I played a game of identifying the night sounds. Most sounds were familiar, such as the yipping of coyotes, the lowing of cattle, and the little creatures scurrying in the grass. Sometimes, I saw a scorpion or a snake. I had a working agreement with them: If they didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t bother them. They usually kept their part of the bargain, and I kept mine.
The great outdoors provided an amazing amount of food. The Indians lived on it full time; surely, I could live on it for a few days.
I camped near a stream if I could find one. A stream provided water to drink, food to eat, and a place to bathe. If there were no streams, there was usually a pond that farmers or ranchers had built to provide water for their animals. Most ponds contained fish, crawdads, and bullfrogs—all of which I could eat, if I had to. I knew how to catch, clean, and cook them. Living in the wild presented no problem that I couldn’t overcome.
When it rained, I found shelter beneath a bush, a bluff, or a rock. I liked the rain. I liked the smell of rain on dry soil. The rain cleaned the air and, after the rain, it was as though the world had been reborn. Little animals came out to enjoy the freshness of the newly cleansed world. Flowers and other plants would stand up and shine with a new glow as if they, too, were pleased. After the rains passed, I continued my journey.
With each mile, I saw a new place, met a new person, and experienced a new adventure. I learned that difficulties and troubles were merely things to be overcome.
THE SUNRISE
In 1938, the economy was recovering, but times were still hard. In the central part of the United States, a great drought was in progress. The area was referred to as the Dust Bowl. Many farmers were forced to leave their farms; in the wake of violent dust storms, some towns became ghost towns.
I’m the fourth child of a farm family with nine children. We had no money to buy even the necessities; our family was struggling to survive, and we were in danger of losing our farm. Hundreds of men were searching for work, and there was little work to be had.
It was early summer, and school was out. I had to do what I could to help put food on the table and help Father make the payments on the farm to prevent the bank from foreclosing. The farm was all we had, and it would be devastating to lose it. Mother and Father were reluctant to have me leave the farm and travel the country seeking employment. I was only thirteen, but there was no other way, so I was traveling west.
I was walking along old Highway 66, somewhere in West Texas. The land was flat, and the day was warm. In the distance, the horizon was shimmering in the rising heat, and I wiped the sweat from my brow. My last ride had ended a mile or two back, so I’d been walking. It didn’t make any sense to just stand and wait for a ride. The highway went on and on, and one place was as good as another to catch a ride. It didn’t matter where the ride was going, as long as it was going west. It was rumored that there was employment in California.
I saw an old pickup truck coming. It was still half a mile or more away, but as I watched it coming closer, I saw that it was not so old; it was just hard-used, like many another farm and ranch truck. The driver was wearing an old weather-beaten felt hat, and I guessed that he was a rancher or farmer, not going far—just to his ranch or farm or to whatever town was nearby. He saw me while he was still a hundred yards or so away and started to slow down to look me over. After he passed, he applied the brakes . . . he had decided to give me a ride. I walked up beside the truck on the passenger side.
The driver opened the door. “Hop in, son,” he said. “Where are you going?”
His manner was straightforward and his voice friendly. He was a man about fifty with work-hardened hands and a wind-wrinkled face. His clothes were typical ranch clothing: a plaid shirt, denim pants, heavy leather belt, riding boots, and Western hat. His smile was open, and I felt he was a man I could trust. I stepped up into the truck. “West,” I answered.
“That would be California,” he said and gave a chuckle.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I laughed. “I’m following the sun. When I have gone as far as I can go on land, I’ll probably be in California.”
“What are you doing way out here in the middle of nowhere?” he asked.
“My last ride was with a rancher who turned off the highway to his place back down the road a piece.”
As we talked, he told me that he had been born and raised on the ranch he now owns. Other than the time he spent in the army, he had lived on his ranch all of his life. “I like what I’m doing,” he said, “and feel no need to go looking for another way.”
I told him why I was traveling, but I didn’t have to tell him why I was hitchhiking—he knew it was because I had no money.
We were riding through a broken country of canyons and ravines where the dirt was the color of rusting iron. In the distance were cliffs with higher levels of plateaus and buttes. High on the plateaus, timber grew. The faces of the cliffs showed many shades of gray, red, even black.
After riding for a few hours, we came to a small town at a crossroads with the highway on one side and a railroad track on the other. We stopped at a service station that had a café behind it. I thought about the food that would be served inside, and I was hungry, but I had only a dime. I thought I’d better hang onto that dime…I might need it down the road.
After filling the fuel tank, the driver said, “Perhaps you might want to get off here. I’m only going a couple of miles farther, and then I’ll have to turn off the highway to my place, and you’ll be left out in the country again.”
“Thank you, but if it’s all right with you, I’ll just ride along as far as you’re going.”
“Hop in,” he said.
His turnoff was a dirt road that led away from the main highway and across the prairie. He stopped to let me out. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, I’ve been all right for quite a while,” I replied.
