The Farm

In a far off land - at least to me as it is ... .... my surveying grandparents lived on a five acre farm on what’s called the Roosevelt River delta - or to you (like me) natives of Arizona - the Gila River Delta.

On these lands - farming was wonderful.
The natives - long before my grandparents - the farming was indeed plentiful - the soil full of iron and other important ingredients...
...on this farm - I knew nothing of feeling out of place... ...when I was there... my place was the farm - and to be... ...at hand... for anything that might be done.

I was farm hand.
Handy? You bet.

One summer, I was to reap the wheat, and in that - I did it with the tools... ...by hand. I learned intimately the scathe.... ...and what happens when you are not paying attention to your own strength... My shins still show the scars of such offense...

Daisies... ...everywhere... ...the culprit - my grandmother - the queen of the farm.
I remember the daisies - they lead to the “Rock-Shop” ... that for a long time - I was forbidden to enter - until the day came that grandmother needed a “young and tall strapping young man” to help her carry the large bales of laundry I seen her carry when I was young... ... in the rock shop - there was much noise - always where there machines running - always was something going on that I was not allowed to touch. Always it seemed - a machine was running that was cleaning - cutting - or dissecting some sort of earthen material... ...I was not allowed to touch them - so with my eyes - I lingered... ...

They lingered to something of my grandfathers... ...a diploma... Hung higher than all the other prizes it seemed in the rock shop (there where MANY prizes) - for nothing was higher in the vaulted ceilings of the rock shop - that NO ONE was to speak of ... ...is said - in German - that I learned latter - said that my grandfather was a PHD in Geology... (he knew intimately of the earth)...I always questioned my father why we where not to speak of the diploma “with the spider”... ...many times my face was redden by my father back hand...

...My grandfather - the simple father - was not an evil man. He spoke little - and when he spoke at length it was German - and when he spoke - I listened - and when he thought I would not have a reply - I spoke - to his surprise - in German. Though proud - he loved me no less - and no more - he stayed as always to me - The geologist... ...so intimate his knowledge of the earth - oh... ...I could not begin to explain with such simple words as mine...

Many times we spoke of the earth, the cycle of the sun, the timing of things, the secrecy of the vine, the Mary-Jane, the seeking smoke, the Quartz, Payyy-ohh-thhaeee- The rain dance, the nesting bird gourd, the secrecy of the BEAN - and how it all meant life... ... ... and we spoke of the stars - mostly of the moon - and all the secretes she might hold.

All of this knowledge of the farm - and there is anther side of the story - the Grand Mother... ...whose wisdom she brought on me the same weight as my “Folks-Vader”... ...but that is a different story for a different time...

I was nearly twenty years old - and I - and I - was nearly able to emotionally handle junior high... ... ...

Sword