{"id":5811,"date":"2020-02-13T06:39:01","date_gmt":"2020-02-13T14:39:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/?p=5811"},"modified":"2020-02-13T06:39:03","modified_gmt":"2020-02-13T14:39:03","slug":"from-the-dust","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/meditations\/from-the-dust\/","title":{"rendered":"From the Dust"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n

(A\nshort memoir written by my father, Karl Love, that appeared in\nCitadel of the Spirit<\/em>. It is the beginning of my\ncoming-to-Oregon story.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dust\neverywhere, choking, necessitating a wet rag over the nose to\nbreathe, became the first memories for my brother and me, ages three\nand four. Our young mother had died painfully from dust pneumonia\nDecember 23rd<\/sup>, two days before Christmas, 1934. Our Dad\nwas left to manage anguish with whatever dignity a young father could\nassemble. Hard times attacked the old virtues–thrift, grit,\nwillingness to work any job–did not make any difference.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of\ncourse, my four-year-old mind, body noted none of this. I did see,\ntaste, feel the dust. My family and its numerous extensions settled\nthe Dalhart, Texas area during the late 19th<\/sup> century. They\nranched, rail-roaded, chicken farmed, worked long hours on Northern\nTexas\u2019s sage-choked land. Ignorant farming methods practiced\nthroughout the vast prairies from Mexico to Canada injured the\nthinly-topped soil. Droughts with winds would sweep away the good\nearth. Dirt and dust clouds formed blankets so thick they darkened\nthe sun at midday and left misery in their wakes. Yet people endured,\nmuttered darkly as they watched Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska\npass overhead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Driven\noff the land, with scarce work to do that paid, many banded together,\nmoved from town to town, including our father. He took us from Aunt\nand Uncle to Aunt and Uncle\u2014leave us behind, join up with other men\nto search for work. My first distinct memory formed seated in an old\ncar, tracing marks on a black dash board in thick layers of yellow\ndust. We were going to our grandfather\u2019s home in Dalhart, an orange\nand black, Rock-Island house set beside railroad tracks. Not long in\nany place the uprooting occurred often. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within\ntwo years Dad drifted to Eastern Oregon, found work in a lumber yard\nin Pendleton. Soon he met a young woman who had moved to Pendleton\nfrom Nebraska. She and her two brothers were among the thousand\nthousands scrambling for jobs. Our mom-to-be found work as a waitress\nwhere she met Dad. It was 1937.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oregon\nhad been battered by the economic depression. Wages from three to\nfive dollars a day were common. Families doubled up tried to unite\ntheir scattered sons, daughters, elderly parents, grandparents. Our\nfamily did the same. During the summer of 1937 Father sent for his\ntwo sons, ages five and six, to join him and his new wife in\nPendleton. Our grandmother and a 14-year old Aunt escorted us to\nOregon on a train. The one enduring memory of that three-day journey\nfrom northern Texas to Eastern Oregon: how many soldiers aboard.\nLooking back from now its plain the USA was girding for war. No one\non that train knew that then, especially two young boys living among\nconstant change.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pendleton,\nOregon, small in size, tucked itself into brown hills, reflected\nOregon communities. Predominantly \u201cwhite folks\u201d lived in this\nnortheastern corner of Oregon. 1862\u2019s gold rush launched Pendleton,\nspawned its sister, Umatilla City, and brought ranchers, farmers to\nthe surrounding lush grasslands. Water\u2014rights to it\u2014have always\nbeen important to the area. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To two\nboys from north Texas\u2019s aridness Pendleton\u2019s rains, though\ninfrequent, seemed sent from heaven. Times were tough in 1937 Oregon.\nYet people made do. Food, shelter, clothing came to most\nOregonians\u2014prosperity beyond this to a chosen few. None of this\nbothered children then or now\u2014their concerns excluded day-to-day\nsurvival. What mattered? Beginning school was first. Small-town\nPendleton had no preschool or kindergarten. Reading began from day\none in first grade. Students divided along ability levels naturally\ninto groups with colorful bird names: cardinals, blue jays, blue\nbirds, robins. Everyone knew who ruled supreme, and teacher\u2019s voice\ntones said it all. Also each winter day every student lined up to\nreceive a tablespoonful of cod liver oil. Not much time was wasted on\nself-esteem lessons. You learned if you could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our\nfather toiled every weekday stacking lumber, shoveling coal, driving\ndelivery trucks- all to provide for his family who now numbered a new\ninfant son. For nearly four years this migrant family from the Dust\nBowl thrived. It ended abruptly. Dad came home early one Monday\nmorning from work complaining of intense abdominal pain. Surgery for\na bowel obstruction ended sadly. Dad died that Thursday night, but\nnot before he had his eight year old and nine year old sons promise\nhim we would stay with our new mother and our two year old new\nbrother. Weepingly we promised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\ntook Dad home to Texas after having a funeral in Pendleton where many\nyoung couples and friends attended. The train ride back to Dalhart\ndulled what feelings we had left\u2014Dad, 30 years hard scrabbling, a\nrefugee from national disastrous economics had done his best. His\nyoung widow took her three sons to heart, did her best with all she\nknew from life. I know what dust to dust means.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

(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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5812,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[51,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5811","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-nsp-correspondents","category-meditations","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5811","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5811"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5811\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5814,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5811\/revisions\/5814"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5812"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5811"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5811"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5811"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}