“You’ll do just fine. I’d bet my hat on it,” he chuckled.
Once again I waited beside the road, watching the cars going west. They were loaded with people with a definite purpose, seeking a place to live, work, and find a new life.
Many of the cars had mattresses on top. Like me, some of these travelers no doubt slept beside the road. After setting up camp, they cooked their meal, sat beside the fire for a while talking, and then went to sleep. Probably, one of them stayed awake to keep watch while the others slept. They had no money for motels or hotels and were worried about having enough money to buy gasoline to reach their destination.
I was a part of a great migration going west.
After about an hour, the sun, like a giant ball of fire, slowly slid behind the distant mountains. The colors grew fainter, and with night coming, I knew that there was little chance of getting a ride, so I walked out on the prairie to find a place to sleep before it got too dark to see. I found a spot with grass for a cushion, and not too many rocks for vermin to crawl from under. I found a few wild onions and sat chewing on them as darkness closed in. I watched and listened while the whole world settled down for the night. The land around me was flat, with a few gullies here and there. Cactuses and mesquite grew randomly along with the occasional willow or cottonwood.
In the distance, I saw the foothills of the Rockies. I knew I would be entering them soon, and I was looking forward to it because I had never seen mountains before. The glow of the setting sun faded fast.
I heard cattle lowing. Then I heard a couple of coyotes off somewhere in the night. I felt the day coming to an end. Stillness settled around me, darkness gathered, and then all I could see were the shadows of things nearby.
I took my extra shirt from my duffle bag and put it on to ward off the night chill. When all of the light was gone, everything was black except the sky. The darkness was complete, except for the stars. I was fascinated by the three-dimensional array of stars against an ink-black sky.
Lying with my bag for a pillow, I looked up at the stars. This must
be what it was like for all humankind before there were so many people to distract us from the beauty that surrounds us. Looking at the stars was almost ethereal. I could hear myself breathing, and I could hear my heart beating. I felt as though I was one with the whole universe. I must have watched for more than an hour. I don’t remember falling asleep.
I awoke in the night, but I had no idea how much time had passed. I had no watch, and even if I had had one, it would have been too dark to see. I had grown up on a farm and slept outside many times, but never quite like this. I was completely alone in a strange environment. I knew no one, and no one knew me. I didn’t even know for sure where I was. While riding with the rancher, we had crossed the Texas–New Mexico border. I lay there wondering how long until morning? And what lay ahead?
I had to have something to eat, and soon. While I knew how to get food from the prairie—I could trap a rabbit or a quail—I felt that doing so would take up valuable time. I had to find work and earn enough money to buy food.
I felt, more than saw, a slight yielding of the darkness in the east. Then I heard rustling in the grass to my right; something else was awake. I wondered what it might be. A snake? Nah, a snake makes no sound unless it’s being chased—there was nothing to chase a snake, so it wasn’t a snake; and it was too early for a ground squirrel.
I looked again to the east. In a little while, I saw a trace of light, and then the horizon was plain. The trace of light became a white glow—very faint, but a glow. Time passed, and soon the shadows began to take shape.
A little pink mixed with the white on the horizon. The world was stirring, like a child rubbing the sleep from its eyes. I had watched the world go to sleep last night, and now I was watching it awaken. The white on the horizon turned to red and gold. A faint wisp of clouds reflected the growing light. I heard the cows again, probably going for their morning drink. I heard a calf call to its mother and the mother call in reply. I felt a slight movement of air, a breeze, ever so light. It was like a caress on my cheek. The silhouettes were identifiable now, and I could see the green color in the trees. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath as the sun broke over the horizon and a crescendo of light streamed across the sky, lighting everything around me.
A new day was born, and I was a part of it. I felt as though I had helped the night give birth to the day.
***
I had to make a decision. I had traveled more than a thousand miles in three days. I was tired, hungry, and I needed a bath. Should I continue hitchhiking west, hoping to find work to pay for a meal? Or should I go back to the little crossroads town I had seen the previous evening? I figured there were four opportunities for work at the crossroad: the service station, the granary, the restaurant, and the farmers stopping in for service. Any of them might be willing to hire me. At the service station, I could pump gas, fix tires, and do lube jobs; or I could work at the granary. I had had a lot of experience moving grain. Some of the farmers or ranchers might need help, and I’d done all kinds of farm work.
I decided that my best bet was to walk the two or so miles back to the town. I knew what was there. To continue west was to take a chance. I hadn’t eaten for two days, and I couldn’t go much longer without food.
Back at the crossroads, I went into the café and ordered a cup of coffee and a doughnut. The coffee was five cents and the donut was a nickel—there went my dime. I wanted to size the place up. A man was working the place alone. He cooked, waited the counter and six tables, and kept the place clean. He was a very busy man, and I was betting he needed help. When he walked by, I said, “It seems to me you need a dishwasher.”
