If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

But the dugout was good enough.

Because lumber was not readily available on the plains, many families erected dugouts. These were homes dug into the lee side of a hill with only the front and possibly one or two walls being made of lumber or, in some cases, sod. These shelters were warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and offered excellent protection from the incessant prairie wind. They were also, however, dark, dank, and often crawling with insects.

And although it wasn’t my fault the barbed wire had been covered in dirt, it was my fault my brace had gotten tangled and the midwife didn’t make it in time. Helen made that perfectly clear. I had killed her baby. She told me so right after we buried her. In a voice low enough Pa couldn’t hear but loud enough I would never forget.

This was a pivotal peeling back of the first layer as we seek to understand Helen and Kathryn's tumultuous relationship. Helen's later actions may be inexcusable, but I wanted readers to at least see the very human motivations behind them.

Helen’s screams outlasted the wind. By sunrise, the storm had finally passed, leaving dust and death hanging in the air. The house quiet, I retreated from Oz to dig yet another hole in the parched earth near the fence line.

This first chapter has been called the 'make or break' chapter. I intentionally made it graphic and emotional as a way to set the tone for the rest of the book. This was an extremely difficult time period with often-times heartwrenching situations. I wanted to honor those who lived through it by being authentic about the struggles they faced while also being sensitive to those who have suffered through miscarriages and still-births. It was not a topic I approached lightly and I pray those who kept reading past these diffiicult first few pages found themselves ultimately uplifted in the end.

The air inside smelled of tobacco and leather, not sweat and dung.

Most dugouts were heated using the most readily available fuel source on the prairie: cow "chips." So Melissa's amazement at the house's pleasant smell is perfectly understandable.

For the second time that day, a tear rolled down my cheek. Frustrated, I wiped it away. I hadn’t been a child for a very long time, since my mother died. So why was I acting like one now?

The expectation of maturity placed on the youth of the Great Depression was astounding, especially in the case of someone like Melissa, who had been tasked as a mother to her younger sister before she was even able to read or write. Although Melissa was of age and playing the role of which she was expected, my heart breaks for all the ways she was really only a child. How lonely and overwhelming and scary life must have felt for her in this moment, along with the conviction that she wasn't allowed to feel--much less express--these emotions.

After several minutes, I grabbed the necklace from my nightstand and refastened it around my neck. The warmth of the silver cross soothed me, and I finally fell asleep.

I love this first subtle act of defiance. You get the sense there's more to Melissa than the woman we've seen so far.

The rabbit turned and looked, challenging us, his small mouth twisting with each bite of our precious crop. They’d gotten stupider over the past few months. Or more desperate. Either way, we weren’t looking to feed all of God’s creation, not when we were barely getting fed ourselves.

Hordes of jackrabbits plagued already weary farmers during the Dust Bowl. Even before the drought, predators such as coyotes were killed off by the thousands as settlers sought to protect their livestock. With the natural system of checks and balances already off-kilter, the out-of-control jackrabbit population fought for survival by consuming any little of greenery they could find, including farmers' preciously meager vegetable gardens.

We’re going to Indianapolis to stay with my family until this drought is over.”

I grew up in Indiana and lived in Indianapolis for a year in between my graduate and undergraduate studies. Having the Bailes travel there was a wink and a nod to my home state.

“What about the Last Man’s Club?” “Kathryn—” “When they signed that charter in Dalhart, you said you’da signed it if you could’ve. Bunch of pussyfooted quitters, those suitcase farmers. But we’re real. The last men of Boise City, you said. We’d never leave.”

The Last Man's Club was a real organization started by Dalhart newspaper man John McCarty. Vowing to outlast the dust, McCarty made a pledge to remain in the Panhandle and encouraged others to do the same. Members joined by reciting a pledge to "stay here as the last man and [to] do everything I can to help other men remain in this country. We promise to stay here until hell freezes over and skate out on the ice."

It was just easier to leave her—even a her that wasn’t her anymore—if I was mad.

This sentence sums up Kathryn in a nutshell. Her life has been one of so much pain on so many fronts. Anger, for her, is a much easier burden to bear. So many of her unlikeable qualities stem from a place of deep-seeded hurt she's trying deserately not to feel.

I pulled at my dress. Melissa had sewn it for me last year out of a leftover flour sack. It was covered in small, faded strawberries. My favorite. The prettiest thing I owned suddenly looked hideous. And suddenly I cared.

