Millie and the Great Drought Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  A Note from the Author

  Making Connections

  Glossary

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  Cover

  Title Page

  Start of Content

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  back cover

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cimarron County (No Man’s Land), Oklahoma

  Horn family farm

  Saturday, March 30, 1935

  6:35 p.m.

  “Hurry, Millie!” Pa called. “Come see the plants!”

  I headed from our house to the fields. The spring breeze made me shiver. Ever since the dust storms started four years ago, all I felt was cold.

  “The potatoes are growing!” Pa stroked the delicate green shoots. “This is going to be our year.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, not believing a word.

  Pa laughed. His brown eyes crinkled. “Have some faith. Potatoes are a new crop, but I can do it.”

  I didn’t doubt Pa’s skills. Our farm had been in his family since my great-great-grandfather. Farming was in our blood.

  What I doubted was the rain.

  Oklahoma never got a lot of rain, but the past four years had brought drought conditions. The humming wind that used to bring moisture now brought stinging dust storms.

  Last year, my best friend, Betty Adams, and I had tried counting how many storms hit our county. After the thirty-third, we stopped counting. It was too sad to keep going.

  To make matters worse, we were in the middle of the Great Depression. I didn’t exactly understand what it was, except it meant the price of wheat had dropped. That’s why Pa was growing potatoes this year. He hoped the crop would return our farm to old times.

  But it was hard to keep hoping.

  “Think of it, my girl,” Pa said, bringing my attention back to him. “When this crop sells, we won’t need the government to give us food. We’ll be independent again.”

  My eyes misted at the longing in Pa’s voice. I knew it was hard for him to accept help, but the storms gave us no choice. They were unlike anything anyone had ever experienced. They suffocated people and livestock, including our cows and chickens.

  When it was late and dark, I cried over our lost animals. I did it quietly, so my parents wouldn’t hear and worry.

  “It’s not so bad, accepting help, is it?” I asked.

  Pa shook his head. “The government can’t always step in. Folks need gumption to get them through difficult times.”

  I looked east to where the Johnson farm sat. Effort and a good attitude hadn’t helped them. Six weeks ago, Mr. Johnson had died from dust pneumonia. His family had been forced to leave their land and migrate to California.

  “Pa… ,” I paused. “The Johnsons moved because of the drought. Have you—” I could hardly get the words out. “Maybe we should do the same? Ma says so.”

  I think we should too, I wanted to add. But it took all my courage just to ask the question.

  “Millie.” Pa puffed out a shallow breath. “They had to leave. Mrs. Johnson couldn’t keep up with the farmwork on her own. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

  “You can’t know that,” I protested.

  Pa knelt next to me. “This farm isn’t going anywhere and neither am I,” he said firmly. “Tough times come and go. Before you were born—heck, before I was born—there was a terrible drought. But my family made it through. We’re going to be fine. We have the new crop. Remember what we always say?”

  “‘Till the soil, and the rain will come,’” I said, echoing Pa’s words.

  But I didn’t trust those words—not anymore. Everyone in our county had been tilling the soil— cutting down trees and grass to make way for wheat fields—but rain hadn’t come.

  “This farm will be here for your great- grandchildren. I promise.” Pa squeezed my hand and rose to his feet. “Come on, let’s get back for supper.”

  I followed Pa from the field. In the distance was our farmhouse. We used to have a red roof and white curtains. But after years of storms, the paint had been blasted away, and our curtains were no longer white. Ma would wash them until they shone. Then a storm would hit, and the brilliant white would turn gray-black with dust.

  Ma kept cleaning, and the storms kept coming. I wondered why she kept trying.

  As Pa and I made our way back toward the farmhouse, I saw it—the growing darkness in the sky. Static electricity jittered along my skin. My heart jittered too.

  “Pa—” I started.

  “I see it,” Pa said tightly. “Quickly, now.” He steered me toward the cellar.

  We picked up our pace, but the storm was faster than our feet.

  “Run, Millie!” Pa cried. He grabbed my hand and pulled me along with him as the black cloud rolled our way.

  “Ma!” I screamed. “Take cover!”

  I sped for the cellar door, but it was hard to see anything. Dust stung my face and exposed skin. Overhead, the sky grew dark, the sun disappeared, and the storm descended with its full might.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cimarron County (No Man’s Land), Oklahoma

  Horn family farm


  Saturday, March 30, 1935

  7:40 p.m.

  My legs pumped—harder, faster—to get me to safety. Through the swirling storm, I saw Ma at the cellar, fighting to keep the door open.

