Stop Private Property Keep Out Means You
Edtion of 100
All at once the darkest of nights came. Opening the rickety door, peering out, can’t see a thing. The whole world seems to be holding its breath. Nothing moved. The birds stopped singing, even the hens forgot contented scratching and clucking. Sitting there on the dirt floor for a long time, holding a handkerchief over your nose and mouth, and praying that this was not the end of the world. No distinguishable noise or roar, black as pitch outside. Putting hands in front of your face, ya can’t see ‘em. Just a black stillness. Can’t tell the time even if you have a watch. Then, finally, the wind! and boy! Whistling even inside the house! Only thing to do is to put your head between your knees and close your eyes. Ya can’t escape the incessant feeling of grit and grime everywhere.
Leaving the house with a debilitating stitch in your side, panting for breath, mixed with tears and fear. Crawling and crawling for what seems like an eternity. Can’t see nothing but static electricity flying from your hands. Someone yelling, “Don’t go. You can’t make it.” But creeping along; a turtle would have outrun ya. Feeling the way by listening by the squeak of the windmill. Scared—yes. Confused—yes. There had never been anything like this before.
Finally, water. Pushing the dirt aside, sipping a little of that glorious wet muck. A renewed ray of hope, a beacon, a tiny speck of light, similar to that of a lighted kitchen match. One instant, bright sunshine, devastation seen at every turn. Not even stubble in the fields remained.
The best part of the “good ole days” is that they are gone; all’s well that ends well, I guess.
Return to Books