Sweet Life

May, 11, 1931

Dear Mother,

Jonathan and I left yesterday. Guymon is deserted, only three families left. Still spitting mud from the last dust storm. Heading to the oil fields to the south. If no work, then to the fields west. Tell all I miss them. Love, David

Dropped the postcard at the Pampa Texas post office. We had enough money to make it down to Big Spring, then to the town of Chalk. Heard they needed workers. Wildcatters and their ilk came and went often.

***

October 24, 1929, I celebrated my fifteenth birthday. The same day the stock market crashed. Didn't think it would affect us; the only kind of stock we had were livestock.

Next two years, we lost our livestock, crops; sky only offered dust storms and heat. Fields lost their topsoil, couldn’t hold the moisture if it rained. Tenant farmers like us, held on as everything green turned brown around us.

Dad said that money was like water, it had to keep moving through its cycles of rain and rivers, clouds else the economy gets out of whack. Water stopped, money stopped and life became a struggle.

Banks were depleted of cash and farmers were left broke, unable to pay their loans and bills. They abandoned their dusty farms, began migrating for work. The Oklahoma panhandle, along with much of the central US vacated. Destitution brought desperate thoughts, desperate acts.

***

Mom, Dad, my sister Caroline and me planned our lives while my younger brothers slept.

At the kitchen table we read and reread letters from Pennsylvania, composed our replies. A few of my great grandfather's family lived there. They would take all six of us, but described a cramped situation. It was a place to start over.

They were north of Philly, in Allentown and weren't in drought.

Hours we talked about leaving, decided to increase our odds of finding work by splitting the family on two coasts.

Taking my two younger brothers with them, Mom and Dad would go to Pennsylvania. My older sister Caroline and I would head west in the old truck to pick fields along the way then look for solid work in California, move along with the pickers to Oregon. Our family would reunite where there was steady pay.

Caroline and I worked together since we were kids, she was strong and matched my work. Mom fretted about Caroline and me being on the road alone.

More letters were exchanged between Pennsylvania and Guymon until an unexpected offer came from the east coast. A distant cousin, Jonathan could accompany me instead of Caroline.

Mom, Dad and Caroline could support the family in Pennsylvania, my dad figured.

Cousin Jonathan was twenty-three. They touted him as a mechanic. He would accompany me to the coast, working along the roads—earning our way by repairing vehicles. Sounded like a good idea.

The decision was made. Sold the last of our livestock and started shutting our farm down. Sorrowful, silent days as we put our dreams away.

***

Before I was born, my great grandparents moved to Oklahoma to farm, like many did. Tenant farmers hoping to eventually buy their own land.

My father's family was different—they were wheelwrights as well as farmers. Great grandfather and grandfather had all the tools and a shed to work in. Dad wasn't so patient with mechanical things but I was.

Stayed with my grandfather often and learned to true and repair wheels for wagons and carts. 

Didn't need to make the wooden wheels when folks bought cars and trucks. Grandfather and I began working synthetic rubber tires. Learned about axles, joints, bent frames. Repaired tires with a Michelin kit—best on the market, he said.

After the stock market crash, wasn't so much about the inner tubes as it was about thin tread worn through. Couldn't fix that, but we mended and patched what we could to get `em rolling again. He taught me that I had a trade, hold my head up proudly around others, I was a smart young man with a valuable skill.

Grandpa made sure I could read and write—learned from labels on cans of grease and oil, the old newspapers and handbills. Then, he taught me my numbers and how to write out a bill.

Most times we had to barter. Lots of folks didn't have cash.

***

Dad was a farmer, had four kids with an Osage woman. I was dark like Mom, only me and Caroline carried her clear, tan skin, straight black hair and ebony eyes.

Dad was the head of our family; Mom supervised. She beat the heck out of dad the first time he'd come home drunk from a Grange meeting. He didn't do that again after she raised a nasty knot on his head with her broom.

No cussin’ either. Mom allowed no nonsense in our home.

