Haunted Hearts

OTHER PUBLICATONS BY JOHNNIE MCDONALD

NOVELS

The Deweyville Church Secretary trilogy with Frankie Carroll:

Devil’s Basement

Loose LIPS

Boilerman

The Property

Final Test

Texans First, The New Republic

Bondsmen, book one of trilogy

BIOGRAPHY

Something Special by Frank and Peg Brady

DISCLAIMER

Although the author has utilized stories, characters, and events from history as inspiration, Haunted Hearts is a work of fiction. References to real people, incidents, dates, or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity, not to represent historical fact.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

DEDICATION

Mike Forester could outrun her brothers and their welt-producing beanie flips. Running down dirt roads in the country was the extent of extracurricular activities for an indigent girl raised in the aftermath of the Great Depression and during the Oklahoma droughts.

Melvina, known in her pre-teen years as Mike, has been on the run most of her life. Running from poverty and illness and death, and running to prepare her two daughters for a better future.

The answer most often given when women are asked who they respect most in the world is: my mother. My answer is definitely the same. Melvina, my mother, is the strongest, most logical, most capable woman I have ever known. Perhaps she nor I have achieved saint status, however, if she had a middle name, it would be goodness.

I love you, Mom. This may be a fictionalized account, a medley of people and events, but along with the tribulations, I hope it brings back fond memories. Thank you for showing me what courage looks like.

Your loving daughter,

Johnnie

A thank you to Sandy Mannis who, even though she said this novel made her sad, provided her time and expertise in the editing process.

PROLOGUE

HARVEY’S DRUGSTORE: 1974

Man-oh-man, it looks so cool in there, not so danged hot like out here in this blasted sun. Lotsa people goin in and outta there with big ole grins. Yep, betcha it’s got air-conditionin and maybe they got them big cushy booths what squish when ya plop your butt down in ‘em and then ya gotta slide alla way to the other end and sometimes your sweaty legs get stuck on that slick vinyl stuff and ya gotta rip ‘em off.

What’s that on the bank over yonder say? Can’t hardly read it, so much sweat in my eyes. Oh, yeah, August 12, 1974. 106 Degrees. Dang, don’t ‘member ever bein in this kinda heat.

Gonna walk on over there and get me a peek in that plate glass window, see what everybody’s doin. Don’t care if he yells his stupid head off and threatens to beat the livin tar outta me. Can’t sit here on this hard bench no more and watch the pigeons scratch the dirt. One’s liable to shit on me. Don’t like birds no how. Ah! Lookee there. That old geezer spit right at them birds and scattered ‘em all to hell. Um. I betcha if I had me a juicy plug I could spit better’n that gomer. Ain’t got no choppers that’s why he can spit so good. Got me exactly twenty-three cents in my lousy pockets and that ain’t enough to buy me a pop let alone a plug.

Dang it all. Even if this is the seat of the county or whatever he calls it, I’m sick of it. It’s a mighty piss poor town if ya ask me. Like all the rest of the piss poor towns we done been in. Yep, gonna take me a stroll over yonder to the drugstore and peek in that big ole window….

Lordy, everybody’s eatin ice cream and drinkin sodas. Wish I had me two maybe three scoops of strawberry ice cream with some of that white whippie stuff and five maybe six cherries on top. He’s over there in the court house doin whatever kinda business he’s doin and expectin me to wait like I always do, bored and hot and hungry. Nobody’s gonna pay no attention if I squeeze inside the door, stand in the corner, pretend I’m invisible like….

Oh yeah, it’s worth whatever lickin I’m gonna get. Them giant ceilin fans are stirrin air all ‘round real breezy like. About blistered my bare feet all to hell on that stinkin sidewalk. This wood floor feels real soothin. Smells kinda funny in here, maybe like the place where my Auntie Earlene works where he took me to get stitches in my head the time I fell outta the truck.

Gawd. That old lady and little girl at the soda fountain keep eyeballin me. They’re whisperin and lookin over thisaway. Betcha the girl wouldn’t say boo if I was to go on over there and start talkin real friendly like. Ignore me is what she’d do and keep on eatin her friggin ice cream sittin up there like a spoilt princess danglin her legs in those prissy white socks with ruffles on ‘em. Lordy, sure does have pretty red hair. Ain’t never seen red hair like that—all curly and thick and bright as a new penny. Betcha that there’s the color of angel hair. Oh, man, it’s gettin kinda foggy in here….

Holy shit! The old lady’s comin over here. What’d she say? Didn’t hear…didn’t understand….

