I have always been intrigued by history. I am particularly a fan of American history from the 1800s through the early 1960s. Most of the books you will find me reading are historical fiction, sometimes nonfiction, set somewhere in between those years. I find myself especially drawn to the stories that take place during the Dust Bowl.
This last spring, after I had finished reading “The Worst Hard Times” by Timothy Egan, a nonfiction book about families who lived through the Dust Bowl on the high Plains and the challenges of the Great Depression, the drought across the West was amplifying and the wind here at home in Colorado was relentless! It seemed as though the wind was never going to stop blowing, and that, coupled with no moisture of any kind, was taking its toll on my personal attitude.
I began to understand why people were clubbing rabbits during the peak of the Dirty Thirties; it wasn’t just for food—I believe it was a way to channel their anger. Too many days of an overly ambitious and often aggressive wind was making me want to club a rabbit. Well, maybe. Honestly, probably not. Fortunately, I had a fridge full of food and running water so I could only pretend to relate to what that generation dealt with during those days.
On those windy days this spring, and during this hot dry summer, I have found myself reminiscing on the neighbor I had growing up, Elmo Randall. Elmo ran cows and farmed on the neighboring ranch. He was married to a sweet woman named Myrtle, and she maintained a small greenhouse and garden. I vividly remember seeing her in a plastic bonnet and a house dress and Elmo, a small-framed man in overalls. When I was old enough to saddle my own horse, I would often go for a ride after school. I always took the same route, and the first stretch of my ride would lead me right to the fenceline across from Elmo’s house. After Myrtle died, Elmo began meeting me at the fenceline. He would tell me about his dog, horses he once had or whatever was on his mind. He liked to talk. If my horse didn’t get too impatient, I would stand there and listen to his stories.
I don’t remember all of his stories, but I do remember his stories about the Dust Bowl. No different than any book you might read about the Dust Bowl, Elmo would tell me how they hung wet sheets in the windows, the way the dust filled the house, how dry and windy it was and the overall struggle that plagued those days.
I also remember a story about him riding his horse as fast as he could in hopes that it would burst a boil he had behind his ear. He must have told me that story in tandem with the Dust Bowl stories because I always remember them simultaneously, unfortunately. HA! I didn’t realize it at the time, but what a blessing he was to me, greeting me with a gentle smile, kind words and stories of his past.
Driving across Wyoming a couple weeks ago, it was so dry in some areas I described it as lunar. I really felt as though we were driving across the surface of the moon, it was so dry and barren. My husband and I live on the east side of the Palmer Divide in eastern Elbert County, CO. It’s dry here. The rain seems to go north or south of us, and if we have been lucky enough to get any moisture, the wind steals it away shortly after.
We were fortunate enough to have a good moisture year last year and that’s saved our pastures for this year. Friends and neighbors in our area have either started feeding cows, are considering feeding cows or have moved them to winter pastures to graze so they don’t have to feed. We are all desperately praying for rain.
I wonder how the conditions now compare to those of the Dust Bowl years. Thankfully, we have learned how to manage our grasslands much better since the 1930s, but the impact of drought is still significant whether the sky fills with dirt or not. I know many of our WLJ readers are facing the hardship of drought right now. I pray we all lean into our faith and trust that it will rain again and conditions will improve. Until then, may we all be as resilient as the generations before us. — KIRBY BRINCEFIELD
