The Dust Storm... A Story

I don't remember the towns where we stayed in motels in Oklahoma, Texas, or New Mexico. Arizona, though, well, I remember Arizona. Winslow, Arizona, to be exact. That was where we ran into a Dust Storm.

I had never heard of a dust storm before. In Arkansas and Mississippi we had lots of storms. I rather liked the thunder storms down there. It was a thrill to see the streak of lightning suddenly pointing crooked fingers at the woods far away, count the seconds and hear the thunder rumbling and grumbling off at a distance. Then we would run for cover. I loved to snuggle into bed and leave only my eyes and ears poking out to see  and hear the flickering brightness, the jarring crash, and then the hard drumming of the rain on the tin roof.

But a dust storm? What was that?

It was a dark cloud, all right, but it was dry. It whistled and groaned and scraped against the left side of the car and trailer. We had to go really slow, and even so it was hard to stay on the road. At one point, Daddy pulled us off the road and got out to examine everything. When he opened the door the car filled with sand and I could feel it in my mouth. Ewww.

When he returned, there was sand all in his hair and on his eyebrows, on top of his big beak of a nose. He didn't look happy. He told Mama we had trouble with the wheel on the left side of the trailer. Sand was blowing in there. Then we saw a sign that we could barely read because of the blowing sand: WINSLOW--8 miles. We crept along, and from center back seat I could hear Mama praying. I didn't worry, though. I knew my Daddy would take care of it.

We finally reached Winslow, Arizona and pulled slowly into the first gas station garage we saw. The men directed Daddy to pull the car and trailer into a great big building through a great big door. He had to turn the car to get the trailer inside so that the car was at right angles to the trailer. We back seat kids got on our knees watching out the back window as the trailer inched into the cool darkness of the garage. A man was walking alongside the trailer with his hands outstretched to support it. As we came to a complete stop, the wheel fell off the trailer, its metal rim smacking against the concrete floor. It made a ring-ring-ringing sound. Daddy turned off the car and jumped out, talking to the man. Mama let out a long sigh, "Thank You, Jesus! That happened here instead of out on that road..."

Somehow we all got into a nearby motel, even though it was only mid-day, and bathed and fed, we watched TV and slept while the grinding storm continued for a while. It was in our mouths. We could lick sand off our teeth. It was between the clean sheets. It was everywhere.

That's the way it was in Winslow, Arizona. Dust storms... Sand storms. They say they have them every year. I wouldn't want to live there.

We were going West. Arizona was west, but not far enough west. I was glad we were going to California.