More than anything else, she made us into a loving family on a great farm with lots of food when I was young. Plenty of time to play after we finished our chores. Learned to love my freedom from her. Wide blue skies of Oklahoma, even fierce blizzards and hard rains were welcomed when Mom explained that was nature’s great order, larger than humans can understand.

Now the skies warned us of the coming dust storms. Red smudge on the distant horizon sent us running to hang blankets over the windows. Get the livestock in the barn.

A wise woman, Mom taught Caroline and me that we'd be treated differently as we appeared more Osage than white, "Stay away from trouble and the bottle: A drunk Indian is killed in the worst ways—there’s always folks waiting for a chance to exercise their evil."

***

After the big crash, shantytowns sprung up all over the US; lean-tos, hovels, scrapped from discards and trash to make a roof and walls. Mom said that way of living would make them sick. Photographs in the newspapers must have scared her.

In one last attempt to keep us together, she tried to convince Dad to take us to the reservation with her people; they were living in the same drought and dust storms as us.

***

Dad handed me the keys to the old pickup truck, an old worn map and three dollars and sixteen cents. "You'll have to find or make work for what else you need, Jonathan will help. Keep the truck running, it's your home till you're on the coast."

Later that night, Mom came to me, sitting close, "Of all my children, you're the one I've loved the most because of your nature, you’re not like the others. If we lived on the reservation, it would be easier for you, but you've got to go make your way the best you can. Write me when you find work." Her expression was odd.

I knew she loved me best, I didn't know she knew my heart so well.

Letters from Philly in hand, they left in our sedan, oilcloth over a bundle their things on the roof. The house felt as empty as our fields looked after they left.

Nailed the outbuildings shut and cleaned up what was left, packed my tools carefully. Cleaned and checked the old pickup truck.

Had to wait a few days for Jonathan McCann They said he was on his way.

I stayed in the old house living on jerky and hardtack Mom left for me. I was almost out of food, but caught a few skinny jackrabbits and stewed them, stretching out the little meat as long as I could and began cooking nopales. Drank my last few gulps of our well-water; just enough to refill the jug.

***

Finally, I saw him on the road, far from the house. Jumped in the truck and went to him.

He was tired after days on the rails. Threw his bag in the bed of the pickup and got in, slamming the door hard.

Immediately drove south to the oil fields.

Jonathan woke around Amarillo, "How the fuck you rubes live on this god-forsaken desert? You half reptile or somethin'?"

So much for pleasantries. "We're stopping in Pampa, then Lubbock. Be there by nightfall."

Later, "Oughta drive at night and find shade to sleep days. Damn, must be over a hundred."

"Been that way for a while. That's why we're going west, remember?" He bitched and moaned for the next several hours, then asked me to stop for a pop.

"Drink th' water."

“Drink hot water from that jug?”

"Jon, you got money. Dad told me they gave you some cash." I had no money for a pop. "Any cash I got is for getting out of a bind; got to keep this truck runnin.' Where’s your cash?" I was sleeping with my wallet in my pocket.

"Heh, heh. Burned it up on fire-water, boy."

Eyes on the road, I ignored him as he prattled on about the scams he'd seen; snake oil sales, phony preachers with prayer rugs and healing powders from the Holy Land. "Flimflam man." That's what Dad called people who made their living that way, con men.

Had to wonder why he thought he had to impress me but he did; impressed me enough to know I couldn’t trust him if he thought scamming was a career.

***

Through the heatwaves and mirages of water, I saw something afar on the side of the road. As we approached, I slowed. Another traveler, truck bed full of furniture and, several small sunburned kids.

Nearing his truck, I stopped, "Need me to send someone out to help?" I called out to the driver.

"Gotta wait till it cools off again. Engine’s been overheating `bout every hour." He lifted the hood of his truck.

"Cracked belt, hose, maybe a radiator leak." I offered and shook his hand, "David McCann. Used to farm outside Guymon, Oklahoma. Where you headin'?"

"Toddy Stein from Little Rock. Going to Torrance, in Los Angeles. You?"

“Lookin’ for work anywhere we can find it.”

Shook hands and talked about the roads while I brought the water jug from the truck to fill his radiator.

