A Little Dust in West Texas

Copyright by Terry Turner 2005

The night wind whined around the stark corners of the tiny two room shack perched on the edge of an endless sea of prairie grasses. Coming from the west, the wind carried the sand, a red sand, finer than flour. Dry and powdery, the sand was so fine that the wind could push it through the tiny spaces around the edges of window panes.

The dust was everywhere; sifting through the windows, drifting in little puffs through the damp sheets hung over the shack's two doors. It drifted down from the ceiling rafters, it kept coming in little puffs through the wood burning kitchen stove, it was carried up through the bare wooden floor by little gusts of wind.

I hated the relentless mournful wind for carrying the biting sand and the choking dust. It was, to me, a dusty vampire, smoky red, stalking every living thing in a sun baked, featureless prairie. The prairie, our prairie, our home was a paper dry place where life, nearly sucked dry, had long since been too difficult.

I lay on my rude bed staring out into the impenetrable night. A night made even darker by its burden of dust and sand. My bed, a rude pallet, was made of an old cotton sack stuffed with corn shucks and some cotton gleaned from the picked fields. A piece of ducking, very much like awning cloth, served for a cover when needed in the summer. In the winter a quilt was added and we wore more clothes warmth. The idea of themostats and central heat were a space age away from our prairie place.

I was careful to keep a piece of damp feed sack over my nostrils and mouth. The wet sack was a crude filter of sorts to help keep out the dust out of my mouth and nose.

My mother knew, we all knew, if one breathed in too much dust a few planks would soon be needed to make a burial box. For that reason we all used a damp breathing cloth and the worn sheets draped over the two doors were usually kept damp. The larger cracks in the floor and walls were stuffed with bits of paper or sacking or cotton to help retard the ebb and tide of the dust.

The dust rose through the floor cracks in little huffs and puffs;
it sifted into the ceiling through the gaping spaces between the roof shingles; floated down like a continual fine mist from the open ceiling
rafters; and it blew in around the windows and doors; it migrated like a mist of rain through the very walls that were mostly paperless. On the dining table it built up in little drifts around the base of the salt and pepper shaker, it gathered at every corner in the room, it covered every surface
whether horizontal or vertical..... in no way could the creeping
red plague be avoided.

The rims of our nostrils were outlined by the red dust barely dampened by our own breathing.

Dark circles of red mud marked a patch under every nostril. Red mud grew from each corner of our mouths. Red mud caked at the corners of our eyes.

Our drinking water took on a rose tint and tasted like mud.

The taste of the dust was in all the food.

It was in the coffee.

Our spit was reddish.

Death, disease, and poverty frolicked in the early sunrise. They, being giants could easily see above and beyond the haze.

Small and helpless creatures that we were, we could not see beyond the red haze and morning was only a few visible degrees from night. The darkling sun held no promise as we greeted another dusky red dawn.

Of course, as you might guess, people from the government wanted to tell us how to fix things, what we had done wrong, why we should shoot our cow and such, and, otherwise, to assure us that we deserved to lose whatever little possessions we had.

Fools thought we could know the weather. Fools thought organic farming of no importance. Fools thought government could manage wind, sun, rain, and earth. Fools thought the government would feed, clothe, and protect us.

Not then, friends; not now, friends.

Observe the ancient rules.
Respect the earth.

Preserve water.

Take care.

Care.
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