What’s this wet thing doin on my head and why am I layin all sprawled out on the floor? The lady’s standin over me and sayin something….

Young man, young man. Are you all right? Oh my goodness. Here, let me help you sit up…Slowly now, take it easy, you’ve had a fainting spell. Harvey, get this boy some water...No, no, don’t go just yet. Here, drink this water. It’s mighty hot outside and I think you’ve got a touch of sun stroke. Best get plenty of liquids in you and keep you cool. Come over here and sit down in this booth...That’s better. Where’s your family, son?

Over at the courthouse, ma’am. Okay, so I’m sittin in the booth, but that’s all the talkin I’m able. My head’s spinnin like one of them fans and my mouth feels like dirty socks. My belly don’t feel none too good, neither. The gas station sausage biscuit I ate this mornin is threatenin to come up on me. Wish I could lay down on this cool vinyl and sleep ‘til I’m growd. Thank ya, kindly, ma’am. I better get goin ‘fore my daddy figures I’m lost or somethin.

Why don’t you stay a while longer, until your color returns? You still look a mite peaked. Look, you can see the front door of the courthouse from this booth. Lennie, get another wet towel and bring it over here.

Geez, just what I need. Faintin in the middle of the floor like a girlie ain’t humiliatin enough. That brat’s gonna come over here, look me over like I was store goods, ask all kinda nosey questions about my raggedy-assed clothes and my butchered hair. And then crap like where do I live and where do I go to school.

Okay, GrannyLo, just a minute.

Yeah, go ahead and spoon another helpin of that strawberry ice cream into your mouth. Boy howdy, it looks powerful good. Now she’s hoppin off the stool and comin thisaway.

Here ya go. Cripes, Grannylo, is he gonna die?

No, child, he’s not going to die. And what did I tell you about swearing? Now, give me the rag. Harvey, fix this boy a toasted cheese sandwich and a malted. We should get some food into him.

Sombitch! I’m gonna get walloped for sure. He’ll figure I been in here beggin for food and I’ll have to listen to the same ole crappy lecture ‘bout how Foresters are poor, but we don’t never take handouts from nobody.

Are you feeling better, little boy? Uh, what’s your name?

What now? The youngin’s sittin down in the booth and lookin straight at me. Shit, here come the forty questions. That voice. Didn’t sound like no regular girl I ever heard. Must still be feelin squirrely. Sounded like she was singin with her words all strung together. And smooth like honey. Christ Almighty, she’s starin straight into my face with the biggest green cat’s eyes I ever did see. Got gold specs in those eyes. And cute freckles on her angel face, and whoa….

Oh cripes, little boy, did you faint again? GrannyLo, he’s not answering me. Are you sure he’s gonna be all right? He’s so sad and skinny. We should take him home with us, make sure he gets to feeling better. I’ll tend to him, I promise. Little boy, would you like to come home with us? My Grannylo makes the bestest lemonade and peanut butter cookies.

My eyes are open and she’s still starin a hole in me. How about that? She wants to take me home. This must be what that preacher was shoutin about the time I got me a back row seat at a tent revival. He was goin on about God’s angels and foot soldiers in His army and gettin saved. This girl must be one of those angel soldiers and she’s come to save me. Wonder what it’ll be like when we get home? Hope there’s a cold creek with a tire swing hangin from the trees and maybe she’s got some brothers to play with. Sure would like to have some of her granny’s peanut butter cookies. Yep, angels must have red hair….

Grannylo, he’s mumbling all kinds of weird stuff and he said angels must have red hair. Did you hear that? Oh, we’ve just got to take him home with us. He thinks I’m a angel.

Geez, she’s reachin out to touch me...Holy crap! What in the hell was that? It felt like I was zapped by electricity when she touched my cheek. And she jerked her hand away so fast, maybe she felt it. She’s blinkin her eys and rubbin her arm.

Ouch. Grannylo, my fingers tingle like I slept on them. It feels funny all the way up my arms...Um, he’s got the prettiest blue eyes and dimples in his cheeks. Granny, do we know this boy?

He looks familiar, dear, but I don’t believe he’s from around here. And to answer your other question, no, we cannot take him home. He’s not one of those wounded animals you drag home to nurse. He’s a real flesh and blood boy with a family somewhere about. We can’t go taking in strangers like they’re a lost puppy.

I…I think I’m feelin better, ma’am. Just a little groggy. I’ll finish that water if ya please and then I best be goin. The girl’s clappin her hands.

