Here were red rocks, pink,
blue-gray, white, yellow, purple; and the morning and evening sun
set their colors afire and made them flower gardens of flame.
Here the Indian women wore flounced skirts and velvet tunics and
silver jewelry. They herded flocks of sheep and goats and lived
in houses like inverted brown bowls.
"We've had worse homes, this year," Grandma said. "I'd never
hold up my head if they knew back home." Along the road with the
Reo ran an endless parade of old cars and trailers. There were
snub-nosed Model T's, packed till they bulged; monstrous Packards
with doors tied shut; yellow roadsters that had been smart ten
years ago, jolting along with mattresses on their tops and young
families jammed into their luggage compartments. Once in a while
they met another goat, like Carrie, who wasn't giving as much
milk as before.
"All this great country," Grandma marveled some more, "and no
room for these folks. Half a million of us, some say, without a
place to go."
Dick said, "The kid in that Oklahoma car said the drought dried
up their farm and the wind blew it away. Nothing will grow in
the ground that's left."
"He's from the Dust Bowl," Grandpa assented. "Thousands of these
folks are from the Dust Bowl."
The parade of old cars limped along for two weeks, growing
thicker as it drew near the part of Arizona where the pickers had
been called for.
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