Curator’s Note:
The Hum in the Line, through presentation of newspaper articles we have collected in our research, chronicles Roscoe Kelly’s desperate quest to reconnect with Lani through her love of music after their bond was severed by the rising discord of human avarice amplified by technological advance.
This article, unearthed from a 1960s newspaper, provides a fascinating glimpse into an unexpected Thanksgiving in 1937. It reminds how music, an enduring human spirit, and something unseen can bring a fleeting grace even when all hope seems lost. It’s a powerful testament to the subtle interventions that sometimes cut through the deepest hum. If you’ve been keeping up with the Myths, pay attention to the author’s name. We’re guessing that’s not a coincidence.
The Inexplicable Grace of Waycross
By Eleanor Penhaligon-Arcaneaux - Originally Published in The Heartland Observer, November 23, 1967
In the annals of American hardship, few images are as stark as the Dust Bowl, and few years as cruel as 1937. As Thanksgiving Day approached that year, the gratitude normally celebrated across the nation felt a bitter mockery on the plains of Oklahoma. Fields lay barren, choked by endless dust. Homes were swallowed by “black blizzards.” Hope, like the topsoil, seemed to be drifting away on the wind. Yet, in one forgotten town near the panhandle, Waycross, a strange legend speaks of a Thanksgiving that defied the dust.
“We thought it was the end,” recounts eighty-year-old Martha Mae Jenkins, her voice raspy with years, her eyes distant as she sifts through the memories of a cracked photo album. “The dust just kept coming. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Thanksgiving was coming but what was there to be thankful for?”
It was then, according to Ms. Jenkins and others, that a man, thin and worn but with eyes that burned with a quiet fire, drifted into town. This lone figure wrapped in denim and dust seemed to materialize from the parched horizon itself. For a moment, some wondered if the dust itself had taken human form. Who he was and where he came from remained shrouded in speculation.
What is less known, and almost never recorded, is that he traveled with a companion: a quieter man, equally vagabondish, with an even older, more battered guitar. This second man seemed almost to shimmer in the harsh sun. His gaze was ancient, his fingers a blur of subtle harmony. His name and history remained a mystery. He rarely spoke, letting his haunting guitar work do the talking. The first man, with his distinctive Oklahoma drawl and songs that seemed to rise directly from the very dust itself, was Woody Guthrie, the Dust Bowl Balladeer, though few recognized his name then. The second was the true mystery, the one whose presence deepened the very dust-choked air with untold stories.
“Woody, he played songs about how bad it was, but he also played songs about how we could fight back, about sticking together,” recalls Thomas “Cotton” Smith, another survivor, whose family farm ultimately succumbed to the drought. “But it was the other fella - he just sat there kinda shimmering in the haze. Played a guitar like it was whispering secrets from the earth itself. When he played, things shifted. The air felt cleaner. And sometimes, you’d see this big, shaggy dog, just appearing out of nowhere, watching like it was guarding him. It’d vanish just as quick too, like a dust devil.”
It’s this “other fella” that truly distinguishes Waycross’s Thanksgiving of ‘37. As Guthrie’s raw voice and the mysterious man’s subtle harmonies filled the dust-choked community hall that Thanksgiving eve, a strange energy permeated the room. The usual bickering and despair gave way to shared stories and communal meals. For the first time in months, people truly looked each other in the eye with a dawning hope.
Then, the miracle: For three consecutive days following that Thanksgiving, against all meteorological predictions and the relentless pattern of months past, a gentle, soaking rain fell. Not a deluge, but enough to settle the dust. Enough to offer a momentary reprieve and paint the parched earth with a fleeting sheen of moisture. Scientists later dismissed it as a rare confluence of atmospheric conditions, but for the people of Waycross, it was a divine blessing.
“They both just left,” Martha Mae concludes, wiping a tear. “After the rain. Quiet as they came. But something in that town had changed. We found a strength we didn’t know we had. A grace, you might say, delivered by music when everything else was gone.”
The story of Waycross’s Thanksgiving of ‘37 remains a testament to the enduring power of music, human resilience, and the inexplicable forces that sometimes, just sometimes, intervene when hope seems utterly lost. Perhaps it was just the profound influence of Woody Guthrie, or perhaps something more. The memory stood against the roar of the black blizzard - a memory this author, rooted in a family legacy of seeking justice and grace in hidden corners of America, felt compelled to finally record.
**This is a RoscoeKelly.com narrative blending myth, history & fictional sources. Learn more about our creative process here on the about tab or at RoscoeKelly.com.