's farm. The farm house

was a battered wooden structure, with all the windows shut tight. To me this was an adventure, to

my parents it was helping mom's parents for two months. That night dad told me I would be

staying when they left in a week. I was sad that I was going to stay for two months but I also

was aware from overhearing my parents converse; that they needed help because of something

termed the “dust bowl” I had no idea what that meant but I would understand fully as time went

by. Just then Opa Schmidt came into the house; after putting the Allis-Chalmers Model L tractor in the barn. Opa came from Germany as did Oma. Both were hard working people, trying to

make a living farming. Oma had all the windows shut; she was shoveling dirt out the front

door when we arrived. We all sat down for a dinner of weinersnitzl, German potato salad and beans.

Opa, said grace, we thanked the Lord, then dove in, we were ravenous after our journey. We turned in early, since there was no television back then. The radio like everything was not functioning because of all the grit that was coming in the windows and doors. The next morning we were up before the sun made an appearance. The sun was unmerciful as it beat down on our bodies as we began to harvest the corn. Dad told me I would be staying to help harvest the cotton. I had no idea what that entailed; I can say that it is an experience that I would not want to repeat. The tractor pulled a wagon as we walked along picking the corn. By noon, the wind began to pick up, Opa, continued to work

as long as he could. Once we began to loose visibility; Opa headed for the barn. The Allis-

Chamers began to sputter, Opa said that it was the grit from the blowing sand. We barely made

it to the barn, when it became impossible to see more than a few inches in front of us. Opa,

walked over to the door that led down into the root cellar. He helped Oma down the

steeply inclined steps, then Mom, Dad, me then Opa followed pulling the door tight and

latching it.

The wind began howl, like a coyote; doors began to rattle, we could hear glass breaking.

Opa, explained in broken English:

'dis ess not un zyclone dis ess un black blizzard.'

Dad, told Opa he had read about these black blizzards, they were a mixture of loose dirt

and wind. The wind continued into the night and for the next day and a half. Although the

root cellar had plenty of food and we ate well, I wanted to be outside in the sunshine.

Omas' lace curtains were shredded, from the wind. Oma and Mom began shoveling

out dirt by the shovelful. Then they had Opa and Dad place boards over the broken windows.

We opened the door once again and began to shovel our way to the barn. Once we got there

we were sweating up a storm. Opa sent me back to the house to ask Oma to make

some lemonade. The sun once again was beating down unmercifully; on any creature that was

out side. Opa and Dad went straight into the barn. The tractor was buried beneath the black

clay. Opa and Dad began to dig it out. By the time Oma finished squeezing the lemons,

and adding sugar and water; Opa and Dad had dug out the tractor. I entered the barn only

to hear Opa moan as he attempted to start the tractor:

'dis damn black clay, vhen it blows, dis grit clogs up ze engine. Ve vill haf to take it

apart. Nick, zee if you can locate zee tool box, vhile your Papa and I begin to take apart

zee engine apart and clean it.'

I trotted off to look for Opa's tool box. The dirt that blew into the barn half buried the tool box

that was up on a high shelf. I had quite a struggle removing the dirt and grit but I managed to clean

off the wooden tool box. Then I dragged it over to Opa, who patted my head, telling me

what a big help I was.

That young lady is what it was like back in nineteen thirty-five.”

With that he tapped his stetson, and walked out of the Red and White.

The sales clerk told me:

“that is Mr. Wagoner, I think he has been here since Bartlett was founded. He knows

everyone.”

I thought about all that he had said, thanked the clerk, walking out I began to whistle a song that now had a completely different meaning for me: “We're have a heatwave, a tropical heatwave...”