and I wished I had brought out a sweater.
âYou should eat something,â he said.
But I couldnât even look his way.
Eleven
The work of the harvest continued, the fields full of workers, the roads run up and down with piled-high trucks. One day as I was driving to La Junta to buy groceries, I saw some of the German POWs at work on one of the farms near us. The enlisted men were watched over by guards, Army MPs stationed at each end of the field and one in the middle. But other POWs werenât guarded at all. Ray told me later it was because they were officers and could be trusted pretty much on their own.
During long days around the house, however, all was quiet. I had no visitors except for the bulk gasoline agent who drove out one day with a tanker truck to fill Rayâs storage tank. When I saw him, I wandered outside, yearning for conversation. But as he filled the tank, all we talked about was the war and both of his sons who were off fighting in Europe.
Everyone on all the surrounding farms and in the communities was busy; however, I still had few chores to make myself feel productive. Often I wondered how my itching feet had landed on such a stationary plot. I had already planted the bulbs in the front flower garden, cleaned the house numerous times, and thumbed through cookbooks so many times I thought I might memorize the recipes. I gathered eggs in the morning and separated the cream from the raw milk, and every couple of days I started taking eggs and cream into La Junta to sell for Ray. I read Susan Shelby Magoffinâs diary, Down the Santa Fe Trail and into Mexico, over the course of one long day.
One morning, I decided to go in search of the dugout. Even though Martha had warned me not to go alone, I couldnât wait any longer. And if I took Franklin along with me, technically, I said to myself, I wouldnât be going alone.
Outside it was warm, and the sun was a butterscotch disk on a blue paper sky. After making myself a sandwich, I headed out the front door toward the bridge, calling after Franklin to join me. He came shuffling up with tongue hanging out to one side. Following Marthaâs directions, I went to the creek and carefully scrambled down one side of the bank until I found myself on the ditch bottom. The bed was sandy, flat, and easy to walk, the only impediments occasional smooth stones. Franklin was sniffing up behind me.
We walked south. I saw one carved-out, semi-cave a few feet up on the bank about a hundred yards south. But it was too small. I continued walking down the creekbed until I arrived at a bend filled with tangled branches and debris that blocked my way. The creekbed dropped away at that point and began a rocky descent. I stood and thought. The indention I had seen earlier must have been the right place after all. Soon I had made my way back to it.
Looking up, I saw that the dugout was only about five feet deep and no more than ten feet across. None of the willows and reeds that had most likely been used to extend the roof and walls remained. Probably on one of the occasions when water ran high through this bed, it had all been swept away, or else the winds had taken it. I climbed up to the front of the cavelike opening, and leaning over, I went inside with Franklin on my heels. When I looked up and saw the earthen and stone roof at the back of the dugout still stained black with the smoke from fires, I knew I had discovered the right place. And for just a second, I thought I smelled something cooking.
Franklin went off to explore on his own while I sat on the cool dirt floor of a place that had once been a home. I pulled out my sandwich and bit in as I took in the same view that Rayâs ancestors must have studied, day after day of their lives. Opposite from me, the far bank cut a swath of blond color across the sky. A stunted tree along the rim became a woman dancing in a long, flowing skirt. Dark stones strewn about on the pale sand of the
âYou should eat something,â he said.
But I couldnât even look his way.
Eleven
The work of the harvest continued, the fields full of workers, the roads run up and down with piled-high trucks. One day as I was driving to La Junta to buy groceries, I saw some of the German POWs at work on one of the farms near us. The enlisted men were watched over by guards, Army MPs stationed at each end of the field and one in the middle. But other POWs werenât guarded at all. Ray told me later it was because they were officers and could be trusted pretty much on their own.
During long days around the house, however, all was quiet. I had no visitors except for the bulk gasoline agent who drove out one day with a tanker truck to fill Rayâs storage tank. When I saw him, I wandered outside, yearning for conversation. But as he filled the tank, all we talked about was the war and both of his sons who were off fighting in Europe.
Everyone on all the surrounding farms and in the communities was busy; however, I still had few chores to make myself feel productive. Often I wondered how my itching feet had landed on such a stationary plot. I had already planted the bulbs in the front flower garden, cleaned the house numerous times, and thumbed through cookbooks so many times I thought I might memorize the recipes. I gathered eggs in the morning and separated the cream from the raw milk, and every couple of days I started taking eggs and cream into La Junta to sell for Ray. I read Susan Shelby Magoffinâs diary, Down the Santa Fe Trail and into Mexico, over the course of one long day.
One morning, I decided to go in search of the dugout. Even though Martha had warned me not to go alone, I couldnât wait any longer. And if I took Franklin along with me, technically, I said to myself, I wouldnât be going alone.
Outside it was warm, and the sun was a butterscotch disk on a blue paper sky. After making myself a sandwich, I headed out the front door toward the bridge, calling after Franklin to join me. He came shuffling up with tongue hanging out to one side. Following Marthaâs directions, I went to the creek and carefully scrambled down one side of the bank until I found myself on the ditch bottom. The bed was sandy, flat, and easy to walk, the only impediments occasional smooth stones. Franklin was sniffing up behind me.
We walked south. I saw one carved-out, semi-cave a few feet up on the bank about a hundred yards south. But it was too small. I continued walking down the creekbed until I arrived at a bend filled with tangled branches and debris that blocked my way. The creekbed dropped away at that point and began a rocky descent. I stood and thought. The indention I had seen earlier must have been the right place after all. Soon I had made my way back to it.
Looking up, I saw that the dugout was only about five feet deep and no more than ten feet across. None of the willows and reeds that had most likely been used to extend the roof and walls remained. Probably on one of the occasions when water ran high through this bed, it had all been swept away, or else the winds had taken it. I climbed up to the front of the cavelike opening, and leaning over, I went inside with Franklin on my heels. When I looked up and saw the earthen and stone roof at the back of the dugout still stained black with the smoke from fires, I knew I had discovered the right place. And for just a second, I thought I smelled something cooking.
Franklin went off to explore on his own while I sat on the cool dirt floor of a place that had once been a home. I pulled out my sandwich and bit in as I took in the same view that Rayâs ancestors must have studied, day after day of their lives. Opposite from me, the far bank cut a swath of blond color across the sky. A stunted tree along the rim became a woman dancing in a long, flowing skirt. Dark stones strewn about on the pale sand of the
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