At first glance, it is just a rock, albeit quite an interesting one. It is perhaps six inches high, maybe 22 inches around it. However, you’ve got to understand that I’m pretty terrible with estimating distances, sizes, or what direction I’m traveling. This rock is here in Arkansas in my herb garden but that’s not where I found it. I found it in my grandfather’s barnyard at Etta Bend, many years ago. I asked the lady who at that time lived on the farm if she would mind if I took the rock. She graciously said she didn’t mind if I took a whole lot of rocks. But this is the one that captured my imagination.
It is special because I’ll just bet that in long ago summers, my mom walked over that rock, her small bare feet feeling its warmth from the sun. Pappy’s cows and horses may have stepped gingerly over it on the way to the barn to be fed. If it could talk, it would tell me about hearing the clang of the cowbell as the cows came home each evening to be milked. It might remember Pappy whistling “The Glendy Burk” as he went about his morning chores and the jingle of harness as he hitched the team to the wagon to make a trip to Tahlequah. In all likelihood, it would mention hearing Ma Latty call, “Levi, time to come home for dinner” when he was down in the fields. And it certainly would have stories to tell of three sisters and a little brother, running across it to the springhouse for butter or milk or eggs. Each morning, the rock would have felt warm as the sun’s rays topped the trees to the east and shone down on the pasture and the barnyard. Each evening, as the sun disappeared over the trees west of the house, the rock would have become a hard dark shadow as night tiptoed over the hills and the farm at Etta Bend.
The rock is not smooth and beautiful. It has been shaped by life, roughened by winters’ ice and snow, hollowed out in places from countless rains, freezes and thaws. But how much more interesting it is because it is pitted, has holes that catch the rainwater and afford a hiding place for small insects and a drink of water for frogs and small birds.
No, this is not just a rock. This rock is special. This rock is a small piece of history. I carried it from Etta to my home at Manos Meadows and I carried it from Oklahoma to my home in Arkansas. Do all rocks have a story to tell? I don’t know; I only know the story behind this one. It lends character to my herb garden and I believe I’ll always keep it because it speaks to me of home.
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