going by myself right away.”
“Luke and me are going up on Thursday,” Mary Ann says. “We’ll have supper at Fay’s, haven’t seen the grandkids in quite a while.” Fay is Barney’s younger sister. Iris doesn’t think she can endure much more of this halting, boring conversation. “Funny thing,” Mary Ann continues, resting one elbow on the table, rubbing the tablecloth with swollen, arthritic fingers, “but all I can think about with all this rain is them drought years.” Iris’s mouth is full of the cake Ramona has brought her. “The dust years,” Mary Ann goes on. “There was a book in them days — no, maybe when the worst was over. About the Okies?” She looks up at Iris. Iris nods. “In the States. How they lost everything in the dust bowl and went away, left everything behind,tried to get to California, I think it was. Funny,” she says. “That book got passed around from house to house all through the countryside till most everybody read it, even them that didn’t read books much.” She sighs and straightens her back as if it’s aching.
Iris thinks, oh brother, am I going to have to listen again to how people were happier when they were poor in the Depression? How people stuck together then like they don’t now? This makes no sense to her, never has, even though all the old people swear it’s true. She would like to ask Mary Ann, were they happy when they had only potatoes to eat? When their kids couldn’t go to school because they didn’t have shoes? When their cows got too thin to give milk and their horses weakened and died of starvation?
But Mary Ann is staring around the room as if she’s not seeing a thing there. “Too much of a good life — too much
things
— it kills something in people.”
Her words arrest Iris’s movement as she brings the cake and strawberry-laden fork to her lips. She sets it down, then, keeping her voice mild, trying to erase any hint of complacency, says, “They say the drought in the eighties was worse than the one during the Depression, but our improved farming methods and our new genetically engineered seeds and our technology all made it so we still got crops.”
“Lotta people lost their places during the eighties,” Mary Ann points out. Iris shrugs.
“Bad management, places too small, you know.” She lifts her fork again and takes another mouthful — delicious.
Mary Ann says sharply, “You wouldn’t shrug if it was your place.” Iris stops chewing, surprised. Her place? It’s the biggest, most prosperous farm in the district. She and Barney, and her parents before them, are rich from that farm. Lose it? Never! She glances at Mary Ann, sees the set to her jaw. Remembers the poverty Barney grew up in.
“Yes, you’re right,” she says meekly. “Of course, you’re right.” She mustn’t quarrel with Mary Ann too, she’s Barney’s mother, she has to get along with her. Besides, she likes Mary Ann, her stubborn, down-to-earth good sense, her courage at living what has been a hard life, driven almost wholly by men’s desires and needs.
She pushes her half-eaten plate of cake away and takes her leave ofher mother-in-law quickly, promising to drop in whenever Barney can make the time to drive up, knowing that it’ll surely be summer before that happens, and with Barney as good as gone — but she won’t think that; it isn’t as if he’s declared their marriage to be over, or that he’s died on her. Still, what she wouldn’t give to have him forget his ranch and come back and be her husband again.
Without saying goodbye to anybody — if she did, it would be another hour before she gets away — she leaves the tea, pushing back coats jammed into the overfull coat rack to locate her own and then scrabbling among the rows of muddy boots for hers, putting them on, then sliding out the door between a family of newcomers entering the hall. She has told the others she can’t stay to clean up. Knowing there’s always plenty of
“Luke and me are going up on Thursday,” Mary Ann says. “We’ll have supper at Fay’s, haven’t seen the grandkids in quite a while.” Fay is Barney’s younger sister. Iris doesn’t think she can endure much more of this halting, boring conversation. “Funny thing,” Mary Ann continues, resting one elbow on the table, rubbing the tablecloth with swollen, arthritic fingers, “but all I can think about with all this rain is them drought years.” Iris’s mouth is full of the cake Ramona has brought her. “The dust years,” Mary Ann goes on. “There was a book in them days — no, maybe when the worst was over. About the Okies?” She looks up at Iris. Iris nods. “In the States. How they lost everything in the dust bowl and went away, left everything behind,tried to get to California, I think it was. Funny,” she says. “That book got passed around from house to house all through the countryside till most everybody read it, even them that didn’t read books much.” She sighs and straightens her back as if it’s aching.
Iris thinks, oh brother, am I going to have to listen again to how people were happier when they were poor in the Depression? How people stuck together then like they don’t now? This makes no sense to her, never has, even though all the old people swear it’s true. She would like to ask Mary Ann, were they happy when they had only potatoes to eat? When their kids couldn’t go to school because they didn’t have shoes? When their cows got too thin to give milk and their horses weakened and died of starvation?
But Mary Ann is staring around the room as if she’s not seeing a thing there. “Too much of a good life — too much
things
— it kills something in people.”
Her words arrest Iris’s movement as she brings the cake and strawberry-laden fork to her lips. She sets it down, then, keeping her voice mild, trying to erase any hint of complacency, says, “They say the drought in the eighties was worse than the one during the Depression, but our improved farming methods and our new genetically engineered seeds and our technology all made it so we still got crops.”
“Lotta people lost their places during the eighties,” Mary Ann points out. Iris shrugs.
“Bad management, places too small, you know.” She lifts her fork again and takes another mouthful — delicious.
Mary Ann says sharply, “You wouldn’t shrug if it was your place.” Iris stops chewing, surprised. Her place? It’s the biggest, most prosperous farm in the district. She and Barney, and her parents before them, are rich from that farm. Lose it? Never! She glances at Mary Ann, sees the set to her jaw. Remembers the poverty Barney grew up in.
“Yes, you’re right,” she says meekly. “Of course, you’re right.” She mustn’t quarrel with Mary Ann too, she’s Barney’s mother, she has to get along with her. Besides, she likes Mary Ann, her stubborn, down-to-earth good sense, her courage at living what has been a hard life, driven almost wholly by men’s desires and needs.
She pushes her half-eaten plate of cake away and takes her leave ofher mother-in-law quickly, promising to drop in whenever Barney can make the time to drive up, knowing that it’ll surely be summer before that happens, and with Barney as good as gone — but she won’t think that; it isn’t as if he’s declared their marriage to be over, or that he’s died on her. Still, what she wouldn’t give to have him forget his ranch and come back and be her husband again.
Without saying goodbye to anybody — if she did, it would be another hour before she gets away — she leaves the tea, pushing back coats jammed into the overfull coat rack to locate her own and then scrabbling among the rows of muddy boots for hers, putting them on, then sliding out the door between a family of newcomers entering the hall. She has told the others she can’t stay to clean up. Knowing there’s always plenty of
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