05/22/2026
The Last Bucket - Dalhart, Texas, 1938
The Morris family held on longer than most. Hank Morris called himself the “Last Sodbuster.” His wife, Ida, believed him. Their twins, Ray and May, 10, hauled water two miles every day from the town well. The well was down to mud.
By 1938, Dallam County was gone. Neighbors left in ’35. Banks took the farms in ’36. The Morrises stayed. “Rain’s coming,” Hank said. “This land don’t beat me.”
The land did. June 1938. The last cow died. Dust pneumonia. Ida milked her dry the night before. Got half a cup. She gave it to the twins. They split it.
Next morning, the well went dry. Hank dropped the bucket down. Heard it hit dirt. He pulled it up. Empty. He dropped it again. Still empty. Third time, he didn’t pull it up. He sat on the edge and cried.
Ida found him there. She took the bucket. Walked to town. Stood in line with 40 other women. At noon, the town council shut the well. “For drinking only,” the sign said. “No washing. No stock. No gardens.”
Ida went home with nothing. The twins were in the yard, playing. Making roads in the dust with sticks. “We’re going to California,” Ray said. “Our road goes there.”
That night, Hank loaded the truck. One mattress. One skillet. One Bible. Ida packed the bucket. Empty, but clean. “For when we find water,” she said.
They got 20 miles. The truck died. Radiator blew. No water to fill it. They left it. Walked.
Three days later, a farm truck picked them up. The driver gave them water from a canteen. The twins drank. Ida drank. Hank poured his into the bucket. “For later,” he said.
They made it to Bakersfield. Lived in a Hooverville. Hank picked cotton. Ida washed other people’s clothes — when there was water.
In 1941, Hank got drafted. Wrote home from the Pacific: “Plenty water here. Wish I could send some.” He died on Saipan.
Ida kept the bucket. In 1955, she used it to plant a rose bush in her yard. First thing she ever grew in California. She told the twins, “Your daddy carried this bucket empty across the desert. Now it grows something.”
Ida died in 1981. The bucket sits in the Dust Bowl Museum. Dented. Rusty. The tag reads: “Last water from Dalhart, Texas. 1938. Saved by Hank Morris. Used by Ida Morris. Never empty again.”
That’s how USA history crossed the desert — by fathers who saved water they didn’t drink, and by mothers who planted roses in buckets.