Oh, goodie, he’s talking now. Did you mean it? Do you think I’m a angel?

Angel? I, geez, I don’t know what you’re talkin ‘bout.

Oh pooh.

Now she’s poutin with her bottom lip stuck out, but it’s kinda cute.

Well, what’s your name?

It’s, uh, my name’s Dean Forester.

"Young man, how do you spell Forester? One r or two?" Why in tarnation is the grandmother askin how to spell my name?

One, ma’am. Look, ya’ll been real nice, but I gotta get outta here right now! Too late, there he is, mean as you please, standin in the doorway with a spiteful look on his sorry face. Won’t do no good, but I might jump the gun on ‘im, sorta throw ’im off guard. Hey, Daddy, I’m over here. I passed out ‘cause of the heat and all and this nice lady was givin me some water and tryin to make me lay down. I’m feelin better now and I was fixin to come lookin for ya.

What do you want me to do with this here cheese sandwich, Loretta?

Harvey. Dammit. He’s handin over a plate with a sandwich and chips. Oh, I ain’t hungry, sir. Thank ya, anyways.

Mr. Forester, I’m Loretta Spavinaw. Your son has a touch of heat stroke and I took the liberty of ordering him some nourishment. Grandmother’s smilin at Daddy and holdin out a hand for a shake and lookin at ‘im like she knows ‘im. He’s shakin her hand, but he don’t like it, I can tell.

I’m sure he’ll be awright. I’ll tend to his needs, but I ‘preciate what ya done for ‘im, ma’am. Come on, son, we best be gettin on down the road.

Wait, Dean Forester. Take this sandwich with you.

Cripes, what am I gonna do now? The red headed girl grabbed the sandwich off the plate and put it right in my hand. Be rude not to take it. Thank ya, miss. Good-bye.

I knew it. Rotten sombitch. Can’t even let me have a taste of a stinkin cheese sandwich. Has to throw it in the trash as soon as we get out the door. Ain’t never seen a sandwich looked so good. I hate his miserable guts.

Stop bellyachin, Dean. Ya know we don’t accept handouts, least ways not from no Spavinaw.

PART I

ALMOST THERE: LORETTA’S MEMORIES

GREAT DEPRESSION TO 1948

CHAPTER ONE

My great-grandfather was born with an allegorical shovel in his hand. As a second generation of Irishmen who migrated to America as a result of the potato famine of 1840, he dug the Illinois and Michigan canals linking Lake Michigan to the Illinois River. Mind you, I’m not trying to teach you history lessons or trace the family tree back to Moses, but it’s important you become acquainted with my family if you are to appreciate my story telling. I am a McClendon, a descendant of those ragtag Irish immigrants. My name is Loretta McClendon Spavinaw.

Before my grandfather Daniel McClendon grew out of short pants, he too was put to work digging ditches in Chicago. Because the Irish performed the dirty work for Chicago society, he claimed he was treated like poor white trash. With no opportunity for advancement or decent wages, and squalid living conditions and over-crowding in a city growing by leaps and bounds, he became fed up. Only fourteen, he exited Chicago and walked westward until he hit a farm in Dundee, Illinois where he was hired as a field hand. Farming made Grandpa happy.

Around 1890, Grandpa Daniel married a farm girl from Indiana, a stout woman of mixed Anglo-Celt-Scandinavian decent named Olga Cronin. They sharecropped for a couple of years while hoping to one day own land. When the news about the opening of the Oklahoma Territory hit the papers, he knew his dream had come true even though his young bride was unenthusiastic about moving far from her family. He turned a deaf ear to her and readied for the trip. Grandpa obtained two mules from the army, purchased a covered wagon, and he and Grandma Olga joined a wagon train bound for Oklahoma. It wasn’t long before he discovered why he had gotten such a good deal from the army for those mules. Because these two brainless animals kicked and brayed and bolted and resisted every trick at coercion, Grandpa was banned to the back of the train to eat dust and listen to the limitless litany of grievances Grandma Olga turned out to be so expert in communicating. Leaving her family and moving to a strange land, a land without towns or stores or doctors, a land supposedly filled with wild Indians and even wilder outlaws, took a lot of gumption. As a pioneer woman, she performed man’s work and women’s work, she had babies and she lost babies, and she wasn’t about to kowtow to anyone simply because she was a woman. Olga was a tough broad and she didn’t believe in coddling or giving a person his due until it was earned, and she certainly didn’t believe in keeping her miseries to herself—she could squawk louder than a wet hen in a hail storm and carry on longer than a lonely tom cat over the most trivial of life’s nuisances.