  “Come on!” she cried. “Quickly!”

  I raced down the steps. Pa took the door from Ma and locked it tight behind us, shutting out the storm and sealing us in.

  Inside the cellar, my parents were shadowy figures. I sat on the bench that ran along one of the walls. The other side was lined with shelves that used to hold food but were now empty.

  Outside, the storm raged. The noise drilled into my body and burrowed into my bones.

  Tornadoes sounded like freight trains when they hurled their fury across the plains. But these storms wailed like a blizzard.

  My skin started to itch, like there were thousands of insects scurrying along my arms. My insides felt itchy too, and I fought to stay calm. Ma and Pa had enough on their minds without worrying about me. Not that they could see me in the dim light. With the storm whining overhead, maybe they wouldn’t even hear me panicking.

  But I’d know, and I didn’t like that. I needed to be like Ma and Pa. Strong. Calm. Determined to see the storm through.

  I concentrated on staying motionless. I hoped this storm would last minutes instead of hours. I hoped Pa was right about this year’s crop.

  I shut my eyes. I was tired of hoping.

  Cimarron County (No Man’s Land), Oklahoma

  Horn family farm

  Saturday, March 30, 1935

  7:55 p.m.

  After what felt like hours, it suddenly went quiet outside. When the silence stayed and Pa was sure the storm was over, he shuffled to the cellar door. His footsteps swished against the dirt floor.

  I heard the lock disengage. Pa grunted, and the door creaked open. A sliver of light snuck through the crack.

  Pa grunted again and pushed. Dirt and daylight spilled into the cellar.

  Ma and Pa climbed out. I hung back, fearful of the destruction on the other side.

  “Come along, Millie,” said Ma, “before dinner gets cold.” There was a beat of silence, then, “Before dinner gets colder.”

  I took a breath, but my chest stayed tight.

  “Millie!”

  I jumped at Pa’s voice and stumbled out of the cellar. Outside, everything was covered in gray dust.

  I’d learned to tell where the storm had come from based on the color of the dust. Here, our dust was red. But other states were struggling with the storms too. Brown dirt came from Kansas. Gray dust meant this storm had blown in from Colorado or New Mexico.

  Pa glanced over to the field. His jaw clenched at the sight of the buried potato shoots he’d been admiring earlier. But when he looked my way, he forced a smile. “Let’s see what’s on the table tonight!”

  Dirt, I thought. Dirt is on the table.

  It wouldn’t matter that Ma had covered the food with a tablecloth. The dust and sand got everywhere. It blew in through the cracks in the walls and trickled down from the roof.

  Back at the house, we brushed dust off the table, chairs, and food. I forced myself to sit and eat. The Great Depression was hitting every American hard. Food was so scarce that the government had taken to handing out rations. I couldn’t waste dinner, even if the bread crunched with sand and there was dirt in the beef.

  After dinner, I tidied up while Ma and Pa went to sit on the back porch. I did my best, but no amount of sweeping got rid of the dust. It even coated my skin.

  As I bent to toss the rubbish into the bin, my parents’ voices drifted inside. I could tell from their low tones that they didn’t want me to hear what they were saying. Setting the broom aside, I crept to the back door and listened.

  “It’s time, John,” Ma said. “I can’t stand it anymore! Our house is never clean. We’re never clean. I’m tired of dirt in my food!”

  “Don’t be like that,” Pa soothed. “We’ve been through rough times before.”

  “Not like this!” Ma’s voice cracked. “We’re relying on the government for food. The animals are gone. The neighbors are gone!”

  “I’m sorry they didn’t want to stick it out,” Pa said, his tone flat. “But I’m not leaving. This is our home. If it rains, the crops will recover. If not, next year—”

  “Next year,” Ma spat at him. “If you’re not jawing about the rain, you’re promising next year will be better. Except it’s not. Everything is getting worse!”

  I blinked back the tears. This wasn’t a new fight. My parents had been arguing about selling the farm for more than a year.

  “We need to leave,” Ma insisted. “The prices of wheat keep dropping—twenty-three cents per bushel!”

  “That’s why we’re planting potatoes,” Pa argued. “They’re a hardier crop. They’ll sell for more. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try turnips.”

  I leaned closer, and the board under me let out a loud creak. Ma and Pa went quiet.

  I walked away, making sure the board creaked again so they’d think I left. After a moment, I snuck back to my spot.