With fabric (and money) in short supply, thrifty families began sewing clothes out of leftover flour sacks. When the sack manufacturers earned of the alternative uses for their products, they began making them in different patterns and colors in order to make them more aesthetically pleasing.

“Em—” I was not a crier. But somehow tears formed behind my eyes. “Please don’t cry.”

A subtle nod to The Wizard of Oz here in Melissa's nickname.

I was no stranger to hard work, but keeping a two-story house in pristine condition in the middle of a dry Oklahoma summer was a bigger challenge than I had imagined. By the time I finished wiping down one room, the previous one was already coated with a fine layer of brown. Closing the windows didn’t help. The dirt was determined to find its way inside.

Living in New Mexico, I feel Melissa's struggle on a deeply personal level here!

And not like before. Not the shy glances. Not the gentle looks I got when I was with Kathryn. These stares were different, invisible. Stares that weren’t stares.

Melissa remembers the stares she got when she was with Kathryn as 'gentle' but, in previous chapters, we learned that Kathryn saw them differently. What a difference perspective makes.

There was nothing sophisticated about Boise City. In fact, it was barely even habitable. Maybe that’s what made the town so special. The original settlers—men like William Mayfield—refused to believe they’d been duped. Call it stubbornness, call it arrogance, call it whatever you will. Arriving here and finding no amenities and no culture, they could have left. Cimarron County wasn’t exactly welcoming. But they dug in, stuck it out, and created something out of nothing.

Boise City was created out of false pretenses. In 1908, J.E. Stanley, A.J. Kline, and W.T. Douglas, under the guise of the Southwestern Immigration and Development Company, sent out brochures advertising plots for sale in a new town in Oklahoma. Pictures showed rivers, paved streets, plentiful trees, three railroads, and numerous houses and businesses. The men ended up selling over 3,000 lots, mostly to settlers in the midwest looking to expand westward. The only problem was the advertisements were completely false. There was no river, no railroads, no trees, and very few houses and businesses. In addition, Stanley, Kline, and Douglas didn't actually own the land they had sold. The men were ultimately convicted of fraud and sentenced to prison. Despite this, Boise City, rather than withering, ended up growing and developing into a town of nearly 2,000 people by the 1920's.

Mr. Egan took my smile as his cue to kiss my hand.

This is a nod to Timothy Egan, whose book 'The Worst Hard Time' was an invaluable resource when researching The Dust Bowl.

“Did I ever tell you about your maimeó and daideó? ’Bout their trip across the ocean?” I still didn’t look at him. “They was young. Not much older than you are now. Your daideó was kicked out of Ireland for—” “Selling a bull on a Sunday,” I huffed, pulling my blanket over my head. I’d heard this story about my grandparents before. I loved it. But I didn’t want to hear it right now.

This is a legend told in my own family about why my paternal ancestors immigrated from Ireland to the United States. There is no proof, and I have no idea whether it's true, but it's a fun story to tell nevertheless.

My skin prickled with static. The birds were silent, hiding. They could feel it too.

Survivors of the Dust Bowl often noted two things that alerted them to an aproaching duster even before they could see it: a build-up of static electricity in the air and the sudden silence of birds and insects.

“Pa!” My scream was cut short by the sudden need to retch. I could feel the dirt inside me, filling my lungs, my stomach, my veins. I had to find shelter. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Sadly, medical notes from examinations of those who perished during dust storms often found the lungs of victims filled with sand. They had literally suffocated out in the open air.

I rushed over to Doris McIntosh. Her family had lived down the road from mine for years. Our fathers shared a tractor. Our mothers shared everything else. Or at least they had before. Mrs. McIntosh had not been keen on Helen. But Doris and I had not let that stop us from being friends. I embraced her, breathing in the scent of old towels.

The name Doris is a nod to my paternal grandmother, just as Melissa is my maternal granddmother and Kathryn my husband's grandmother.

The dirt shifted beneath me, covering my legs. I didn’t try to push it away. They’d driven away. Left me behind. They’d gotten their chance to finally be rid of me, and they’d taken it. A chance to finally be free from their mean, ugly, deformed daughter. The one who’d been a curse since the day she was born. Who’d killed her mother. Who refused to let anything good come into their lives.

Yet again, we see a bit of vulnerable truth behind Kathryn's often abrasive exterior; we get a view of how she sees herself. Some reviewers have remarked on how unlikeable Kathryn is--and that's the point. It is impossible to show love when we don't believe we are worthy of receiving it ourselves.

I’d heard rumors about crows scavenging dead livestock lately, eating whatever they could find since the plants dried up. Eyeballs and noses, Matthew Warren had said. Those were the first things to go on the goats after the crows landed on his daddy’s farm.

