Sometimes the sun sets more than once in a day.
Just the other day, while walking on the prairie, heading west into the late-evening sun, I saw a glint in the light. This jogged my memory, and for a moment, I was five hundred miles to the south on another prairie, another day, standing in a flimsy wooden shack built over a dugout out on an endless level plain, facing a wind I could never have imagined. The wooden slats stammered around me, the framework groaned, the shingles sliced away, the door flew off the hinges, the windows opened wide, like a mouth, howling, stripped of the rags that had been burned for fuel long ago. The wind ripped across the bare earth, spitting dirt and fragments of brittle blonde grass, screaming like a man who had just lost his wife.
In every direction were fields turned by the plow, raked with furrows, and not a leaf in sight. It was a sketch in charcoal. There were more shacks in the distance, all shedding pieces of wood and glass in the wind. To the north, in the distance, was a black wall, no, a black cloud, roiling across the plains, tumbling like a freight train that jumped the tracks. Tumbling in my direction. It was two hundred feet tall, maybe more. But there was no rain in this cloud; the smell of wet earth and grass was not in the air. A deep breath was countered with a punishing cough. Nothing but dust. Sheets of it were swept up ahead of the cloud. Then clumps of soil. Then stones. The wind hurled them at the shack, hundreds at once, a continuous barrage. I heard a bang and turned my head to see the door bounding away. No sooner I glanced back and the cloud was across the yard and it came so swiftly that I hadn't the time to cover my face. It was upon me, turning midday to midnight, absorbing the light and air, swelling my clothes with plumes of black earth, sandblasting my skin. I ducked down, buried my head in my arm, and pressed my eyes shut, wincing as I heard debris slam against the walls of the shack. The sound of pots, buckets, fenceposts, birds, sheet metal, licence plates, dinner plates, ledgers, bonnets, shovels, milk cans, windmills, housecats, rain barrels, telephone wire, chickens, and a Bible. I think I heard a woman cry.
This went on for hours. The dirt poured in between the slats, filling the dugout like black snow, forming a drift as high as the roof. I struggled to breathe. I dug into the ground to make an air pocket. My hand fumbled upon an object, about the size of a child’s fist, square, it felt like glass. I don’t recall what happened after that.
The next day, the winds subsided and at last, I was able to tunnel out. I stood on the prairie, bathed in sunlight. Dunes of dirt could be seen all the way to the horizon, it was a black Sahara. A meadowlark called - the voice sounded like a question. I had no idea. I felt the object in my shirt pocket. I pulled it out and held it up to the sun. It was clear glass, it glinted in the sunlight. It was an inkwell. I turned and looked at the scattered remains of the shack. Why, it had been an old schoolhouse.
Now, decades later, on a prairie to the north, perhaps the very prairie that coughed up the soil for that dust storm, I stood looking to the west and I saw that glint again. I stooped to look. Same shape, same glass. It was another inkwell. My throat felt dry. I looked around for a dugout. There it was to the south, about twenty yards away. I cleared my throat. Same boards, same windows. It was another schoolhouse. It stood in the middle of a plowed field. The furrows were deep, the clods as big as boulders. The field continued into the distance where it met another plowed field which continued on until it met another plowed field, which met another plowed field, then another field, then another two or three, I could not tell, and then the horizon took over. A breeze swept up from a swale and rattled the dry grass. I picked a blade and it turned to powder between my fingers. I looked up. The sun had dropped out of sight. Soon, it would be dark again. I had to hurry, I had to go down.
I know I could not possibly remember all I that I had seen years before - but I thought, it is darker still when I don't remember what I had never known.
Just the other day, while walking on the prairie, heading west into the late-evening sun, I saw a glint in the light. This jogged my memory, and for a moment, I was five hundred miles to the south on another prairie, another day, standing in a flimsy wooden shack built over a dugout out on an endless level plain, facing a wind I could never have imagined. The wooden slats stammered around me, the framework groaned, the shingles sliced away, the door flew off the hinges, the windows opened wide, like a mouth, howling, stripped of the rags that had been burned for fuel long ago. The wind ripped across the bare earth, spitting dirt and fragments of brittle blonde grass, screaming like a man who had just lost his wife.
In every direction were fields turned by the plow, raked with furrows, and not a leaf in sight. It was a sketch in charcoal. There were more shacks in the distance, all shedding pieces of wood and glass in the wind. To the north, in the distance, was a black wall, no, a black cloud, roiling across the plains, tumbling like a freight train that jumped the tracks. Tumbling in my direction. It was two hundred feet tall, maybe more. But there was no rain in this cloud; the smell of wet earth and grass was not in the air. A deep breath was countered with a punishing cough. Nothing but dust. Sheets of it were swept up ahead of the cloud. Then clumps of soil. Then stones. The wind hurled them at the shack, hundreds at once, a continuous barrage. I heard a bang and turned my head to see the door bounding away. No sooner I glanced back and the cloud was across the yard and it came so swiftly that I hadn't the time to cover my face. It was upon me, turning midday to midnight, absorbing the light and air, swelling my clothes with plumes of black earth, sandblasting my skin. I ducked down, buried my head in my arm, and pressed my eyes shut, wincing as I heard debris slam against the walls of the shack. The sound of pots, buckets, fenceposts, birds, sheet metal, licence plates, dinner plates, ledgers, bonnets, shovels, milk cans, windmills, housecats, rain barrels, telephone wire, chickens, and a Bible. I think I heard a woman cry.
This went on for hours. The dirt poured in between the slats, filling the dugout like black snow, forming a drift as high as the roof. I struggled to breathe. I dug into the ground to make an air pocket. My hand fumbled upon an object, about the size of a child’s fist, square, it felt like glass. I don’t recall what happened after that.
The next day, the winds subsided and at last, I was able to tunnel out. I stood on the prairie, bathed in sunlight. Dunes of dirt could be seen all the way to the horizon, it was a black Sahara. A meadowlark called - the voice sounded like a question. I had no idea. I felt the object in my shirt pocket. I pulled it out and held it up to the sun. It was clear glass, it glinted in the sunlight. It was an inkwell. I turned and looked at the scattered remains of the shack. Why, it had been an old schoolhouse.
Now, decades later, on a prairie to the north, perhaps the very prairie that coughed up the soil for that dust storm, I stood looking to the west and I saw that glint again. I stooped to look. Same shape, same glass. It was another inkwell. My throat felt dry. I looked around for a dugout. There it was to the south, about twenty yards away. I cleared my throat. Same boards, same windows. It was another schoolhouse. It stood in the middle of a plowed field. The furrows were deep, the clods as big as boulders. The field continued into the distance where it met another plowed field which continued on until it met another plowed field, which met another plowed field, then another field, then another two or three, I could not tell, and then the horizon took over. A breeze swept up from a swale and rattled the dry grass. I picked a blade and it turned to powder between my fingers. I looked up. The sun had dropped out of sight. Soon, it would be dark again. I had to hurry, I had to go down.
I know I could not possibly remember all I that I had seen years before - but I thought, it is darker still when I don't remember what I had never known.
1 comments:
Good stuff!
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