Betty watched as her mother, Etta slowly trod across the dry, gritty yard, dust curling around her feet settling on her legs and dress. The rickety old screen door Betty stood behind was defenseless against the flies and grasshoppers were chewing on the wood. It was no use trying to get rid of them, more would follow in a never-ending cycle.

It was a hot, dry August world, brown and barren. The South Dakota prairie seemed to run on forever unbroken by any hint of humanity. The next farm stood a quarter of a mile down the road from the Pearson place. Betty thought the gently rolling land resembled those old brown snakes that were always after the eggs in the henhouse.

An old cedar tree stood in the front yard clinging to life but only because it was so old its roots were buried deep beneath what had once been a grassy little yard. A pond dug by her father and neighbors when water was in great supply was empty, bone dry. Once there had been tadpoles and dragonflies and frogs singing in the night, now it was just a dusty hole. The little yard had a bent wire fence around connected by a gate that would no longer close, the hinges long gone, the latch broken. It wasn't necessary, there were no dogs, no pets of any kind, no small children playing in that yard. It had long been given up to the dirt. Oh how Betty missed the dogs.

Betty had just finished making breakfast for her mom, Etta, father, Alfred and siblings. There were two older kids, a sister and a brother and three younger. Mom was pregnant again and the baby was due anytime. Etta's babies were always large and she was never well. Etta looked much older than her years. The South Dakota prairie had taken a toll on her like it did from all who dared to walk its paths. She had been a young, vivacious girl back in Iowa before her parents homesteaded the land. She met Alfred at the tender age of 16, they married and set up housekeeping on the farm they claimed so many years ago. Her light golden hair now had streaks of grey and was pulled back in a tight bun to keep it off her neck. When once she danced the night away, she now slumbered on a bed of feathers plucked from countless chickens, ducks and geese, hand sewn in to heavy, canvas-like material which made her mattress. Her hands were rough, her nails short and dirty, her skin looked leathery from the years of working in the fields but her heart was always big and beautiful. And she was especially fond of 10 year old Betty.

1936 not only brought on a depression but there were horrible dust storms caused by the drought, a one-two punch for the prairie people. The pearson's poor old cow was so skinny Betty wondered how she continued to move. She looked like a skeleton covered in hide. The chickens were almost as bad and, except for the meager scraps from the table they were given, they would probably be dead. The crops had failed several years back and there was no use planting again. Everything including Betty's thoughts were all in shades of brown.

As Betty stood in the doorway she noticed what looked like a dust devil off in the distance but she knew it was a vehicle traveling along the old dirt road.

"Betty looks like company. Better go to the cistern and drag up some water."

"Momma can't one of the boys get it?"

Betty would never say so but she was afraid of the cistern. It was almost dry except for some muddy water caught when there was an occasional rain. Once in a while a rat or mouse, driven by thirst would fall into the well never to escape. Many nights she would dream about that deep, dark place, waking so frightened she would break out in a sweat.

"You know it's your job Betty and besides the boys are busy with their own chores. Hurry now. I'm going to the house, it's getting hot already."

She watched her mother heavy with child head to the kitchen to sit where she hoped to catch a breeze through the back screen door.

Betty took the bent tin bucket and went around the side of the house to face again for the second time that day the dark, dank hole to pull up what water was available, remove anything floating in it and take it into the house. There she would boil it so that it could be used for cooking. She was a little angry as she had just finished putting up the dishes after fixing breakfast for everyone. At 10, that was her job, her life and seemed to Betty to be a never-ending cycle. Fade to brown.

Betty was a slight girl with dishwater blonde hair always in a bowl cut. It was as unattractive as her plain cotton dress her mother cut from a flour sack. Betty never smiled or laughed, there was no reason. She did not go to school everyday but enjoyed it when she did go. Betty had epilepsy and if she got excited about anything, it would sometimes bring on a seizure. There was medicine that could help her but her parents could not afford it so Betty's life consisted of cooking for the family and cleaning up afterward. Her mother depended on her more than any of the other children and Betty felt a sense of responsibility to her family.

She also knew who was coming down the road, poor, hot disenfranchised travelers. She had seen them before, people she never knew but who looked so familiar, hopeless people with all of their worldly possessions loaded on old vehicles heading west towards what they hoped was a better future. The less fortunate than those were the ones walking. So many tired, hungry men looking to find peace, a place away from the dirt and poverty, a place where they could provide for their families.

She hated seeing them come down the road, they reminded her of herself. That was the bad part. They were her. She pulled up the brownish colored water and headed to the house, careful not to spill a drop of the precious stuff.

"How is it today honey?" Mom asked as she fanned herself with a piece of paper, the paper having come off the front of an old Sears catalog.

"What Momma, the day or the water?"

"The water Betty, could you tell how much is down there?"

"Some, no rats this time. I think they've all gone now." to where she did not know but she was hoping they had moved on, wishing she could go too.

Dad walked in with the three boys, Christian, the oldest at 13, the two younger boys Albert and Daniel, 7 and 8. The other two girls, one older than Betty, Willow, 12 and one younger by 1 year, Gretta were in the cellar where it was cool, having done their chores early in the day.

Alfred was a tall, lanky man with thinning hair he parted down the middle. His clothes were ill fitting and he had to wear suspenders to hold up his pants. He had a quiet demeanor and never raised his voice, he learned early on it did no good and took way too much energy, energy best served on the farm.

Everything was dirty from the constant silt that sifted in through any crack it might find and no amount of sweeping or dusting helped. The Pearsons learned to live with it like so many others living on the prairie.

Betty's dad looked out the old tattered screen door.

"Gonna be another scorcher today."

He stood quietly for a minute, his tall thin frame reminding Betty of the old scarecrow that still hung in the plot of land that used to hold corn.

"Looks like we got company coming down the road. I hate to see that but we need to feed 'em. Mother got the eggs, six of 'em today so we'll feed 'em eggs and bread. Any coffee in the pot Betty?"

"No Papa, I'm gonna boil some water right now and get the skillet out. I just need to know how many this time. Can you tell?"

"Can't say yet. I don't know who's comin' down the road."

Alfred was watching the gathering dust cloud but also the sky. Something didn't look quite right today, a little hazy with an orange/brown glow and that was not a good sign. He knew what that meant. A storm was rolling in, a dust storm. There was a tiny breeze but so dry and hot it felt almost like an oven and Alfred was worried.