From Anne Marie Low, Dust Bowl Diary
April 25, 1934, Wednesday
Last weekend was the worst dust storm we ever had. We've been having quite
a bit of blowing dirt every year since the drouth started, not only here, but
all over the Great Plains. Many days this spring the au is just full of dirt
coming, literally, for hundreds of miles. It sifts into everything. After we
wash the dishes and put them away, so much dust sifts into the cupboards we must
wash them again before the next meal. Clothes in the closets are covered with
dust.
Last weekend no one was taking an automobile out for fear of ruining the motor.
I rode Roany to Frank's place to return a gear. To find my way I had to ride
right beside the knee scarcely able to see from one knee post to the next.
Newspapers say the deaths of many babies and old people are attributed to
breathing in so much dirt.
* * * {Used here to indicate missing pages, or more than a paragraph}
May 7, 1934, Monday
. . . {missing parts of excerpts in addition to missing page} The dirt is
still blowing. Last weekend Bud and I helped with the cattle and had fun
gathering weeds. Weeds give us greens for salad long before anything in the
garden is ready. We use dandelions, lamb's quarter, and sheep sorrel. I like
sheep sorrel best. Also, the leaves of sheep sorrel, pounded and boiled down to
a paste, make a good salve.
Still no job. I'm trying to persuade Dad I should apply for rural school #3 out
here where we went to school. I don't see a chance of getting a job in a high
school when so many experienced teachers are out of work
May 30, 1934, Wednesday
It took until 10 o'clock to wash all the dirty dishes. That's not wiping
them - just washing them. The cupboards had to be washed out to have a clean
place to put them.
Saturday was a busy day. Before starting breakfast I had to sweep and wash all
the dirt off the kitchen and dining room floors, wash the stove, pancake
griddle, and dining room task and chairs. There was cooking, baking and churning
to be done for those hungry men. Dad is 6 feet 4 inches tall, with a big frame.
Bud is 6 feet 3 inches and almost as big-boned as Dad. We say feeding them is
like filling a silo.
Mama couldn't make bread until I carried water to wash the bread mixer. I
couldn't churn until the churn was washed and scalded. We just couldn't do
anything until something was washed first Every room had to have dirt almost
shoveled out of it before we could wash floors and furniture.
We had no time to wash clothes, but it was necessary. I had to wash out the
boiler, wash tubs, and the washing machine before we could use them. Then every
towel, curtain, piece of bedding, and garment had to be taken outdoors to have
as much dust as possible shaken out before washing. The cistern is dry, so I had
to carry all the water we needed from the well.
* * *
August 1, 1934, Wednesday
Everything is just the same - hot and dry. Lee came from Medora for a visit. It
was so nice to see him. He wants me to go out there Christmas vacation.
The drouth and dust storms are something fierce. As far as one can see are brown
pastures and fields which, in the wind, just rise up and fill the air with dirt.
It tortures animals and humans, makes housekeeping an everlasting drudgery, and
ruins machinery.
The crops are long since ruined. In the spring wheat section of the U.S., a crop
of 12 million bushels is expected instead of the usual 170 million. We have had
such drouth for five years all subsoil moisture is gone. Fifteen feet down the
ground is dry as dust. Trees are dying by the thousands. Cattle and horses are
dying, some from starvation and some from dirt they eat on the grass.
The government is buying cattle, paying $20.00 a head for cows and $4.00 for
calves, and not buying enough to do much good.
* * *
October 1, 1934, Monday
Woodger, the federal acquisition agent, finally got around to see Dad last
Saturday From the kitchen I could hear the whole conversation, and it amused me.
Dad was sitting on the back steps, resting after the noon meal, when a
government car drove up. In this country, when anyone drives in, you meet him at
the gate with hand outstretched, making him welcome. Dad knew this was the agent
who had been dealing with the banks to rob our neighbors of their land. He
didn't get up.
Woodger, a small man with a toothbrush-shaped mustache, walked up to the steps
and introduced himself. He told about the proposed refuge and said he was there
to appraise Dad's land and make an offer for it.
"It is not for sale."
In a sneering and condescending tone, "Oh, I believe this whole area is.
All your neighbors are selling."