  “If we wait much longer, we won’t have enough money to make the move to California,” Ma said, her words thick with tears. She had dropped her voice, but I still heard her. “We’ll be stuck here.”

  Tears clogged my throat too. I loved the farm as much as Pa, but Ma was right. We needed to leave. No matter what Pa said, the crops couldn’t grow without the rain. Every day, more folks left.

  “This land’s always had hardships,” Pa argued. “And my family always got through them. We’ll get through this.”

  “These storms are different,” Ma said. “They don’t stop.”

  The fear in her voice terrified me. Ma was one of the strongest people I knew. If she was scared, what hope was there?

  “This year, Mary,” Pa said, “We’ll see a reverse in our fortunes. I promise.”

  If I were brave, I’d have burst through the door and told Pa the truth. That we had to leave. That I agreed with Ma. That I was worried too.

  But it was hard to stay brave when Pa was so sad. Every time Ma brought up leaving the farm, he shut down or walked away.

  I crept away from the door and headed to bed, feeling like a coward. Maybe tomorrow I’d find my bravery and tell Pa how I felt. Maybe tomorrow the storms would be gone.

  Maybe. But I doubted it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cimarron County (No Man’s Land), Oklahoma

  Millie’s school

  Monday, April 1, 1935

  12:00 p.m.

  I sat on the wooden bench outside the school doors and waited for my friend Betty. She was a year older than me, but because of the storms and people moving, all the grades were taught in the same room. My class only had eight students.

  I kicked my feet, watching the sky. Dust storms could come at any time.

  A moment later, Betty stepped outside.

  “Here,” she said. Her blond curls bounced as she sat beside me. “I brought you these.” She dropped a handful of caramel cubes into my palm. “No one’s buying candy. Dad said I could bring some to share with you.”

  Betty’s father, Mr. Adams, owned the general store. It was kind of them to share the candy, but the caramels felt heavy in my hand.

  “No, I can’t,” I said.

  I tried to swallow the lump lodged in my throat. The food Ma and Pa received from the government was enough to feed us, but it wasn’t enough to share.

  “I don’t have anything I can trade you,” I explained.

  “They’re for you,” Betty repeated, a catch in her voice. She pushed my hand to my chest. “Millie—” She shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts. “Take them, please. From me?”

  I hesitated, then put the candies in my bag. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and lifted her sandwich to her mouth, then set it down. “I have to tell you something I heard at the store yesterday.”

  Betty often helped out at the general
store. Sometimes, if she was quiet while tidying up, the adults would forget she was there. Then she’d hear things meant for the grown-ups only.

  “What did you hear?” I asked, taking a bite of my sandwich.

  Betty leaned in. “Miss Smith told Dad that Mr. and Mrs. Pearlman left town yesterday in the dead of night,” she said. “The bank foreclosed on their house.”

  “Foreclosed?” My forehead wrinkled. “What does that mean?”

  “The bank took the house from them,” Betty explained.

  My heart stuttered. “Can banks do that?” I asked.

  Betty kicked her feet and looked away. “Dad says the Great Depression’s getting worse. That’s why banks are taking houses.”

  Worry gnawed my insides. If Pa’s potato crop doesn’t flourish, will the bank take our home too?

  “I still don’t understand what the Great Depression means exactly. Did you ask your dad about it again?” I said.

  Betty and I had both tried asking our parents before, but all they would say was that we shouldn’t worry our heads over adult matters.

  Betty blew out a frustrated breath. “Dad said something bad happened on Wall Street with the companies. They lost all their money, and so did the people who put their money into those companies.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “The Depression has everyone in trouble,” Betty continued. “Farmers can’t sell their crops. Folks are losing their homes. There’s a bunch of unpaid bills at the store. Dad tries to give people time to pay but”—she shook her head—“they don’t have money. Things are getting worse.”

  The way she said it made my palms clammy. I thought about the way she’d pushed the caramels into my hand.

  “But you’re doing all right… right?” I asked. “You and your dad are okay?”

  Betty turned away.

  “Betty?” I whispered.

  When she looked back, there were tears in her eyes. “We’re not doing well.”

  “Neither are we.” I took her hand. “We’ll get through this together.”

  Betty pulled away. “No, we won’t, Millie. Those bank foreclosures I was talking about? It’s not just for houses.” She sobbed the words. “They took our store and our home. We have nothing left. Dad says he’s closing down the store. We’re moving to California.”

  The ground felt like it was tilting beneath me. “Moving?” I could hardly get the word out. “When?”

  “In a few days,” she said.