He sized me up in an instant. “I sure do,” he replied. “Do you mind washing dishes?”
“Not at all. I’m the best dishwasher you’ll ever see.”
“When can you start?”
“Right now.”
He handed me a dishcloth. “There’s the sink,” he said.
Without further exchange, I started working, washing dishes and cleaning the counter and tables. We closed the place at 6 o’clock, then sat and talked.
“I’ll pay you two dollars per day, and all you can eat,” he said.
That “all-you-can-eat” part sounded good to me. “It’s a deal,” I said. “I’ll have a hamburger and a milkshake.”
He said my name is Joe Swanson, smiled, and made the hamburger and milkshake. I told him that the pay would be just fine and that I would see him the next morning. He also told me I could use the facilities in the back for cleaning up.
The back of the restaurant had a makeshift shower and an old sink. I took a bath, washed my hair, and then washed my clothes. I had everything I needed. In the days that followed, I washed my clothes after work, took the wet clothes with me to where I slept, and hung them on shrubs, knowing they would be dry by morning. I took them down, folded them, and put them in my duffel bag before daylight.
After that first day, I walked out on the prairie, found a better place to sleep, then gathered grass and made a bed under a ledge of rock. The ledge would provide a little protection in case of rain. I would also be able to build a fire should I need one. But I never built one…I didn’t want to disclose my place of residence.
That night I slept better. I had had a good shower, food in my stomach, a better bed, clean clothes, and a job to go to. I was in seventh heaven!
The next morning I got to the café at 5:30 and washed in the sink. Then I opened the café, started coffee, and then wiped down the tables and counters. The place was ready for customers when the owner arrived. He was pleased and fixed my breakfast first thing.
I met many interesting people. Most of them stopped for gas at the service station before continuing west on Highway 66. The farmers and ranchers who lived nearby stopped in from time to time, and I got to know some of them. They were curious about me not only because I was a stranger in their midst, but because I was just a kid. Everybody was wondering what I was doing there.
When anyone asked me where I lived, I told them, “Oh, just outside of town.” The expression “just outside of town,” when you’re talking about the Great Plains, could be two minutes, or ten miles.
A woman asked me if my mother knew where I was.
“No,” I told her, “but she has lots of other kids to worry about.” I don’t think my answer satisfied the woman, but she was polite enough not to pursue it further. The customers who interested me the most were the families moving west. They were poor and ate sparingly. Some had the gaunt faces of people suffering malnutrition. I wanted to help by giving them food, but I had an employer to be loyal to.
Two weeks passed, and I decided it was time to move on. I told Mr. Swanson that I had to continue west and asked him to pay me. He said he was sorry to see me leave and offered me a raise if I would stay.
“No, there’s something waiting for me out there, and I’ve gotta go find it,” I told him.
He asked me to write and tell him if I ever found what was waiting for me. He said that he, too, had looked for it at one time, but he had been unable to find it, so he stopped looking. If I found it, perhaps it might give him the courage to try again. I told him that I would let him know. He paid me twenty-eight dollars from the cash tray. I thanked him, picked up my duffle bag, walked out on to Highway 66, and continued west.
I made it to California, where I found better-paying work at the shipyards in San Pedro. I stayed there for the remainder of the summer, and then returned home with enough money to help make the payments on the farm.
THE QUICKSAND
Naoma worked as a schoolteacher in a big city back east somewhere, and as always, when her school was out, she came home for the summer. This time, she brought Dave, the ten-year-old son of a friend of hers, home with her. Dave was to stay with us on the farm for the summer.
An extra boy on a farm with a large family of boys was no trouble at all, and Naoma knew it. Mother cooked for a big family anyway, and she would just put a little more in th
e pot.
It was the summer of 1939. We boys slept just about anywhere we happened to be when we got sleepy. The barn was down the slope from the house about a hundred yards and had troughs for feeding the horses and stalls for milking the cows. Sometimes we slept in the hay in the barn, or in a stack of hay in a field, and other times we slept in the bed of the wagon. We bathed in the tank that held drinking water for the animals, or in the creek. Father said that we slept more like a pile of dogs than people. For us, it was a quick and easy way to sleep; no trouble getting up or down. We liked it that way.
To my brothers and me, every day was just another day, but to Dave, every day was an adventure. Each morning we went out to the pasture to get the cows, drove them into the barn, and fed and milked them. We then gathered the eggs and tended to the other animals. We had horses, mules, cows, pigs, chickens, and sometimes sheep and goats, all of which had to be cared for.
Dave knew the different animals, but he had no idea how to care for them. He had to learn it all, and we enjoyed watching him trying to learn, and we kidded him about it. He had never seen animals mating and birthing. To us, it was fundamental. I’m sure it would have been just as difficult for us to learn the things we would need to know to live in his world. But we weren’t in his world; he was in ours. He took the kidding well, and we admired his spunk.
Brief Moment in Time Page 7