Jonathan got out of the truck, pissed and approached the man's truck, inspected the kids, then neared the passenger side of the cab. Began a line of talk with Mr. Stein’s wife. She kept her eyes forward and her mouth shut.

Filling the radiator, I heard Jonathan telling Toddy's wife she was a "pretty little filly."

Mr. Stein's eyes flashed as he watched Jonathan. I cut things off when the radiator was full, grabbed Jonathan's arm and took him back to the truck. Shoved him on the seat and shot him a hard look.

Toddy Stein offered me a few coins and we left.

"Jon—gotta be careful on the road. Leave the women alone. Until we get to California, we're probably going to see the same people along the way. Don't want a bad reputation. You get in trouble fighting or chasing skirt, I won't back you up."

After a few miles, "Jealous, aren't ya, rube." He laughed.

***

October 1, 1931 

Dear Mother,

Going to the Irish International car race in Phoenix. No work in the oil towns, too many men had the same idea. We're in New Mexico after six tire patches and minor fixes. Jonathan has a troubled spirit. Patience is all I have to deal with him. Love, DM

Just a postcard from Carrizozo. Glad when we got through New Mexico’s hot, bare land.

Picked up a few more fixes outside Phoenix, not on the race cars, but along the way. So many people on the highway, and more than I expected on the shoulders of the roads.

Three more tire repairs and earned enough for a deposit on another jug for filling radiators. Had enough to buy another Michelin repair kit, ran out of adhesive.

Kept my last few dollars rolled and stuffed inside the lapel of my old wool coat, safety pinned under the thick folds that buttoned the coat up the front.

While I drove, it occurred to me that I might have to get Jonathan's face fixed up by a doctor along the way, that'd cost me plenty.

***

More trucks and cars filled the road as we headed into Phoenix. Everybody was parking and walking toward the race track. In the distance, engines revved, band played.

Hundreds had gathered, divided into two crowds. An area was roped off for the people who had money, sponsors and drivers. They were dressed well standing under awnings.

Jonathan and I walked around the crowd who were dressed like us; travelers, farmers, working men and their families. For those few hours people forgot about their woes. Everyone was curious about a race and all the goings-on. Like the county fairs, it attracted everyone from all over.

Heard a guy taking bets, touting the features of the different cars and the drivers. He drew men wanting to double their few dollars.

A man in a dusty suit stood to the side of the group, talking about his ailing mother, “...such a dear, sweet woman.” Listened to his sad tale. Selling the deed to the land for two-hundred dollars to go take care of her. He described ten acres near Clarkdale, Arizona on the edge of the mountains, "Plenty of water from the Verde River..." He unrolled a map.

Women were clucking their tongues at his hardships, nudging their husbands. Buying land, sight unseen was more than chancy.

I wandered near the pits where men were checking their engines. They had big tool boxes with all kinds of equipment, I watched. Saw a lot of sleek, low-slung cars that I never saw before. British and European models.

***

Lost my cousin for a while until I spied a group of men passing flasks away from the crowd. There was Jonathan, slugging along with ‘em. Damn, he hadn't bought a drop of gas, wouldn't even check the oil or offer to buy another can yet he had the funds for alcohol?

Kept myself in the crowd, watching to see what he was up to.

Jonathan sauntered away from the drinkers when his bottle was empty.

The race started, engines screaming, everyone craning their necks or finding a better spot to watch from. Jonathan scooted behind the crowd by the rail, not watching the race, but looking downward. Silently, he slipped close to a woman holding the hand of a small child, I think he put his fingers into the woman's purse. Not sure if he took anything or not.

A few steps to the left, he sneaked his hand into a man's pocket as the cars rounded the curve making a big racket, leaving the dust roiling behind them. The man turned, almost caught him but Jonathan smiled and pointed at an MG that was passing like a lightning bolt, then he wandered off.

The last thing I needed was to hauled into jail with a drunk pickpocket who claimed me as family.

Pulled him away and took him to the truck.

Wanted to see who won the race but felt police presence near. Races mean gambling and gambling means cash. Along with the alcohol, there were going to be misunderstandings clarified by fists.

