Dust Storms in Kansas

Waikato Times, Volume 118, Issue 19633, 20 July 1935, Page 13 (Supplement)

Dust Storms in Kansas

Even THE STORMS are losing their drama. They are simply something that must be endured. If only they came up the same each time we might grow used to them. But no two of them have been exactly alike. Sometimes they strike in the night. We sleep always with one ear open now. Only if we are brave and the stars are bright at bedtime do we open a window. On all but the worst nights there is anxious discussion in every household, “Shall we risk opening a window?” On the worst nights there is no discussion. If we leave the slightest aperture, we sleep with ears ‘set’ to catch the first rattle of window panes, the first bang of the garden gate. If we do not hear these warnings, the dust comes in upon us. It drifts like snow under the windows. It settles upon the blankets. It is drawn into our noses and lungs. It creeps into our dreams. Deeper and deeper into our helpless bodies it burrows until Anally outraged nasal tissue wakes us. Noses burning, throats raw, we run to the window. Bare toes strike into the plushy dust-dril’ts on the Aoor. Fumbling hands send an acrid shower fuming out of the curtains. The window is bolted down now. But the air inside the room, the air we must breathe, is thick. A wet bath towel dapped about collects some of the dust. A few daps and it is black. A trip for water to Rlnso The Grit From Our Lips. And then back to bed with wet washcloths over our noses. We try to lie stiil, because every turn stirs the dust on the blankets. After a while, if we are good sleepers, we forget. The day storms are worse ‘because then we cannot lose ourselves In sleep. They come In various ways. Sometimes after raging and roaring all night, the wind dies down in the early morning. But the dust it lias whipped thousands of feet into the air still hangs over us. It must fall, all of It, a mile of It, two miles of it, before the storm is over.

There Is no dawn. Farmers with a fortyyear habit of early rising sleep until nine o’clock. A bewildered look at the clock and then at the black window panes. A watch brought out to verify the time. The moment of bewilderment fades into dreary resignation. “It's only the dusl, mother." Strange world. The dawn is not coming to-day. The quiet is spectral. Even the children are awed by it. No dawn, no schools, no truffle, almost no work. Tito boss phones not to try to come down, llierc’s no business anyway. SI range world! Strange for i lie farmer .struggling dirtoonsoluLely lo care for his slock ami for llie shopkeeper worrying at his ledger, lint si ranger for women, whose work is always about them. The blessed threads of

. Rotitino That Bind Llfo Together arc snapped. Dust everywhere, a brown la'u of il thickening on all Ihe furnilurc, , , . . |.;,.g Into every crevice, befouling every ile ir possession. Sewing ami laundry are impossible cleaning would be madness- Some women I eld their draperies and wall hangings away

Like the End of the World,

(Avis D. Carlson in New Republic)

in trunks, take down their pictures and roll up tlicir rugs. Others, less heroic before bareness, seal the windows shut with long, white strips of adhesive tape. Sheets are spread over upholstered'pieces, rags wedged into closet doors. But such jobs are soon over and the hours drag.

Life is blank like the coppery darkness outside. We wait, simply wait, while the dust falls. It falls slowly because It»is Incredibly dne. Sweeping it from the porch is like sweeping the softest talc.

The idle hours drag on. Ail the sadness humanity has ever known distils itself into these hours of waiting. Foreboding gnaws at the soul. The old racial sense of utter helplessness in a hostile universe returns. All day, perhaps all of another day, the dust fails.

At last the air thins somewhat, and lighted automobiles begin to crawl along the highway. No speeding now. Even the lackwit driver creeps cautiously, worming his way along a highway hanked with snow fences drifted level full. Slowly, slowly the pall lifts and eyes resume seeing. An apple tree buried to the crotch in red sand makes a pitiful attempt to bloom. It cannot quite forget April. A farmhouse has been

Sunk To The Window Casings. Fields are bare as (he desert door. Quietness everywhere. A black or yellow or copper-brown cloud pokes its ugly head over the- horizon. It rises slowly at drst, then swiftly. It marches angrily, blotting' out (he world as it comes. Children scurry like chickens to their mother's wing. With a howl the storm bursts upon us. The impact is like, a shovelful of dne sand flung against the face. People caught in their own yards grope for the doorstep. Cars come to a standstill, for no light in the world can penetrate that swirling murk.

Dust masks arc snatched from pockets and cupboards. But masks do not protect tiie mouth. Grit cracks between the teeth, the dust taste lies bitter on the tongue, grime is harsh between the lips.

The house rocks and mumbles. Dust comes in, driven somehow through bolted windows, even through taped windows. II seems to sift through the very walls. The family huddles together. If quiet storms excite brooding anxiety, this one is pure terror even to plains people hardened to the wind. The darkness is like the end of the world. In time tne fury subsides. Jf the wind iias spent itself, the Dust Will Fall Silently For Hours. If the wind has only settled into a good steady blow, (he air will be thick l'or days. During those days as much of living as possible will be moved Lo the basement, while pounds and pounds of dust sift into the house. 11 is something, however, lo have the house slop rocking and mumbling. The nightmare is deepest during the storms. But on Ihe occasional bright day and Ihe usual grey day we cannot shake free from it. Wo live wiih the dust, eat it, sleep with il, watch it strip us of possessions! and Iho hup© of possessions, ft 's

becoming the Real. 'Flic poetic uplift of spring fades into a phantom out of the storied past. The nightmare is becoming Lifa.