In the ultimate scheme of things for capitalism, it is actually more
efficient to return this land to buffalo commons so that the animals can
begin to build the soil and prairie grass back.      They could also seed
the prairie with wind mills for Oklahoma's energy.   That would take a
serious partnership of business with government to make that happen.
Something that is not likely in this political and economic liturgy. 

 

REH

 

From: [email protected]
[mailto:[email protected]] On Behalf Of Robert Stennett
Sent: Wednesday, May 04, 2011 7:28 AM
To: EDUCATION RE-DESIGNING WORK INCOME DISTRIBUTION
Subject: [Futurework] Town, a Dust Bowl Survivor, Endures Another Blow -
NYTimes.com

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/04/us/04dust.html?nl=todaysheadlines
<http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/04/us/04dust.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=tha
23> &emc=tha23

 

 


Survivor of Dust Bowl Now Battles a Fiercer Drought


 
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leLarge.jpg> 

Matthew Staver for The New York Times

At the Sharp Ranch, outside Boise City, Okla., no grass is in sight. More
Photos  <http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/05/03/us/DUST.html> >


By KATHARINE Q. SEELYE
<http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/people/s/katharine_q_se
elye/index.html?inline=nyt-per> 


Published: May 3, 2011


BOISE CITY, Okla. - While tornadoes and floods have ravaged the South and
the Midwest, the remote western edge of the Oklahoma Panhandle is quietly
enduring a weather calamity of its own: its longest drought on record, even
worse than the Dust Bowl, when incessant winds scooped up the soil into
billowing black clouds and rolled it through this town like bowling balls. 


Multimedia


 <http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/05/03/us/DUST.html?ref=us> SLIDE
SHOW: Life in No Man's Land


 
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homa-thumbWide.jpg> 


The Dry Season


The Dry Season

Close Video

See More Videos  <http://video.nytimes.com/video/playlist/us> > 

Enlarge This Image

 
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Matthew Staver for The New York Times


A church made an apt request.

 

With a drought continuing to punish much of the Great Plains, this one
stands out. Boise (rhymes with voice) City has gone 222 consecutive days
through Tuesday with less than a quarter-inch of rainfall in any single day,
said Gary McManus, a state climatologist. That is the longest such dry spell
here since note-keeping began in 1908. 

The Dust Bowl of the 1930s, caused in part by the careless gouging of the
earth in an effort to farm it, created an epic environmental disaster.
Experts say it is unlikely to be repeated because farming has changed so
much. Boise City recovered from the Dust Bowl and has periodically enjoyed
bountiful years since. 

But this drought is a reminder of just how parched and unyielding life can
be along this wind-raked frontier, fittingly called No Man's Land, and it is
not clear how many more ups and downs Boise City can take. 

"The community is drying up," Mark Axtell, the area's only funeral director,
said on a walk through the cemetery, where brown tufts of buffalo grass
crunched underfoot. 

In the last decade, Boise City lost almost 16 percent of its population,
according to the 2010 census. Just 1,312 people live here now - far fewer
than the 3,000 who bought the first lots in 1908, only to discover that they
had been hoodwinked. The land was inhospitable, and promises of railroads,
water and trees (Boise is from the French "le bois," meaning trees) were a
fraud. 

Boise City became the county seat for Cimarron County. But now, the county,
too, has sagged. In the last decade it lost 21 percent of its population.
Its 2,475 residents are spread so thin over such a wide expanse that an
average of only 1.3 people occupy each square mile. 

The young have little reason to stay. The old are dying or moving away to be
closer to their children or to medical facilities, since Boise City's only
nursing home has closed. 

"Last year, we did half as many funerals as the year I took over," said Mr.
Axtell, 48, who bought the business 25 years ago. "Last year was my fourth
consecutive low year." 

The plunge in funerals prompted him to buy a cafe last year to supplement
his income. Called the Rockin' A, its 12 tables have become the town's
social hub. 

But the main street outside is deserted, and many storefronts are shuttered.
Most people shop at the Wal-Mart 60 miles away. 

Residents blame a lack of jobs - not the drought - for the town's decline.
Dry spells come and go, they say, and coping with them is baked into their
psyches. Many who live here are descended from those souls who endured the
Dust Bowl and have reaped harvests aplenty since; they are bound to the land
and not easily discouraged. 

"Your die-hards will stay here," Rebecca Smoot, 58, whose family homesteaded
here in the early 1900s, said during breakfast at the Rockin' A. She lives
in Boise City but works as a corrections officer just over the border in
Texas. "They stayed here during the Dirty Thirties when everyone else was
moving. That's the way a lot of the people ended up with a lot of the land."


Those who stayed then are deemed successful now, though many were too poor
at the time to leave with the "Okies." 

Huston Hanes, 87, who lived through the Dust Bowl on a farm in eastern
Cimarron County, said he would never forget the wind blowing fine dust
particles throughout his house and how quickly the wet cloths he held over
his face to protect his lungs would turn black. But he said he was glad his
family stayed. 

"We have hard times, but any place you go, you're going to have some
adversity," he said with a shrug. "We don't have that many tornadoes."      

   The drought plays a major role in the town's self-image and its economy.
It has already doomed this year's crops and is forcing ranchers to sell some
of their cattle; without water and grass, cows need more nutrient-rich feed,
which is expensive.


On the Sharp Ranch, 15 miles outside town, the cattle were grazing on dirt.


"The protein value is getting down low," Dan Sharp, 65, said as Dr. Rusty
Murdock, the county's only veterinarian, tested his 22 bulls for their
potency. Three were deemed subpar, possibly because of the drought, and Mr.
Sharp said he would sell them for slaughter. 

"If they can't reproduce, they aren't worth keeping," he said. Over the last
15 years, his herd on his 15,000 acres (roughly the size of Manhattan) has
dropped to 450 from 580. 

Mr. Sharp's wife, Carol, 63, said the drought had "made everything a lot
harder." 

"You live more day-to-day because you don't know what tomorrow is going to
bring," she said as wind whipped dust across the range and her daughter
donned ski goggles. 

But the Sharps are committed to ranching. "The land is like a member of the
family," Ms. Sharp said. "You don't disown it if things aren't going right."


When a community is as dependent on agriculture as this one, the effects of
a bad season ripple through the economy. Mr. Axtell, the funeral director,
said that with the drop in funerals, all but one flower shop had closed. 

Judy Harkins, 63, a beautician, said her customers were scrimping more. 

"My little ladies on Social Security, they'll think of some excuse to come
in every other week instead of every week," Ms. Harkins said. 

Many in town dread the day when a construction crew completes a highway
bypass around the town. They expect that long-haul truckers, who often stop
in town for gas and food, will no longer bother. 

John Freeman, a county commissioner, estimated that 3,000 trucks a day
passed through now and provided half the county's sales tax revenues. He
hopes the county can make up for that loss, several times over, by
harnessing the inexhaustible supply of wind. But the permitting process for
wind farms takes years, and transmission power lines are not yet built. 

Like many other small towns that survived the Dust Bowl, Boise City now
seems on the verge of extinction. 

"There's no economic growth whatsoever," Mr. Freeman lamented. "It's going
to have to be wind energy or we'll die."        

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