"Leave No Stone Unturned"*

Of all the things I gave away, sold, left behind or otherwise no longer have, one of those I think about a lot is the pile of rocks I didn't/couldn't bring with me when we left the farm.
Picking up rocks has been one of my most favourite pastimes for as long as I can remember. As a child sent to bring up the milk cows from the pasture, if I was going to cut across the field east of the barn rather than go down the lane, Mom knew to start me at least twenty minutes early. If I took that short cut down that hill toward the stream running through the east pasture, she knew I would be stopping to pick up rocks every few feet. Each plowing or cultivation turned over new treasures for me to find.

Somewhere in my development, I became fascinated with Indian lore. Of all the rocks I could ever hope to find, finding a Native American grinding stone became the 'Holy Grail' - that and arrow heads, of course. Whenever I found a smooth, rounded stone, I imagined it had been used to grind corn into meal. I just couldn't find the large, hollowed stone the grain had been ground in.

At the time of the spring equinox in 1993, Bud and I planned a trip to Arizona to see my Aunt Leona a couple days before going to the Grand Canyon and Canyon De Chelly. At that time, Aunt Leona was up at Tonto Basin - their summer home where she could enjoy the peace and quiet as well as escaping the heat of the Phoenix valley.
In January that year, there had been a big flood on Tonto Creek near their home. She wanted us to see all the erosion and the debris left behind. As we walked out past their property line toward the creek bed, we passed by some rocks she had collected. Among them was the above pictured grinding stone. That stopped me in my tracks. I was spellbound as she told us how they had found it while exploring up in the mountains. (Those are the Mazatzal Mountains behind us in the picture.)
I related how I had always hoped to find a grinding stone. "You can have that one if you want it," she offered. I couldn't believe she would give up such a treasure. "I couldn't take that," I demurred. After a few more offers and deferences, Bud loaded it into the car for me. Aunt Leona seemed happy to have given me something I appreciated so much. She was even apologetic that she didn't have the small stone grinding tool that went with it. (The one in the picture is just one of those small, smooth, rounded stones I had picked up somewhere.)

On our way home from our last Southwest trip in 2010, we stopped in the town of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico mostly because I wanted to see some of the thermal springs the previously named Hot Springs, NM was famous for. We headed for the Geronimo Springs Museum - unfortunately closed on Sunday - but next to it was the Las Palomas Plaza, created by New Mexico artist Shel Neymark.

We weren't able to tour the museum, but we did enjoy the beautiful plaza and I noted this collection of Native grindstones.

Including this one which looks similar to the one Aunt Leona gave me. It is said archaeologists can tell much about different tribe's culture and the area they came from by their tools, including their grinding stones. I wonder if they could tell me anything about the one I have?

T or C is also the permanent home of one of the half scale traveling replicas of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall, several of which toured the country in the late 90's. It is located in the impressive Veterans Memorial Park. The adjacent Hamilton Military Museum was closed because it was Sunday. Wouldn't it be something if this was the same replica we saw when one of them was in Des Moines?

Mom used to tease me because whenever I moved, I took my rocks with me. I did leave them at her place when we moved back to West Des Moines in '84, though. By then I had collected way too many to move that far. The pile was still there between two evergreen trees out in 'the orchard' when we moved back in '95. Every time we took a trip, I came home with more rocks. I introduced the grand kids to the joy of hunting rocks along old dirt roads and we'd come home with another batch to add to the pile.

There will come a day when I can no longer keep or move the few special rocks I moved here when we retired. Who will be the next 'keeper of the stones'? I want it to be someone who will treasure them; someone willing to haul them along on any and all of their own moves. Someone who knows how generous my Aunt Leona was in making it possible for me to have, for a while, my own grinding stone and will pass the story on.



* "Leave no stone unturned." Euripides (Meaning to do everything possible to achieve or find someone or something.)