Yesterday's Wind

October, 1922 It reminded him of an anthill—dozens of people moving endlessly in disorganized, yet patterned directions. The hollow echo from the thick heels of the nurse's shoes striking the marble floor had the effect of a metronome out of sync. He thought the silly white hats the nurses wore looked like leghorn chickens with their white rounded rump feathers. Their scurrying about reminded him of farmyard goings on. The pungent chloroform odor of methylal pervaded the cavernous room. In the center of the admissions lobby, a rangy man and his curious-looking wife waited. They were a forlorn pair; he, a blond, deeply- tanned fellow in his tan suitcoat over blue denim overalls that had been washed so often that they were faded to a pale blue. He was a poor farmer, and looked the part. His wife, in her print dress and frayed wool coat, stood beside him. Her hair was straight and black. Her prominent cheekbones suggested Native American genealogy. It was said that the woman's great-grandmother was an Iroquois squaw, although there was no documentation to support the claim. She had a tin-type of her grandmother that would lend a convincing argument. The farmer shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other gazing up and down the endless hall. His woman stood motionless, occasionally taking her eyes away from the baby she held in her arms. Presently, a heavy balding man in a dark suit approached. From the pallor of his skin, it was apparent he spent his time indoors. His thick round glasses made his eyes look big. He carried a thin sheaf of papers which he placed on a desk top before taking a seat. He motioned the two to approach. Adjusting his glasses, he asked. “Walter and Mildred Hubbard?” Simultaneously the two responded, “Yes.” “Okay, Walter. Repeat after me. I—.” The two began as one. “Just you, Walter,” he pointed to the farmer with his pen. Mildred bit her lower lip. “I, Walter Hubbard,” the man began again, “declare my position of indigence.” “I Walter Hubbard, “he choked on the words, “declare my position of—of” “Indigence,” the man seated at the desk prompted. “Indigence.” “And am unable to satisfy the sum of this expense, nor any portion of it.” Hubbard repeated the words. “And I swear before the people and the governor of the state of Colorado that this is my present financial situation, so help me God.” Again, the man of simple means repeated the words. “You are aware,” the official cautioned, “that any misstatement as to the accuracy of this document may lead to penalties or fines as adjudicated by a court of law, are you not?” “Yes,” Hubbard answered in an obedient whisper. “Sign here,” the administrator instructed, sliding the paper across handing Hubbard the pen. The muscular farmer bent down appraising the flaccid official, relieved his own life involved healthy hard work and visible results. He was happy he didn't have to do what that fellow did. The officer, glancing at Hubbard's threadbare overhauls and his gnarled, weathered hands came to the same conclusion. He was content with his safe, comfortable sinecure. The new father signed on a line. Below, the words read, “Sworn before me at 2:12 p.m., October 19, 1922, at Colorado General Hospital, Denver, Colorado, Robert R. DeCamp, Administrative Director, Hospital Charges and Remittances.” The official then witnessed the document by adding his signature. “Okay, Mr. Hubbard, you're free to go. Good luck to the three of you.” Walter and Mildred Hubbard walked out of the hospital with their new son, Andrew Walter Hubbard. By his father's action of taking the pauper's oath, the boy entered the world free of charge. “It's kind of painful that I got to beg to get my kid out of that joint,” Walter complained passing through the lobby. His wife, careful of her child, didn't respond, joining him to the short trek where their worn Chevy truck waited in the parking lot. It would be a long tedious drive back to their farm in Cottonwood. The Hubbards, a family now, had accomplished what many fledgling young couples had not, surviving in an environment that defeated so many. They had come a long way from the time the two met in the rolling hills of Missouri. Mildred Franklin was a teacher in a small country school when she met Walter who moved into a nearby town. Hubbard and his first wife were renting a farm in Oklahoma when his wayward spouse abandoned him. From there, he began wandering. He found a job working in a grocery store not far from the school. Mildred, living by herself in the school, would come into the store to stock up on provisions. Tall, gangly and unattractive, the twenty-year-old school marm was pleased to be courted by the dashing blond man who was on the lam. In a short time, they would marry. Mildred's parents were strict Baptists who refused to take in a man that had been married before. Unable to convince her to denounce her love for Walter, she was disowned. There was compensation, however. Mildred's father would not to turn the daughter out without something. Hence, he awarded her $500 going away money—hardly a fortune, but enough to give the two a start if they watched their pennies. Their plan was to homestead a farm. Knowing available lands from the east into the Midwest were already spoken for, they would go further to the unsettled west. Walter studied the homestead laws. It was the first serious attempt at book learning in his existence. He found that if he had a chance at all getting a piece of un-claimed land, he would have to go west—far west. That was okay with him, and Mildred wanted to get as far away from her family as possible. Properties originally homesteaded in the eastern portion of the country in the 1860's were 160 acres in size. Those were prime acquisitions, but by now, were all settled. As the land grab craze and the push west spread further into the arid regions, the size of the homesteads were increased to 320 acres. When expansion shifted into the less fertile lands of western Nebraska, Kansas, and Colorado and beyond, the size was broadened to 640 acres; the conclusion being a larger farm or ranch was needed in order to scratch out a living. By the turn of the century, precious few parcels remained, and those bordered on being worthless. Walter would go first to find a place. As soon as that step was accomplished, he would send for Mildred.