Because Kathryn is my daughter's midde name, I wanted to make sure to include my son Matthew as well. His reference may be fleeting, but it's also completely fitting with his personality. He would totally be the kid telling gross stories to scare the girls.

The figure stepped back, allowing me some space. He was tall and gangly, dressed in a navy-blue suit two sizes too small, patches on his elbows, drooping socks around his ankles. A dusty bowler hat perched crookedly on his head. His skin was greasy and red from the sun, his hair and mustache the color of straw.

A not so subtle reference to the Scarecrow here.

Nervous glances flitted in my direction. Sympathetic maybe, but to me every look said, There’s the baby that killed Lynette Baile. The deformed baby. She killed her, and now she won’t even let us mourn in peace.

Lynette was named after a very influential spiritual mother in my own life who passed away several years ago. Much like Melissa's mother guides many of her decisions, so Lynette continues to shape mine.

Creeping down the church basement stairs all these years later, I was struck by how much everything—and nothing—had changed since then. The carpet was still ugly and brown, but my dress was no longer old and black and itchy. It was pink and cotton and new. The walls were still papered with faded flowers, but my face wasn’t gritty with sweat and dirt. It was clean and powdered, enhanced with lipstick and blush. And the air still smelled old down here, like books and mothballs,

Why do church basements aways smell the same no matter where you go? Or is that just me?

I nodded, putting one hand on my chest to silence my heart. I did understand. Even these women, for all their love and faith, for all their respect within the community, were still just pawns in the game, powerless to change the rules, so intent on enforcing them instead. Their motives might have been pure but theirs was a prudent love, care shown in the constrained way that was appropriate for women of our station. I would find sympathy here, but little else.

I dont't think these women were necessarily bad, nor am I badmouthing the church in any way here. There were certain restraints put on women of the time, especially those with some degree of status, and what we in modern times may view as cowardice or apathy more than likely stemmed from self-preservation and/or a sincere belief in their lack of ability to change things.

“How about for now you take this pile here to Mrs. Gale?” “Mrs. Gale?” Her face contorted into a sympathetic pucker. “Annie Gale? Do you know her?

A nod to Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz.

Her face was plain and weathered, brown and cracked from too much time in the sun. Stringy red hair was pulled back into a bun nearly as tight as her mouth. The resemblance was striking. Green eyes, red hair, though all of it muted, tired, aged beyond the years she held over me. No one would call her beautiful, yet I could still see it. It lay just below the surface, hidden beneath layers of dust and grief.

Annie's appearance was greatly influenced by Dorthea Lange's famous Dust Bowl potrait of the migrant mother.

“Alright, alright. I was just making sure. But I digress! Yes, rain follows battles! Even Civil War soldiers knew it to be true! And why does it rain after military battles? Why?” “I don’t—” “My dear, it’s called the concussion theory. Explosions disturb the atmosphere’s equilibrium, making rain fall from the sky. Now, the good Lord has blessed us with a time of peace in this country—” he made an exaggerated sign of the cross on his chest—“but we are still in a time of hardship. And in times of hardship, we must turn to lessons we learned during times of war.”

This is an actual scientific theory put forth by those who believed they possessed the ability to control the weather. Rain merchants were sometimes scientists, sometimes con men, but all were unsuccessful in proving their claims.

But not one of us could make it rain. And especially not an idiot like Frank Fleming.

Frank's name was a combination of L Frank Baum, the author of the Oz series, and Victor Fleming, the director of the classic 1939 movie version.

His gaze floated across the dry prairie and to the pile of dynamite in his back seat. “Darling, the only thing that scares me these days is a lighted match.”

Perhaps one of the Scarecrow's most famous lines.

“I want to go home,” I whispered. “Please, God, I just want to go home.” I prayed harder than I’d ever prayed before, twisting Melissa’s handkerchief around my fingers. I prayed until I ran out of prayers and then started over again. “Please, I’m sorry. I just want to go home.”

Notice the echoes of 'There's no place like home. There's no place like home.'? Yet another subtle Oz reference.

He held me close as the band started up again, the first strains of a familiar tune. “Moonglow.” The first song we’d danced to at our wedding.

One of my favorite aspects to research is the music of the time. For example, I listened to 'Moonglow' over and over as I wrote this scene, trying to put myself in the moment with Melissa and Henry. Nothing pulls me into history like music.