Oklahoma was opened in five separate land runs, land lotteries, and land auctions. Most people are familiar with the fourth and largest run of 1893, the Big Run for the Cherokee Strip. It was on the second run of 1892, when Payne County was settled, that Grandpa obtained his one-hundred and sixty acres. His claim doesn’t appear on the Land Tract Books as a first owner, but he swears he made the run and staked his claim to a fertile spot north of the Cimarron River, the location which eventually became our wheat farm.

Gabriel McClendon, my daddy, was born shortly after Grandpa and Grandma put together a soddie on the plains. With him toddling along behind, they dug wells and planted wheat and waited, waited through freezing winters and waited through dry summers. It was rough for the first couple of years, but eventually their wheat harvest turned profitable. With the help of neighbors, they raised a two story farm house and a barn and for the next seventeen years they became self-sufficient acquiring milch cows, beef cattle, chickens, hogs, and two well-behaved mules for plowing. Grandma Olga produced a vegetable garden and an apple orchard and three surviving children.

Gabriel was a teenager, plowing the fields, when the letter came for him to report to Guthrie. All he had ever known was the farm and an occasional trip to Stillwater, a semi-annual event of extreme amusement. America’s entry into the European war meant he would go from farm boy to infantry, from Oklahoma to France or Germany, within a matter of months.

When the war was over, Gabriel wrote to Grandma Olga and said he couldn’t return to the farm, not for a while anyway. His letter said he wasn’t right in the head, and didn’t know what to do with himself. Of all the unlikely places for him to end-up, he landed in Chicago, searching for a place to forget. What he found was a shovel and the bottle.

Grandma Olga was beside herself. She wrote weekly and begged him to come home. Finally, she managed to find a telephone at a feed store and put in a call to him at a run-down flop house. Her first time to speak on the machine, she yelled into the contraption, Son, your place is down here on this farm. You need your family around you to help you get over whatever terrible things you seen and done in those foreign trenches. Lord have mercy, I do believe for some peculiar reason, God done intended Irishmen to be the ditch diggers of this world. Your daddy and granddaddy was diggin ditches up there in Chicago, and you done been sent over there to Europe to dig ditches for their war. If you got to have a shovel in your hand, Gabriel, might as well be plowin ditches on a farm where you can see what the bounties of your diggin will get for you. Come on home, son. Your two sisters have married and gone off and we need your help with the wheat harvest. Well, and if you don’t get yourself home soon, boy, I’m sendin your daddy up there to get you and drag you back here by the hair of your McClendon head.

Perhaps it was hearing he was needed on the farm or knowing his father might come to Chicago and discover him in such a drunken state, but the post-traumatic shock he had been experiencing was suddenly overshadowed by shame and guilt. He donned his green wool uniform, the only decent suit of clothes he owned, smoothed down his hair in need of cutting, and went to a nearby Methodist church to pray for guidance. Whether it was divine intervention or the compassion of a good woman, Gabriel found what he was looking for. A couple months later he returned to the farm—with a bride in tow.

Walta Sullivan McClendon, a petite, shy girl with green eyes and raven hair, stepped off the train into Daddy’s arms, much to Grandma’s astonishment. Grandma Olga, sturdy Scandinavian stock that she was, towered over my mother in both stature and dominance, and she made her matriarchal position in the family clear with one cold, hard inspection of Walta’s feminine physique.

Walta had been forewarned by my father. She squared her tiny shoulders, smiled, and gave her new mother-in-law a firm hug and a light kiss on the cheek. Mother McClendon, so good to meet you. Gabe has bragged so much about his wonderful mother. I’m looking forward to learning how to be a good wife and homemaker from you. My Mama knew her place would be as second fiddle in the McClendon household and only through patience and deference would she earn respect.

Daddy was over six-feet-tall and, like Grandpa Daniel, he was powerful and solidly built. He was a thoughtful man, moral and wise, hardworking, proud of his lineage. More than once throughout our lives, we were on the recipient end of his favorite speech. Ain’t nothin wrong with church goin and a bit of prayin to the Almighty for a helpin hand now and then. I met your sweet mother whilst I was prayin in the church house up there in Chicago when the good Lord showed me the way home. But listen here, children. Real life’s got nothin to do with organized religion. Life’s got to do with what you do with your head and your hands. They’s three basic notions you got to understand and live by. First of ‘em is the land: land is everythin. If you can get yourself a plot of land you’ll feel like a king. You got to care for it like it’s a newborn babe and it will return its bounty to you and help you take care of your family. Family is next: blood is what matters. You got to take care of your own no matter what. You got to be willin to lay down your life for your family. And last, but not least: is heart. What’s in a man’s heart is how he will be. If he can love his woman true, honor his God and his country and respect his neighbors, then he’s got a good heart. A man what ain’t got a good heart ain’t a right man. Daddy could be strict, doling out a penalty or a corporal punishment when the infraction called for it, but he definitely had a good heart. He loved his family and he would surely have died for any one of us.

