June 28th, 1934
Dear Diary,
The summer has been difficult so far, especially since Daddy is no
longer with us. Mama originally said that he was traveling west to look
for a job, but he hasn’t sent any letters for months. Lately she
doesn’t talk about him if she can help it, and when the neighbors ask
after him, she only says that he’s on a freight train, and she knows
where it’s headed. The last time I saw him, his eyes seemed to well up
in tears—although I don’t know if that was just on account of the
dust—and he said, “Irene, I want you to look after your ma and your
sisters. I’ve always known . . . I know you’re the only one who will
understand in the end.”
That was the last we saw of him. He took half of our money, saying
it would be a good start until he found his fortune, but he did leave
behind his whiskey bottle collection. I tried to explain to Mama that
this was The Lord providing for us, like she always said He would, but
Mama simply wouldn’t have any of it. Instead of selling the bottles,
she often had me and my sisters take them to neighbors. She said that
this was charity, but accepting money for the wares of a slothful
drunkard would be a sin. I hate to think of it, but Daddy drank the
devil’s tonic more often than was agreeable to a Christian, and
sometimes he would drink so much that he would just stare into the
mirror for hours on end, not moving or even breathing. He would wake up
soaked in sweat, and wouldn’t speak when Mama chastised him. He
wouldn’t even look at us at all.
It was a delivery of Daddy’s old whiskey that brought me to the
cabin of Uncle Bud and Aunt Judith today. They lived several miles
away, and it was always an unpleasant walk. It was easiest to follow
the dried-up creek, which was now filled with sand, and I tried to
ignore the crows that sat on the dead trees, which seemed to laugh as
Eunice, Nettie, and I made our way to the isolated home of our aunt.
Aunt Judith was washing clothes when we arrived, and acted pleased
to see us, but she also seemed distracted. Perhaps it was because she
has been with child for a few months . . . I couldn’t rightly say. She
asked Eunice about Mama, Nettie ran off to play with their dog, Typhoid,
and I entered the cabin to put down the bottles.
Despite the ever-burning sun that seemed to be punishing all of
Oklahoma for some terrible sin, the cabin was dark, as usual. The room
was barren except for a table, two cots with dirty straw mattresses, an
unused box for firewood, and a mirror on the wall. Uncle Bud sat on one
of the cots in the corner.
Uncle Bud has never been much for conversation—in fact, he never
speaks at all. His head is about a foot long, and only one eye seems
to work properly, and it follows you around the room. Sometimes he
makes sounds, but never exact words. Once, I stayed for a night at
their cabin on account of a particularly strong dust storm, and Uncle
Bud moaned for hours while the dust and sand blew around the house. It
made me a bit uncomfortable, but I just tried to pray for the storm to
die down and not listen. In the morning, the weather had settled, and
Uncle Bud looked at me all morning, as if he wanted to tell me
something. He was looking at me again today. I said hello.
Uncle Bud and Aunt Judith also live with their one son, Cousin
Erwin. He is very tall and talkative, with hair like a crow’s feathers
and small, twinkling eyes. He was not at home today, and I figured that
he was at the church in the neighboring town. Cousin Erwin went to
church every Sunday, and he prayed more than anyone I knew. Aunt Judith
always mentioned Cousin Erwin when she wrote to the family at
Christmas. “He’s such a good boy,” she’d say. “I don’t know what I’d
do without him around the homestead.” I could figure why he’d be so
helpful, since Uncle Bud was limited in the work he could do.
Folks expected that Uncle Bud might be a genius because of his big
head, and most of the family were disappointed when his small, twisted
mouth never opened. But today, as I was walking out the door, I heard
someone say my name. I turned, but Uncle Bud was looking at the window,
not at me. It must have been the wind. The strange thing is, I
thought I heard that same voice after I said my nightly prayers. There
must be another storm on the move.