"No, they aren't. The banks are selling their places from under them. This
place is not mortgaged."
Woodger spoke of what a great benefit this wildlife refuge will be‹ something
for the good of all the people.
"I didn't build this ranch up for the benefit of all the people, but for me
and my family."
Woodger pulled out every argument he could think of, then finally said,
"After all, this is submarginal land on which you can't make a
living."
That was news to Dad. He stood up, very slowly. The little pipsqueak agent
stared in amazement as the bulk of Dad loomed above him. Dad is six feet four
inches in his stocking feet and higher with his boots on. He weighs 250 pounds,
mostly bone and muscle. He is so big-boned and broad-shouldered it takes 250
pounds to flesh him out properly. Because his face has kept firm flesh and his
hair has stayed jet block, he looks far younger than he is. His blue eyes.
startling in his swarthy face, have never lost their keenness. By the time he
had drawn himself up to his full height, the agent was open-mouthed
"Young man, I wont to tell you something. I've been here since the
Territorial days. I started out with the clothes on my back and a $10.00 gold
piece. I was young and dumb and uneducated I didn't know I couldn't make a
living here, and I didn't have any government expert to tell me so.
"Young man, I've been fighting drouth and depression and blizzard and
blackleg ever since the Territorial days. Everything you can see from here to
the horizon belongs to me - the land, cattle, buildings, horses, and machinery.
It is too late for you to tell me I can't make a living here. You better go away
before you make me mad."
As Woodger scuttled for his car. Dad called after him, "By the way, when
you get back to Washington, D.C., you can tell Franklin Delano Roosevelt I still
hove that $10.00 gold piece, too!"
Having gold is illegal now.
If Dad can get a decent price, he probably ought to sell. He is getting too old
for a spread like this Bud doesn't want it. Mama doesn't like it here. I love
it, but am not going to. Everything I loved will be gone.
* * *
July 11, 1936, Saturday
This is the eighth day of terrible heat. Mama is just bedridden from it. Dad is
at Commissioners' meeting. Al has all he can do to manage a bit of field work
and take care of the horses. I've been tending the housework and poultry and
helping Joe with the milk cows, calves, and hogs.
Yesterday was 110š with a hot wind blowing. Today is the same. I'm
writing this lying on the living room floor, dripping sweat and watching the
dirt drift in the windows and across the floor. I've dusted this whole house
twice today and won't do it again.
Last night, when it cooled a bit, I rode out to see if the cattle were all
right. When I got home at 9:30, Ethel and Ray were leaving for a dance. Ethel
said Joe had given up and gone to bed without getting the milk cows in. It is
still daylight this time of year until about 10:00. It took me until midnight to
get those eleven cows home and milked.
This morning I had to do all the chores. The heat has just laid poor old Joe
out. I set the bread very early this morning, hoping before it got too hot Ethel
would get it in the oven while I did the outside work. But she left at 9:30 last
night and hasn't come home yet. So l had to do the -- baking in the heat of the
day. I'm just about laid out too.
Well writing this is not getting the churning done. and I'll have to do all the
chores tonight.
* * *
August 1, 1936, Saturday
July has gone, and still no rain. This is the worst summer yet. The fields are
nothing but grasshoppers and dried-up Russian thistle. The hills are burned to
nothing but rocks and dry ground. The meadows have no grass except in former
slough holes, and that has to be raked and stacked as soon as cut, or it blows
away in these hot winds. There is one dust storm after another It is the most
disheartening situation I have seen yet. Livestock and humans are really
suffering. I don't know how we keep going.
Seth continues to write pages and pages of complaints about living conditions
and about his work. He bitterly reproaches me that I go out with anyone else. I
went out with Cap years before Seth ever came here and may do so after he has
gone back East. What is it to him?
The dirt quit blowing today, so I cleaned the house. What a mess! The same old
business of scrubbing floors in all nine rooms, washing all the woodwork and
windows, washing the bedding, curtains, and towels, taking all the rugs and sofa
pillows out to beat the dust out of them, cleaning closets and cupboards,
dusting all the books and furniture, washing the mirrors and every dish and
cooking utensil. Cleaning up after dust storms has gone on year after year now.
I'm getting awfully tired of it. The dust will probably blow again tomorrow. . .
.