Story written for "Gloves Up | A Multi-Genre Smackdown Contest," Round 2.1 (August 2022). Genre: Historical Fiction that includes a significant weather event.

Story word count = 1996

The dust was an insidious killer. Driven by parched winds across the terrain, it sucked life from both land and soul. Dust to dust, the funeral litany went.

My six-year-old daughter, Mary, wearing her new flour-sack dress, and I had gone to church earlier this morning. Ruth stayed at home with our two-year-old son Tommy. Dust pneumonia wracked his poor body with fever, dry cough, and wheezing, turning a happy, boisterous little boy frail and withdrawn. Innocent pleading eyes begged for a relief that we could not deliver, breaking my heart.

"God tests us, like he did Job," the preacher bellowed from the pulpit earlier this morning to a packed congregation. "And by faith and prayer, we shall endure!"

I prayed, but part of me doubted it mattered. Would not God do as he will, regardless? Would he take our precious son away, despite our earnest prayers?

The periodic Black Blizzards that tortured us seemed more satanic than divine trials.

Mary dangled her legs from a chair at Doc Graham's office in Boise City, happily sucking on a lollypop and thankfully unaware of my desperation. Rumpled clothing and dark circles under droopy eyes showed Doc's weariness - so many were ill. Unsure of the date, I looked up to a tattered calendar, where red X's marked off days leading to the present: April 14, 1935.

Doc shook his head and let out a ragged breath. "I'm sorry, Frank. There is nothing I can do. Tommy is in God's hands now." He stood up and rummaged through a white cabinet, removing a corked glass bottle. "Here, take this. Camphor oil from the Orient. Rub some on his chest. Might help him breathe better. I'll swing by in a few days during my rounds."

"Thank you, Doc." My words hid disappointment. Wasn't there more he could do? I swirled the thick liquid, hoping it worked better than the turpentine and lard balm our neighbors suggested.

On our way out, Doc forced a smile and gave Mary another lollypop. "For your little brother."

As I hoisted Mary into the cab of my rusty Model A truck, a stiff north wind ruffled my hair, decidedly cooler than the earlier south breeze. Trees swayed and dried leaves skipped across the gravel road. "Best we get on home, little one," I said, casting eyes to a darkening northern sky.

As we rumbled out of town, my neck hairs stood up and my heart raced. Something about this felt ominous, as if God's wrath came. The wind picked up, trailing streamers of soil across the road and painting the air in a brown haze. I pushed down on the accelerator, urging the truck to go faster. Mary giggled each time the truck bounced, tossing her in the seat, blissfully unaware of my trepidation.

A decade ago, younger and eager, Ruth and I arrived at our Oklahoma panhandle half-section, claimed under the Homestead Act. Flat and nearly treeless, we could see for miles - so different from the Missouri hills from whence we came. Rain follows the plow, they promised, and for a several years it did, yielding bumper wheat crops and newfound wealth. But then the rain stopped and the wheat price plummeted. Some of our neighbors abandoned their farms and fled, going back east or westward to California. Determined, we stayed, eking out a living by diversifying.

It wasn't hard to figure out why the dust came, more a work of man than an act of God. All those bare plowed fields, so when the weather turned dry and the wind blew, the dust rose. The county extension agent urged farmers to stop the erosion, and I listened, but few others did.

The wind howled, buffeting the truck and pelting it with grit, and the streamers of soil became like small streams. A twinge of grief came to me, because the topsoil stripped from the fields took fertility with it.

As I turned on the narrow two-track road toward our farm, we came face-to-face with the monster. The wind shrieked a warning, heralding the approaching beast. Blackness towered high in the distance, stretching as far as the eye could see and churning in unholy turbulence. It advanced, rolling over the earth like a demon army. Flocks of birds and scores of jackrabbits fled in terror. We had faced many dust storms, but this one was the king of them all.

Mary's eyes widened and the innocent joy fled her face. "Daddy..." she said in a weak voice laced with fear. The Black Blizzards were things of nightmares for her.

"Don't worry, little one," I said in as calm a voice as I could muster, drawing her across the seat beside me. "We should get home before it hits."

We didn't. Still five miles to go, the darkness overtook us, and day turned to night.

Jagged blue-white bolts of static electricity danced along the barbwire fence beside the road while sand pelted the windscreen like a snare drum. I could hardly see two feet ahead, so I slowed the truck to a crawl, then came to a halt lest we run off into the steep ditch. Eventually, the dust would plug up the homemade air intake filter, anyway.

The storm pummeled us while howling an unquenched lust for destruction, heaving the truck like a ship in raging seas. Unable to proceed and with no near shelter, we would have to wait out the storm here. Turning my eyes upward, I mumbled a silent prayer for mercy, then as a blown branch smacked the windscreen, cracking it, I cursed God for subjecting us to this fury. I had not Job's fortitude.

Mary shuddered, crying out in terrified sobs. I gathered her into my arms, stroking her long hair. "Be brave, my little Mary. Together, we shall persevere," I counseled, as much for myself as my daughter.