I remembered her prayers, every morning, every evening, short, quiet . . . and powerful. She never left those prayers sitting on her Bible; they went with her all through the day, draped over her like a shawl, opening her eyes to things others couldn’t see, giving her strength to charge forward when others shrank away.

I strive to make this the legacy I leave behind for my own children, though I know I often fall short, as we all do.

Henry scowled. “Don’t quote Scripture at me, Melissa. I was raised in the church, same as you. I know what it says.” “I didn’t mean—” “It also says in the book of Luke, ‘Blessed be ye poor: for yours is the kingdom of God.’” “I don’t think—” “And God helps those who help themselves.” I bit my tongue so hard it hurt. I was positive that wasn’t in the Bible anywhere. But I knew better than to say so.

I have such an issue with the twisting of Scripture as well as pop culture shading its authenticity. I had to put a bit of my own soap box in here.

“Gale? Jeremiah Gale’s wife?”

I was studying the book of Jeremiah at the time I wrote this scene.

I’m no saint, but I ain’t no she-devil either, no matter what you think about me, Annie Gale. I’m a good Christian woman just trying to do right by the Lord.” I stamped my foot in frustration. “And darn it all if you won’t swallow your pride and let me!”

This is one of my favorite Melissa moments and echoes one of my favorite lines from the movie version of 'The Wizard of Oz,' when Miss Gulch arrives to take Toto away, and dear old Aunt Em sputters: "For 23 years, I've been dying to tell you what I thought of you, and now…well, being a Christian woman, I can't say it!" (Uncle Henry's face in that moment is priceless too, by the way.)

Placing his crushed hat atop his head, he retrieved his box, spat another wad of blood onto the ground, and turned toward the open prairie. His feet crunched loudly as he limped away. I watched him, unsure whether to follow. Or if I even wanted to.

In my mind, I always pictured Frank's walk here a liitle like the Scarecrow's: stumbling and uneven but trying his hardest to be stoic.

She’d told us her family was fixin’ to move to Kansas, and Big Dumb Harry’d told her to watch out for the spook who roams the Kansas roads. Long white beard and a staff. Always looking for traveling companions. Walking Will. That was his name.

This was a real person who roamed the Plains during the Great Depression, though no one knew his real name or backstory. Rumors abound but, to this day, Walking Will remains a Dust Bowl enigma.

“Well, lookee who decided to join us. Mr. Hickory, this here is Kathryn Baile.

Hickory was the farmhand in the movie version who became the Tin Man in Dorothy's Oz.

“I know many of you have heard about the roundups in Dalhart and Guymon. It’s time for Boise City to do the same. I’ve talked to old John McCarty down there, and he assured me

John McCarty was a newspaper man in Dalhart, founder of the Last Man's Club, and vehement opposer of the vast migration from the Plains. He believed fighting--not fleeing--was the only way out of the Dust Bowl.

Squinting my eyes against the gray, I saw the horde appear on the horizon. Hundreds of fast-moving blurs, growing larger as they approached, kicking up dust in their wake. On their heels, the men. Spread out in a line, herding them toward me. Bats in the air, drunken curses echoing across the plain. Shots fired. I crumpled to my knees, clapping my hands over my ears. It wasn’t long before the rabbits reached me. Their mass shook the truck, filling the air with panic. Confused and scared, they fell right into the trap and headed for the open barn door. I wanted to scream for them to stop, but my voice choked on dust and dread.

Rabbit drives were a horrifying reality of Dust Bowl survival. On one hand, they were a means to reduce the drain on what little resources farmers' had left. On the other hand, they were violent, cruel, and bloodthirsty exercises from men with nothing and no one else to blame for their plight.

But it wasn’t just Frank. Oh, I hated him, sure. And I was angry at him—angrier than I’d ever been at anyone in my whole life, even Helen, which is saying something. But when it came down to it, the one I was most angry with was God. If all Melissa’s preaching about how good He was, how much He loved me, how He’d made me special, was true, then why did He pick on me so much? He’d twisted my foot, made me kill my mother, brought Helen to my doorstep, and dried up the land beneath my feet. He’d forced us from our home, taken Melissa away, separated me from my pa, and—because I hadn’t been punished enough—sent Frank Fleming my way to steal my brace and leave me abandoned in the middle of nowhere. No, Melissa might have thought He was a loving God—and maybe He was, to her—but He didn’t love me. I wasn’t sure that anyone did. Not that I blamed them. I didn’t love me either.

This is a big moment of reallization for Kathryn and, actually, a big step on her faith journey. Being honest with God--even if we're mad at him--is recognition of His sovereignty.