Both he and Mama were soft spoken, rarely raising their voices. Daddy didn’t have to—one stern stare down and we would melt into submission. Mama was a gentle creature by nature, always patient, always the mediator. A compassionate glance from those Irish green eyes and you would know the depths of wisdom and infinite love abiding there. Many of life’s joys were celebrated and numerous hurts and fears were erased in the folds of her apron with its smell of soap and baked goods, a familiar sanctuary of home and protection.

I was born in 1920 and given the name Loretta. Virgil and Victor came along the next couple of years and Lenora was born early in the year of 1926. Virg and Vic looked a lot like Daddy, long legged and long-faced, hazel eyes and dark brown hair. It was easy to predict they would grow into handsome men with their toothy grins and their hearts full of fun and imagination. I took after Mama, short with black hair, pale skin, and green eyes. And just like her, I kept my thoughts to myself until I had sized up a situation and determined exactly what kind of advice or words of wisdom to dispense.

Now, here is where my story actually begins. I was old enough to remember the day my baby sister came kicking and screaming into this world. Vic, Virg, and I had been banished to the woods while the baby was being delivered. Mama was having an arduous and prolonged childbirth, and the decibel level emanating from the house made Daddy nervous with us under foot asking a ton of questions. When Daddy came to find us playing in the woods, forgetting there was to be an addition to the McClendon household, we first asked him if Mama was healthy and then inquired as to the gender of the baby. Children, your Mama is doin fine and dandy. As for the youngin, well, I don’t rightly know what it is.

We tiptoed into the bedroom to get a look at this new baby and thought there had been a colossal delivery blunder. She looked like a little gnome with gobs of fuzzy red hair and tiny balled fists already doing battle with invisible demons. Daddy commented to Mama, Walta, I believe there must be a Scotsmen in the woodpile. At the time, we didn’t know what the euphemism woodpile stood for, but the three of us stared at each other in the mind-reading capacity siblings share, and concluded this child was in-deed unique. Mama named her Lenora June.

As God-fearing and honest as some folks might be, there are times when insurmountable forces wreak havoc on the innocent and the unsuspecting. The year 1929 was a year when a perfect storm of events produced tragic effects upon our way of life. The wheat prices had been falling steadily throughout the past year, and Grandpa and Daddy were both worried and perplexed.

One evening, we were sitting around the table reading the Bible by the light of the kerosene lamp when Daddy came into the kitchen, his broad shoulders sagging. Been down to the grain co-op and listinin to the talk and tryin to make sense of it all. Don’t rightly understand most of it, but I’m gonna try to tell it. What smattering of economics Daddy grasped was limited to the supply and demand of wheat prices. He knew about hard work and, at the time, he thought he knew about farming. He talked about the inability of the foreign countries to repay the United States the money they borrowed in World War I, about the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers controlling the wealth, the people buying overvalued stock and businesses going broke, about Black Monday and the Wall Street crash and men jumping out of windows, and he finally complained, Herbert Hoover is sittin up there on his arse and not doin a damn thing about this cycle of depression and pretty soon, we won’t be able to buy a pig in a poke.

Virgil and I went outside while the adults continued discussing the global conditions soon to have a profound impact on our farm on the Great Plains.

What did he say, Loretta? five year old Virgil asked me.

I’m not sure Virg, somethin about some feller named Rock runnin into a wall on his bicycle and the wall crashed on the banks and knocked some guys out of a window. And then there’s this man Hoover who sits on his arse in Washington and that’s why we can’t sell any pigs.

Virgil pondered my interpretation, scratched his head, and said, But, sis, we don’t sell pigs. We kill ‘em and eat ‘em. We sell wheat.

Oh, Virg, you’re too young to understand. Come on. Let’s go play with the baby.

Naw, Nora’s okay as far as babies go, but that’s girl stuff. I’m gonna go check the chicken coop for snakes.

