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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. . . .