Creative Writing: Living Through The Dust Bowl

Living Through The Dust Bowl

In the late 20s, life was good down here in the south. The grass was long, tall, and healthy, the wind would graze over the grass like a nice comb over haircut. The crops were plentiful and could be seen for miles. Life was good, we had everything we had ever needed down here on the farm. In the summer, we would have hay bale making contests on our farm. We had a farm of about 27 acres, we grew primarily soybeans and wheat. However, life would change for the worst come the 30s.

In May of 1931, black clouds the size of the Rockie Mountains pondered over our farm house. We have had storms before, but nothing like this. I began getting worried, so I asked Mother, “Do you think this will pass over?”

Her response, “Of course, we have had sand storms like this every year. They should be gone by the end of the week hunny.”

As a believer of anything my parents told me, I

“What are you doing?” shouted my Father.

“Making oats.” I responded.

“Stop, we need this food to pass by the week. You can’t be eating everything up like this.”

I felt embarrassed. I wasn’t doing anything out of the blue, I was doing what I had done everyday. At this point, I had knew things were getting pretty bad. My parents continued arguing everyday over financial issues and as to why the house was dirty, and everyday it got worse.

Months later, I woke up and walked down stairs to make my oats. I walked downstairs and was looking for my Father. I looked everywhere in the house before I noticed he was no-where to be found. Then I walked into the living room and saw my Mother. She was hysterical. Tears were running down her cheek like the Mississippi flowed into the Gulf of Mexico.

I asked Mother, “What is wrong?”

She gasped, “Your Father. He left.”

Just like her, I began crying. This was the last time I would see my Father. He took on new adventures, just like I. It was time to leave the precious farm lands and head