It was a cloudy day, and I took it as a sign to get on the road, this drought wouldn't last forever. I'd find work easier without trouble tailing me.

***

Jonathan had enough money to buy himself a pop when we stopped for gas. Young girl behind the register took his money and smiled. That kicked my admonitions out of Jonathan's pea-sized brain. He began a line of patter telling her she was too beautiful to work in a dusty, backwater town.

"Why you could be a beauty queen with your looks, come out from behind that counter and let me see…." Grabbed him away again when I saw the girl's father in the backroom watching Jonathan with steely eyes and his teeth clenched.

Back on the road, he regaled me with his sexual exploits, hookers and all the fun he'd had with women, some as young as twelve. I was appalled and wondered if that was true. But more than wondering, I wanted to shove him out the door and leave him in the ditch.

"Got any children, Romeo?"

"Two. Look just like me." Jonathan grabbed his balls and squeezed. "Quality work."

"You're married?"

"Marry that hussy? The kids live with her parents, I heard."  

This man had bastard children raised by someone he didn't know? Damn, he was a cold-hearted snake even if he was lying about it.

Few miles later I decided to get away from him. Studied the map the next time we stopped. Took the road south and west through more desert and stopped to fill the tank and the water jugs before the sun set.

As I drove, I figured to leave him at more than a gas station with a general store. Had to leave him in a town where he'd have a good chance for getting a ride since he wasn’t inclined to work.

Gila Bend was the next town.

Crossing miles of desert was hard. I kept quiet and drove day and night until we hit Gila Bend.

While I pumped gas, Jonathan wandered off to row of small stores. Quickly, I threw the filled water jugs on the floorboard, paid for the gas and drove straight south to a reservation, feeling lighter and cleaner without him. Left his tool bag by the pump.

I was not my cousin's keeper. Odds were working against him, he just wasn't careful or smart enough to be a professional crook. Maybe he'd already been caught in a mess. Could be why he was sent out west.

***

Turned off the highway onto a dirt road south of Gila Bend, slowed to dodge the holes and rocks. Didn't stop till I found a box canyon. Fell asleep with my head on my wadded coat smelling the piñon.

A strange clanging, then the truck swayed waking me. A goat stuck his head through the driver’s window. Following him was a small herd of sheep. In the distance I saw a figure on horseback. I waved and he came toward the truck hesitantly.

The closer he got, the more quickly he rode toward me. He told me how to get to their settlement, pointing to the south.

Only right to ask permission to stay a few days, hide out and give Jonathan time to leave.

***

The tribe were holding their own, barely. Sheep, a few horses, small plots of corn and beans. Their settlement was only a few adobe huts and a several wooden shacks. Had a well with good, cold water.

Ate with the leaders in a small adobe hut. Offered me a corn cake and bowl of mutton stew. Never ate sheep meat before and it was rich and good. Almost felt like family those moments, the women reminded me of Mother.

***

Stayed several days working on their old trucks and fixing what I could. It was incredibly hot during the days, but the skies were open and clear, the land red and yellow like it was painted from the colors of the sunsets.

Second night I was there, we listened to the radio. Communists were named as the next threat to our nation. One of their elders told me that these were distraction tactics.

"They distract us from the reality we live." The oldest leader quietly spoke of many things that reminded me of my mother's people, their ways. He took a broad view over many peoples, many centuries, stories of their ancient ways and their long history of surviving on the plains and now the desert.

Seemed to me distraction was the coward’s way to cover a lack of courage to lead change.

These people were as generous as they were poor, I'd say rich in spirit, but the bodies holding their spirits to the earth were puny and I wondered how long they'd last in that oven of a reservation. Yet, they had the earth and each other.

They had more courage than anything else.

***

The next morning, I cleaned up and hauled some baskets and bags along with a several of the tribe and took them into town. Didn't see Jonathan but I didn't check the jail. Filled the gas tank, and readied to cross into California.

Heard there was nothing but tilled land filled with produce as far as one could see. I’d work the fields if I could earn.