The horror I’d witnessed in that desolate field—from godly men, from the man who shared my bed—had shaken my faith, the only solid rock I had left from a life that was fading as fast as the crops beneath the relentless Oklahoma sun. Where was God in this place? The God of my mother, of my youth—I could no longer see Him or feel Him here. He had abandoned this place. Abandoned me. And I had never, in my entire life, felt so alone.

For me, this was the true beginning of Melissa's journey, her catalyst for change. Though God never truly abandons us, the perception of His absence or silence can be a powerful motivator.

I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Was I supposed to sit and watch? No, that would be strange. Retreat to another part of the house and pretend someone else wasn’t doing my job? That would be even stranger.

I've always wondered what I would do if someone else came in to clean my house. I imagine, like Melissa, I'd feel incredibly awkward!

In the valley below us, a hundred cattle were grouped together. If you could still call them cattle. Bones poked out from under their dusty skin. Patches of hair were missing from their hides, and scabs covered much of their bodies. Even from a distance, you could smell disease. They moved as one, shoving and leaning, some of them too weak to stand on their own. And they were screaming. Four men on horseback circled the herd. A pop pierced the air. Then another. Then another. Pieces of the horde began dropping off one by one like flesh from a leper. Pop. Thud. Pop. Thud. Too sick to run, they simply stood there, waiting to die. My mind struggled to process as another cow fell to the ground, its scream cut short. The men were shooting them. In the head. Like fish in a barrel.

During the Great Depression, livestock prices dropped dramatically. In the Dust Bowl states, farmers couldn't sell their animals, nor could they afford to keep them. Roosevelt intervened with a "buy back" program in which the government would pay farmers for their excess hogs or cattle. The animals were then ultimately destroyed. Although harsh, this program did succeed in keeping many farmers from declaring bankruptcy.

Mr. Hickory spat a wad of tobacco from his mouth with a sigh. “I’m from Texas originally,” he said finally. “Spent most of my life as a Texas Ranger.” Well, I’ll be. Here I was, riding with a real-life Texas Ranger. Melissa would have been so jealous.

The Texas Rangers, a law enforcement agency within the state of Texas, has a long and storied history going all the way back to 1823. Originally created to protect the border, the Rangers have played a role in some of history's biggest investigations, including stopping the attempted assasination of President Taft and pursuing the famous outlaws Bonnie and Clyde.

The lump in my throat gagged me, making my words stiff. “Take it back.” Mr. Hickory snorted and lay on the ground, covering his face with his hat. “Ain’t nothing to take back.” I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the stab of discomfort. I hobbled to where he lay and stood over him, breathing heavily. He didn’t stir. Balancing painfully on my twisted foot, I kicked him in the ribs. He shot up, his hat tumbling to the ground. “Ouch! Whatcha do that for?” “Take. It. Back.” He held up his hands as I lifted my foot again. “Okay, okay! Fine! Your pa didn’t cause no drought.” He snatched up his hat and scooted away from my reach. “You happy?”

This scene was originally extended to include a reference to the Flying Monkeys (not bad guys in Baum's book). Kathryn, overwhelmed with sorrow, recites the chant Dorothy uses to call the monkeys to fly her away. Although ultimately cut for word count and pacing, it remains one of my favorite scenes and was the hardest edit of the entire novel.

There was so much water. From down here, it was all I could see. No buildings. No cars. No people. Just water that kept coming and coming. Bits of wood and leaves floated by, never stopping, for new water was coming in right behind it. Busy water, in a hurry to get somewhere. It gurgled, like Melissa used to do in her sleep when the dust got bad. It was cloudy and smelled of fish. It was beautiful.

Although I grew up in the midwest, I've lived in the desert for the past 10 years. The first time I re-visited the Mississippi River after spending so much time away, I remember, like Kathryn, being amazed at the sheer amount of water flowing past, something those who have never experienced drought or extreme dryness often fail to appreciate.

“First I gotta fix my foot.” It came out as a whisper. We both glanced at it, like it could hear us gossiping. “Does it need fixin’?” I turned to him sharply, ready to fight, only to find nothing but honesty on his face. He wasn’t making a joke. “Yes?” I didn’t mean for it to come out like a question. “Seems to me you’re getting along just fine the way it is.” I pressed my lips into a scowl. “That ain’t the point.”

My grandfather used to have a magnet on his fridge thar sais, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." It was something that always stuck with me. How often do we try to fix things based on the world's standard of broken rather than God's?