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Maybe that's because Grandpa's a little too close to being one himself.
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Back to bed.
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Were you dreaming about the crash?
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Get your butt back in bed, Murph.
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The wheat had died.
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The blight came and we had to burn it.
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And we still had corn. We had acres of corn.
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But, uh, mostly we had dust.
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I guess I can't describe it. It was just constant.
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Just that steady blow of dirt.
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We wore, um, little strips of sheet...
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sometimes over our nose and mouth...