***

After a day, I passed fields of melons, tomatoes, vegetables and heard there were orchards further north.

Farm workers dotted the rows and big trucks sat to the side to carry them back and forth to the camps.

Stopped at the camps near the wide fields of produce. Camps run by the government were basic, but well organized for being filled with ragtag folk. Heard that these camps weren't so much for the comfort of the pickers, but to quell the union organizing, a backhanded way to keep workers from striking for more pay.

Desperate people do desperate things: Some pickers roused the others to put a squeeze on the growers for more pay. When a crop is ripe, there's only a few days to get it packed and on the road. Those few days were the time when a strike would force higher wages.

The government countered union organizing by saying strikes would raise the price of food. Both sides had good arguments and I didn't know enough of large-scale actions and the economy to have an opinion.

Hunger and poverty I knew well. My solution was to scrounge what work I could and forage for food.

***

Spoke to the managers of the government camps and usually got work, a few mechanical fixes, tire work. They paid, not much, but I had a place to park and sleep without bother.

Asked the residents about work in the fields. There were so many already, any more workers would cut their meager pay along with mine.

Still, the camp showers felt good after the desert. Able to get a bowl of soup and read a newspaper.

Seems the government was always a day late and a dollar short; new programs were coming, "in the pipeline" they said. My hunger wouldn't wait for legislation.

With a few bucks, I pushed toward the coast. Hope and warm slugs of water kept me between meals of corn meal mush and nopales.

***

August was hot, and the fields were full of pickers. More produce trucks on the roads. Slow going, lots of broken-down cars on the sides of the roads, but these folks were out of money entirely having spent most of it on their way.

I passed them and followed caravan of several empty trucks going into a ramshackle camp.

Driving through the camp, I saw the inhabitants' faces. These were a miserable-looking lot, mean expressions and flinty eyes. Hotheads wanting better pay, but labor was so cheap with more people coming to work. These men were stuck between holding out for more pay and starvation.

Union guys—first I'd seen and decided to stay to the side of that.

***

Cautiously, I pulled through the camp by a stream, trees. It was filled with all manner of tents and lean-tos. Wet wash hung over cottonwood limbs. Slowed aside a woman walking on the path, asked directions to the person operating the place.

As I spoke with the woman, I noticed the few people standing around appeared anxious, skittish. Something dark about this place, almost silent but for the sounds of pots being washed and a few curses.

The boss-man of the camp stayed in a big, white tent erected on a rise away from the others. Outside the opening to the tent was a girl tied to an old metal chair wearing a dress with her dark hair cut short. I nodded as I passed. She looked away.

Inside I met a man chewing a cigar. A short, fat man who'd clearly never worked the fields; his hands were soft, white and smooth. Tent was heavy with the smell of tobacco and sharp, pungent cologne.

Peculiar, him living aside the pickers and their families who were thin as rails and smelling like their pine-wood campfires and soured sweat. This man in pleated pants, tie and dress shirt was packing papers in a leather briefcase. Larger suitcase stood by the tent flap.

"Sir, I’m looking for work repairing tires, got experience with engines. Need any work done?" We talked for a while and agreed on a price to check the tires on his sedan, fluid levels. Before I left, I asked why the child was tied to the chair outside.

"Clearing his mind of nonsense."

"His?" I wondered. "Why is he tied?"

"Sissy-boy, pansy. You know. Got to shame that out of him if he's going to make anything out of himself." He said, chewing the stump of the cigar. “Check the tires and the spare, fill the fluids...”

As I left, I slowed by the boy in a dress and whispered, "Gotta keep your secrets to y'self." I stretched, glancing at him. Noticed he was dark, like me, but had pale eyes, wavy hair.

He nodded once, then looked back to the side as other men came and went into the tent.

A few times I saw him watching me. Kept working about twenty yards away, glancing at him often.

Shame it out of him? Damn mean practice.

Coming in Chapter 2:

New lessons on the road lead Dave to even further strange adventures. Guarding his freedom, David is forced into a potentially violent situation.

Are those the hounds of hell barking in the distance?