Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels

In the short, four page opening chapter of John Steinbeck’s epic novel The Grapes of Wrath  he uses the word “dust” nineteen times. Fitting, since it was written about The Great Depression of the 1930s, more commonly referred to as The Dust Bowl. This opening chapter is a small vignette that doesn’t delve into the characters or storyline, but instead simply describes the farms, houses and the people who inhabited and worked the land. And the dust that consumed them. The dust, that drove them off their Midwestern farms and forced them westwards toward the promised land of California. A promised land that would prove to be anything but.

   

My late father was a professor of English, and after his death, I inherited his books. A library of some 1000 copies. This collection is now testing the floor joists of my old farmhouse on shelves built on all four walls of the dining room and half of the living room. All the copies of the classics are there; Moby Dick, The Sun Also Rises, The Scarlet Letter – The Grapes of Wrath. They are alphabetized by author, so my index finger moved left to right along the shelves and quickly located Steinbeck’s work. It is a tome of a book, numbering some 600 pages. My dad’s copy is worn and dog-eared with notes written in #3 lead pencil on nearly every page. Although his handwriting looks like hieroglyphics and is difficult to read, it is interesting to hear his voice as the story moves along. In an odd way, it is almost as if he is there with me.

   Both of my parents spent their childhood in The Great Depression. Although neither of their families lost everything like the Joad family of The Grapes of Wrath, there were many stories of hardships and miseries. They were certainly simpler times, because there simply were no luxuries. The entire economy had collapsed, banks had foreclosed on tens of thousands of farms and mortgages. Then the banks themselves closed their doors.   

   My father, due to the family’s financial stress, was raised by my great grand-mother who was said to have been a matriarch of matriarchs. Her favorite pastime was to find a patch of green grass, which wasn’t easy, because The Great Depression also included a great, eight year long drought. She would sit on the grass and look intently down at it. After a short while, she would reach down and pick out a four leafed clover. By all accounts, she was masterful at doing this and would often pick out several four-leafed clovers in one sitting. She taught my father how to do this, as he taught me. Although, admittedly, I never became very adept at it.

   The Grapes of Wrath takes you on a journey of incredible hardships, suffering and loss. It shows you the power of the human spirit as well as the absolute cruelty that humans are capable of. Then, there are the random acts of kindness and sincerity that give us all hope.

   As I turned to the last page of this heartfelt and haunting tale, a pressed and dried four leafed clover fell out of the book and onto my desk. I read the final paragraph, slowly closed the book, looked down at the clover, and smiled a teary eyed smile.