The stock market crash of 1929 wasn’t the last of the bad news. For the next eight to ten years, a drought of Biblical proportions impacted the farming industry, particularly in the Midwest and the Great Plain states. Oklahoma was the hardest state hit by the lack of rain coupled by the existence of a violent, perpetual wind. It certainly didn’t make us feel any better about the drought to hear the experts heaping a great deal of the blame on the farmers for the environmental conditions. We were depleting the soil by not rotating our crops or irrigating our fields, they claimed.

Almost as if the wind knew what was valuable and what was not, it blew out of the sky and sucked up the fertile top soil and carted it off to some other world. All the wind left behind was a dry, seared land with shriveled up trees and stalks, dehydrated animals, and shattered humans. The barren fields were down to bedrock, and just when we thought no more dirt could possibly remain, it would seep out of the cracks in the earth as if the devil was manufacturing it to send up as a torment. At nights, the wind became a dispossessed ghost, rapping against the window panes, shaking the very foundation of our farm house and enfolding the huddling inhabitants in its eerie brown shroud.

The history of this country conjures up a multitude of emotional conflicts within me. I often find it difficult to feel pride in the accomplishments of my predecessors when their exploits and successes were a result of the loss and adversity of others. Grandpa Daniel never forgot that his ancestors had farmed the green isles of Ireland—dirt was in his blood and the opportunity to own land in the new territory of Oklahoma was a dream come true. He worked against impossible odds to get his land and to make it prosper, and for those truths I have always been proud to be called a McClendon. After all, he wasn’t an Indian fighter and he didn’t personally steal the land, yet he benefited from the broken promises and the genocidal activities of those insatiable people who paved the way for his opportunities, and for such accounts we should all bear the shame.

When the environmental conditions became unbearable, I began imagining the wind in Indian terms. It became a symbol of retribution, a god of wind sent to seek revenge against the white settlers for the unforgivable ravages done to the native people and their land. The Indians didn’t want to come to Oklahoma territory, a land with little prospect and no buffalo, but they were unwanted in their homelands and thus were uprooted and forced to come to the last parcel of earth they would ever know as home. With one hand, the government signed agreements giving the tribes holdings in perpetuity, and with the other hand they gave the railroads permission to build their transportation systems across tribal lands, an agreement which would most assuredly usurp the first arrangement. Inevitability doesn’t substitute for right. My young brain interpreted the wind and the draught as the inevitability of justice.

I hated that wind, but I also respected it. When it came howling down on our house depositing its filth in our bedclothes, trying to suffocate us in our sleep, I would start praying to the wind god for forgiveness for the grievous harm committed upon the Indians. Like a mantra, I would whisper each one of the tribes in alphabetical order: Alabama, Apache, Caddo, Cherokee-Arapaho, Chickasaw, Cheyenne, Choctaw, Creek, and so on to the last, careful to forget no group of wronged people in my entreaties for a reprieve and forgiveness. Though it did no good to pray, this illogical recital became a nightly ritual, serving to block out the external fury and lull me to sleep beneath the bed sheets we occasionally soaked in precious water and drew over our entire bodies to keep from breathing in the infernal red dirt.

After the mules and the cows died of thirst and the well dried up, my folks called it quits. The bank took the house and the land, and Grandpa decided we should head to California to get jobs picking cotton or strawberries or whatever kind of work would earn us a meager living. With Mama crying and begging him not to do it, Daddy gathered up her beloved antique china and the heirloom Irish lace pieces and traded them in for a run down 1927 Model A Ford delivery truck with spindly tires and an engine which sputtered and bucked worse than our old jackass.

Oh, I know, you’ve seen pictures and heard stories about convoys of displaced Okies going to California for jobs, and that’s exactly what happened. I was fairly young, but I remember the trip vividly. Over the years, Virgil and I have recalled the exodus numerous times, and it gets more comical every time we relive it. There was Daddy, sitting in the driver’s seat of a rusted junk car that shook like a bed with no springs. Grandpa sat next to Daddy and grumbled every mile of the way. You’re goin too fast. Son, your goin over thirty miles a hour, better slow this here automobile down. Don’t get too close to that Ford up yonder or you’re liable to run into his arse.

Grandma, a permanent scowl on her face, sat by the window and complained about the heat or the wind or any and all unpleasant conditions. Every time Daddy hit a bump, Grandma bounced to the roof of the car and moaned, Lord have mercy, and eventually all us kids would beat her to the punch and yell, Lord have mercy, in unison until we got our heads slapped with the fly swat. Mama did her grieving in silence. She sat in the back of the truck with us