A Prairie Tale
m.mcvicker 8-9-04
It happened that in those days, people, weren’t afraid to tell you exactly what they thought, hurt feelings or not.
Most folks lived hard and scraped by, hand t’mouth, not talkin’ much to each other except when instruction was necessary. Frugal with words as though they were precious gems and indeed, when spent, were crystal clear, perhaps soft blue/green but more than likely, fire red, hard, an’ sharp as a flint knife. Their faces were those made similar to the weathered wood of the trees standing alone or clustered in twos and threes; defiant to the harsh surroundings. Even the young stood alone, by themselves, independent with discerning eyes, an’ suspicious grins, expecting the worst and therefore not to be caught off guard and disappointed. Their skin held the deep cracks of the earth that gave way to the roll of a strong set jaw. Determined to whip the situation at hand and survive another day. These were not the ones who first left the settled east, immigrant born, to chase a dream, westward bound, unaware, and would endure unspeakable hardships. No, these were the young. The first generations to know nothing but the place where the wagons stopped. With a past of trouble, that to them….is….a common life.
The spirit of their parents and grandparents fully in tact but lacking in expression of the human joy that once was cherished, but now feared. To dream, to laugh and play, to touch and love, sing out loud, to even cry would be a pleasure, unknown.
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For their tears were given to the sun, as the earth gave up it’s own tears, moaning for deliverance.
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