Thursday, November 12, 2009

A Perfect Row of Rocks

The huge flat rocks laid in a row along the west side of the barnyard. Tall pig nut trees (at least that is what we called them) resided over them creating a perfect place for little girls to play. Brenda would take one rock for her house and I another. We could down the row of rocks pretending to shop in 'rock' stores. Rocks big enough to hold us and our dolls were big enough to fit our imaginations.

Dad went through a phase after he retired from farming making changes to the farm. The old garage was torn down. The old barn that at one time held my horse and the sheep was torn down. The fences were all taken down. The site of the old garage became more grass to mow. The old barn site became a large garden. Fences torn down made fields just a bit larger. Dad was on a roll.

One day we came home from shopping in Greenville with Mom to find Dad and our neighbor Carl who was up on the tractor with the loader, digging out our rocks...our little houses. Yes, I was in my 30's, but they were still my rocks. My sisters were equally upset that Dad had not consulted anyone else in the matter. Dad continued the digging; Carl shaking his head.

I wanted the farm to stay the same. Living away for so long, I needed to go home to nest in what I knew. Dad was bored and always needed something to do outside, to be active. He didn't see the farm in the same way as did his daughters.

I miss those big old rocks. I wonder how such large, flat rocks had been moved to this straight line across the west boundary of the barnyard. Certainly, it wasn't random placement and must have been moved to this location by horses. There were no other huge rocks like these in the area. Were they a boundary of a camp for those who made the arrowheads on our land? Did people grind grain on the rocks? Were they used in the foundation of something more? Did they come from a river that was now a creek?

Carl buried the rocks. The holes were at least 4' deep and as wide. Dad continued to bury things. We figured some day we would come home to find Mom in a hole up to her neck because Dad couldn't find anything else to bury.

They were just rocks. Just rocks. Weren't they?

1 comment:

LJL said...

Do you mind if I give a quick story from Byerly Road?...
The little boy rode along happily in the trailer pulled by a 1940's Allis Chalmers. The driver was eight years older than the little guy in the trailer. They were travelling home from Grandma and Grandpa's farm on Grove Road. As they approached Isaiah's lane on Byerly Road, in sight of the catalpa trees, the tractor driver decided to see how far into the ditch he could drive. Suddenly, the tractor and trailer tipped over in the ditch, spilling the younger boy into the grass, unhurt. The driver's leg was pinned under the tractor, and the younger lad ran screaming up the lane to try to get help from Isaiah. Before he could reach the house, the driver was able to extricate himself and quickly called for the little boy to come back.
I helped my big brother, Don Lavy, to push the tractor and trailer back onto their wheels, and we continued on to the stop sign. There, we turned right and soon arrived home. Looking across the field, we could see the Loxley estate. Everything was right again in my little world.
-Lowell Lavy