Last night I watched the final segment of the PBS series documenting the desperate years of the Dustbowl.
If you are looking for heartbreak, the panhandle of Oklahoma during the 1930's will get you there right quick. The voices and the faces of the children who endured will remain with me. Imogene, who had her dresses made out of pretty flour sacks. Floyd, who lost baby sister Rena to dust pneumonia.
This morning my Gramma, Frances passed away. I was in the middle of writing this post when family called with the news. I knew that she was very sick and had booked a trip down to Georgia for Friday. I was hoping to have one more visit. But now I will only be in town for the funeral. My mind is full of questions that I did not get to ask. She grew up in Chickasha, Oklahoma. Tell me about the Great Depression, Gramma. Chickasha was not in the Dustbowl exactly, but it sure was close enough to be majorly affected. Watching parts of this special on television made me feel present with her childhood in a way that I had not experienced before. It was as if I was meeting her neighbors and walking her roads. I am anxious to be down there to savor and study her legacy.
I found the book I was looking for at the library.
And I will be listening to the lonesome, sweet voice of Woody Guthrie.