The convulsive cries abated, except for a trembling lip, but as the truck tilted from a sudden swirling gust, they began anew. How could I simply tell a frightened child to be brave? A different strategy was needed.

"What was that sweet song you and your mother like to sing?" I asked. "The Jesus loves me song?" With firmed lips, Mary nodded, flopping her brown hair. Actually, after the hundredth time she sang it in my presence, it became more annoying than sweet. I put on a grin. "This is the perfect time to sing it. Who cares about a bad old dust storm, anyway?"

Clearing my throat, I sang, and soon Mary joined in. Softly at first, and adorably out of tune, we increased in volume until it rivaled the howling winds.

Jesus loves me! This I know,

For the Bible tells me so;

Little ones to Him belong;

They are weak, but He is strong.

Yes, Jesus loves me!

Yes, Jesus loves me!

Yes, Jesus loves me!

The Bible tells me so.

We knew only the first verse and refrain, so we sang it over, and over, and over... But as a grin grew on my daughter's face, I didn't mind at all. We sang until we could sing no more.

"Are Mommy and Tommy okay?" Mary asked after a period of silence.

I gulped as my heart lodged in my throat. I did not know, and the not knowing twisted my gut. After taking a swig of water from a canteen to hide my apprehension, then passing it to Mary, I evaded her question. "I think they are wondering the same about us."

Time stretched on as we waited out the roaring beast - how long, I was not sure. The beast lashed with a thousand dusty claws, but the truck cab protected us from the worst. However, some dust found its way inside, seeping through the smallest of openings. A thin film of fine dirt rained down the inside of the side windows.

And then it ended as quickly as it had come.

The evening sun pierced through the brown hazy remains of the storm. Dirt dunes stretched across the road and ditch, some places covering the fence.

Mary put on a smile that lifted my heart. "Can we go home now, Daddy?"

"I have to check the truck first," I replied. After inspecting for damage, finding none that would strand us, I opened the hood and cleaned out the air filter. "There we are," I said, returning to the cab. "Now we can go home." I blew out a big sigh of relief when the engine rumbled to life.

The last few miles were slow going as we plowed through or veered around the dunes. One time, I had to get out and shovel a path. But eventually, we arrived home.

I held my breath as the farmstead came into view. The house, barn, and windmill still stood defiant, although as we drew closer, I noticed roof and exterior damage. All these could be fixed. Several chickens strutted across the yard, pecking at the loose dirt with their beaks. The coop must have been damaged.

Dirt dunes stretched across the yard like frozen brown waves, and buried the new tractor parked by the barn up to its axles.

Broken limbs littered the tree row to the north that I planted years ago to buffer the winter winds. To our fortune, they also served gallantly as front-line soldiers against the dust storm. My heart sunk as my eyes panned outward to the fields. What little of the wheat crop that survived the dry winter was gone, scoured from the land by the beast.

But all this was secondary to what was most important. Heart pounding, I brought the truck to a skidding stop near the house. Taking Mary in my arms, I bounded up onto the front porch, kicking up small clouds of dust. It took several yanks on the front door to push away the dirt pile that barred it closed.

Bursting inside, I shouted, "Ruth?"

The responding silence tore at my heart. I shouted again through the dusty air, dashing from room to room in the small house. She and Tommy were not inside.

Undisturbed, fine dust covered every surface in the house, and small dirt piles marked the floor beneath every window and door. I spun around as icy dread rose from a dark place in my soul, dizzying my mind. Surely, they would not have left during the storm...

A muffled sound came to my ears, like distant bellowing, and I froze to listen. It came from outside, near the back door. "I hear Ruffus," Mary said with a widening smile. Our hound dog.

Of course! The root cellar, which doubled as a tornado shelter. I slung open the back door and set Mary down. A mound of dirt weighted down the swinging cellar door, just behind the house. Ruffus let out another drawn-out howling woof from the depths beneath it.

"Frank!" yelled a familiar female voice from underneath.

"Hold on!" I shouted back. "We'll get you out."

Heart soaring, I sprinted back to my truck to retrieve a shovel. After a flurry of digging, I whipped the cellar door open, swinging on its hinges until it crashed to the ground. Carrying our young son, Ruth emerged from the underground hole and collapsed into my arms, pressing her dirt traced face against my shoulder. Mary grabbed her mother's leg, making it a family hug.

"Thank God you are all right'" Ruth whispered. "I feared the worst."

I ruffled Mary's hair. "Well, we had quite the adventure." Taking Tommy into my arms, I said to him, "And it looks like you had an adventure as well, my little boy."

As the most wonderful of innocent smiles crossed the Tommy's face, Ruth winked, "His fever broke. It's a miracle."

A blissful peace flushed through my soul, pushing out the darkness. We endured, and I that most dear, I still possessed. I turned my head up and whispered a simple prayer of thanksgiving, "Thank you, God."

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Dust bowl photograph by Dorothea Lange, 1935.

'Jesus Loves Me' lyrics by Anna B. Warner, 1860.