More snow again

The old man kept a diary, she told herself, so she thought she might try writing in one herself. Dust was just about choking them, had for a couple of years already. Sure, there were good days, but the dusters kept coming so often she thought she ought to keep track of things because the old man remembered a lot about the bad years, just from having written it all down.

So she started:

April 11. Everything covered from last night, and still blowing. But we have at least a peel of daylight through the dirt. 9:30. Still dirty. 10:00 Little lighter. 11:00 Still too dirty to start cleaning. We ate some potato soup standing up, too dirty to sit. Looks favorable to dust to keep up. 7:00 Cleaned up at last. We will sleep better tonight.

April 12: What a day! Sun out bright. No one could ever believe it was such a week. Must start in moving furniture and cleaning out. Milt shovels dirty up, takes it out in buckets. He's going to wash clothes while I clean. We can't lose a good day.

April 13: Dirty again and blowing. Sifting in all over my clean house. The last few years of dust are about more than people can stand but this year is just awful.

April 14: Dad found Bossy dying this morning. We all did everything we could think of but she was wheezing hard and choking and finally died. We had to tie the horses out till we go ther out and skinned. The horses sniffed and rolled their eyes. They are frightened by death same as we are, poor things. Dad says he is going to sleep in the barn and spray the air at night. If we had a better barn it might help, but nothing would keep this dust out. The kids cried about Bossy, then we all did. The animals are like persons to us. I feel worried that the kids won't have milk now. 

She is Julia Dunne, a character in Sanora Babb's novel Whose Names are Unknown, a novel scheduled for publication when Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath came out. Bennett Cerf held Whose Names back right then because he thought America couldn't handle two books about the Dust Bowl, one after another. Years later, it finally came out.

It's fiction, sort of. Significant digressions run in and out and through the narrative, in part because Ms. Babb, who was herself born and reared in the Oklahoma panhandle, was holding down a writing job for FDR's Farm Security Administration. Her assignment was to write about the suffering. She was living in California among the uprooted Oky ex-pats who knew she was one of them and therefore dared tell her their stories. There's more.

April 17: Kids just left for school. It's so clear I can see the others walking from their homes. 9:30. Kinda hazy. 10:30. Teacher sent the kids home before it gets bad. They got here just in time but the dust is thin this time.

April 18. Blew all night but clear this morning. School today.

April 19. Rained a little last night and showered this morning. Myra came home from school saying the little Long girl died. Poor Mrs. Long.

April 20. Well, today is one of the worst we ever had. A black duster. Just when we thought it was better. I don't know where this dirt is coming from but not here. We listen to the radio and know we are not the only ones to suffer. it is just terrible for everyone. The drought years are bad enough but this is almost more than people can stand on top of being so poor from the depression and all.
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So here's what I'm thinking, all these years later, about yesterday: 

April 18. Eight inches of really wet snow. School called off again. Third major snowfall in ten days. Last year at this time, temp was 80 degrees. Cabin fever anyone? This afternoon, read Whose Names are Unknown. Wow. I think we'll make it. Spring is coming. It always does.