From Dust to Life
Chris Youngblood November 11, 2023
The Dust Bowl was a devastating and dark time for many farmers. The dust storms damaged agriculture, caused drought (which came in three waves) and the unanchored soil turned to dust. The prevailing winds blew away the dust in huge clouds, blackening the sky; blackening the hearts of those it affected. The soil was gone, poof.
Some families did not survive this. Storm clouds engulfed them and they perished. Those who did survive lost everything. Sense of purpose, dignity, even food and survival lost. The devastation in each person corresponding to the devastation in nature. Those who stayed either lost all or chose to do something else, but the Dust Bowl remained with them the rest of their days. The dead bodies, the moans and crying out for air and water. These moans would haunt them.
Poverty ensued, homesteads abandoned. An Exodus occurred. Some families moved to better pastures while others awaited government assistance.
Farmer Joe was a man who was beaten down. He lost everything except his wife and two boys. His wife, Diana, begged him to take assistance from the government, stay and reevaluate. Joe couldn’t live like that anymore. He had experienced so much loss and devastation, the toll so great, that he couldn’t pay the attendant anymore. He couldn’t continue to cross that rickety bridge day after day. He’d rather burn it down.
Diana eventually relented and said, “I am with you. We are broken, yes, but we will move forward. We will together. Lead us forward and I will nurture you.”
On the day they strolled out of there, everything packed and ready to go, Joe made sure everyone was in their International Harvester D Series truck. He leaned through the halfway rolled window, sweat falling from his thick eyebrows and said sullenly, “I’m going to take one more look around.”
Diana said, “Why? We all looked around twice. We have loaded everything into the car we are taking with us. There’s enough baggage in here. What more could we load onto ourselves?” Diana’s face was one of desperation and anxiety. “I want to be gone!”
Joe stood there for a minute looking her over and looking around the farm. Dust everywhere. “I’ll be back,” said as he started to walk away.
“There’s nothing there for you!” Diana called out.
“Maybe not, but maybe I forgot something.”
Joe walked around back and noticed something sticking out of the ground but just barely could he make it out. Oh yes, he thought, it’s the well.
Joe walked over to his water well, which he had built out of clay. A clay vessel filled with sand. Looking long and hard into that deep well, he wept. He had never cried so hard, letting it out now so he could be strong for his family.
Joe wiped the tears away and thought she was right, there is nothing here for me now. He walked slowly back to the truck. Diana saw him coming back and looked away, allowing him to process his pain. He opened the door and got in slowly.
“And I’m still a young man.” Joe said this as if he was simultaneously clarifying and asking the question. He was unsure of this statement.
“What do you mean?” asked Diana. “Nothing,” he said. Joe turned on the ignition and started to drive away. Diana put her arm around his neck directly at the start of the spine (she was good at that) and massaged it. He looked forward and emptied his mind. He thought of nothing, was simply stone.
Diana turned to look back and Joe abruptly stopped her and said unequivocally, “Don’t look back, don’t ever look back.” Diana listened to her husband and didn’t end up like Lot’s wife.
They both looked ahead as they journeyed east from Oklahoma. Their destination at that point was unknown. Their journey awaits. The ride fell silent and the sun had begun it’s descent.
Thirty years later a Signet Gold 1967 Pontiac GTO was driving down a long dirt road just outside of Chattanooga, TN nestled away near the beautiful Smoky Mountains. The car pulled up to a beautiful farmhouse laid out on a magnificent tract with the mountains in clear view. Cows were all around, chickens, vegetables, abundance. A young man in his late 20s wearing a Brooks Brothers blue suit and gray Fedora got out of the car with a pen and pad. He took in the beauty of the place for only a moment before walking up the steps to the front door. Before he could get to it, a gentleman wearing overalls covered in fresh silt stepped out carrying a pipe. The man looked like he was in his mid 60s, 6 foot 5 and was clearly the farmer.
“May I help you?” he said. “Yes,” said the man in the Fedora. I’m Fred Bergman from the Atlanta Magazine and I…”
“You hear that D!” the farmer laughed as he looked back inside. “We are famous!” He laughed as if the joke just hung there in the air, needing to be plucked out and given it’s due.
“What would Atlanta Magazine want with us? You are lucky that you are arriving here around 5:30 as I’m just finishing things up. How did you even find out where we live or do you know who we are? I’m confused.”
“You are Joe Metalle correct?”
“My friends call me Farmer Joe, you can just call me Joe. Why don’t we go over to the porch to talk.”
They walked over and sat down on two chairs overlooking the beautiful close to dusk sun. Hues of purple and pink shot across the sky. The world seemed as if it stood still in this beauty Fred thought momentarily.
“So what’s this about?” said Joe.
“My employer found your name Mr. Metalle.”
“Joe.”
“Yes, Joe. My employer commissioned me to do a story on the Dust Bowl and your family was one that came up. I’m traveling to Oklahoma and Kansas but I thought I’d drop by before heading out. Forgive me, I found out about you at the last minute. Your family’s information was hard to come by and frankly was obscure.”
Joe started laughing for about 10 seconds, more like chuckling. “Well, obscure is how we like it. Do you mind if I light my pipe?”Fred waved him on.
Joe lit his pipe, took a few hits and blew out deeply. He sat back and contemplated slowly. Ten seconds went by before he spoke.
“You know Fred, I haven’t thought about the Dust Bowl, my old farm, the devastation or any of it in 20 years. Frankly, I don’t remember enough about it for conversation. I’m sorry you drove all this way but it would do you no good. What are you looking for?”
“Well, we just want to hear from families that are still around how the devastation affected them, what went on with them at that time on a physical and psychological level.”
“I’m not interested in that.”
Fred knew that this man who sat before him with his pipe was stoic, strong and every word spit from his larynx was rooted in a strong foundation. It would be a waste to try and convince him.
“Well, thank you anyway.” Fred got up, shook hands and started to walk down the gravel path.He was peeved that he had wasted time and not received the story he wanted.
“Fred. Where are you headed now?”
“Oklahoma, then Kansas.”
“Just some advice. You might know what you want and be wrong. Or, you might be right. Either way, the road is hard, but enjoy it.”
They stood there sizing each other up. There was silence. Fred wasn’t sure if Joe meant the literal road or figuratively. He turned, got in his car and drove off, the dust clouds traveling off behind him.
Joe strolled toward the sun which was coming down slowly and took in the air, the night and the sky which seemed infinite. He kept smoking his pipe.
Diana came out and said, “ I heard the conversation.”
“Of course you did D,” he chuckled.
“I guess King Joe told Fred what’s what.”
“Yep.”
“Oh, look at that sky. I see you have your pipe. I’ll bring out the elixir and we’ll enjoy a sprawling sunset.”
“Sounds good Queen.”
Diana went back inside. Joe strolled out to the garden. He dug his hands down deep into the rich soil.
“And Herodotus wrote that the ancient Egyptians’ land was given them by the river.” He smiled.
Joe walked over slowly to the well. Joe was usually a diligent worker when it came to anything dealing with the well but this time he just approached it’s clay vessel slowly, calmly, meditatively. He looked down into it, leaned his head back to the sky and smiled. The well was full.
The exciting part, the middle act, the journey of Joe and Diana will not be told here. That is theirs alone to know. Theirs alone to feel and bear witness. That can only be known by them, but the journey’s trials and errors are felt by us all. If Fred had asked Joe about that middle journey, the really good stuff, not the sad, deepest despair dark days that most media people of Fred’s ilk covet; he would have had quite a story. The Dust was an ending to Fred. Joe and Diana saw it as the beginning.