(A
short memoir written by my father, Karl Love, that appeared in
Citadel of the Spirit. It is the beginning of my
coming-to-Oregon story.)
Dust
everywhere, choking, necessitating a wet rag over the nose to
breathe, became the first memories for my brother and me, ages three
and four. Our young mother had died painfully from dust pneumonia
December 23rd, two days before Christmas, 1934. Our Dad
was left to manage anguish with whatever dignity a young father could
assemble. Hard times attacked the old virtues–thrift, grit,
willingness to work any job–did not make any difference.
Of
course, my four-year-old mind, body noted none of this. I did see,
taste, feel the dust. My family and its numerous extensions settled
the Dalhart, Texas area during the late 19th century. They
ranched, rail-roaded, chicken farmed, worked long hours on Northern
Texas’s sage-choked land. Ignorant farming methods practiced
throughout the vast prairies from Mexico to Canada injured the
thinly-topped soil. Droughts with winds would sweep away the good
earth. Dirt and dust clouds formed blankets so thick they darkened
the sun at midday and left misery in their wakes. Yet people endured,
muttered darkly as they watched Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska
pass overhead.
Driven
off the land, with scarce work to do that paid, many banded together,
moved from town to town, including our father. He took us from Aunt
and Uncle to Aunt and Uncle—leave us behind, join up with other men
to search for work. My first distinct memory formed seated in an old
car, tracing marks on a black dash board in thick layers of yellow
dust. We were going to our grandfather’s home in Dalhart, an orange
and black, Rock-Island house set beside railroad tracks. Not long in
any place the uprooting occurred often.
Within
two years Dad drifted to Eastern Oregon, found work in a lumber yard
in Pendleton. Soon he met a young woman who had moved to Pendleton
from Nebraska. She and her two brothers were among the thousand
thousands scrambling for jobs. Our mom-to-be found work as a waitress
where she met Dad. It was 1937.
Oregon
had been battered by the economic depression. Wages from three to
five dollars a day were common. Families doubled up tried to unite
their scattered sons, daughters, elderly parents, grandparents. Our
family did the same. During the summer of 1937 Father sent for his
two sons, ages five and six, to join him and his new wife in
Pendleton. Our grandmother and a 14-year old Aunt escorted us to
Oregon on a train. The one enduring memory of that three-day journey
from northern Texas to Eastern Oregon: how many soldiers aboard.
Looking back from now its plain the USA was girding for war. No one
on that train knew that then, especially two young boys living among
constant change.
Pendleton,
Oregon, small in size, tucked itself into brown hills, reflected
Oregon communities. Predominantly “white folks” lived in this
northeastern corner of Oregon. 1862’s gold rush launched Pendleton,
spawned its sister, Umatilla City, and brought ranchers, farmers to
the surrounding lush grasslands. Water—rights to it—have always
been important to the area.
To two
boys from north Texas’s aridness Pendleton’s rains, though
infrequent, seemed sent from heaven. Times were tough in 1937 Oregon.
Yet people made do. Food, shelter, clothing came to most
Oregonians—prosperity beyond this to a chosen few. None of this
bothered children then or now—their concerns excluded day-to-day
survival. What mattered? Beginning school was first. Small-town
Pendleton had no preschool or kindergarten. Reading began from day
one in first grade. Students divided along ability levels naturally
into groups with colorful bird names: cardinals, blue jays, blue
birds, robins. Everyone knew who ruled supreme, and teacher’s voice
tones said it all. Also each winter day every student lined up to
receive a tablespoonful of cod liver oil. Not much time was wasted on
self-esteem lessons. You learned if you could.
Our
father toiled every weekday stacking lumber, shoveling coal, driving
delivery trucks- all to provide for his family who now numbered a new
infant son. For nearly four years this migrant family from the Dust
Bowl thrived. It ended abruptly. Dad came home early one Monday
morning from work complaining of intense abdominal pain. Surgery for
a bowel obstruction ended sadly. Dad died that Thursday night, but
not before he had his eight year old and nine year old sons promise
him we would stay with our new mother and our two year old new
brother. Weepingly we promised.
We
took Dad home to Texas after having a funeral in Pendleton where many
young couples and friends attended. The train ride back to Dalhart
dulled what feelings we had left—Dad, 30 years hard scrabbling, a
refugee from national disastrous economics had done his best. His
young widow took her three sons to heart, did her best with all she
knew from life. I know what dust to dust means.
