  On Sunday, winds came, bringing a red dust like prairie fire, hot and peppery, searing the inside of my nose, the whites of my eyes. Roaring dust, turning the day from sunlight to midnight. And as the dust left, rain came. Rain that was no blessing. It came too hard, too fast, and washed the soil away, washed the wheat away with it. Now little remains of Daddy's hard work.
And the only choice he has is to give up or start all over again. At the Strong ranch they didn't get a single drop. So who fared better? Ma looks out the window at her apple trees. Hard green balls have dropped to the ground. But there are enough left; enough for a small harvest, if we lose no more. - June 1934 
