June 2010
All that is left are parts of an old Model T. The rusted bumper, hood, a piece of the steering wheel and a chain. There are some old tin cans, also rusted, the rocks that might have been the front step and an indentation where the cellar was.
On the other plot there is nothing, not even a scrap of metal. What was most likely a hand-dug well is now a puddle.
As we walked we watched for rattlesnakes, took pictures and listened. Listened and tried to remember everything they said. Because this is our history; our piece of the puzzle.
It’s a beauty that can’t be described, the clean air, smell of sagebrush and chirping birds. What was supposed to be a rainy day didn’t shed a drop though the roads were too muddy to take our own car.
The stories are too many to retell, although I hope I remember well enough to be able to tell my kids someday. How they lost 40 sheep in a blizzard, how the kids raised enough money with a badger hide to pay for the concrete in the foundation to add on to the house. I learned things about my grandparents I never knew. My grandpa went to California two winters in a row to find work, my grandma went to a semester of business school in Denver before they got married.
They were 19 and 29 when they married. They bought a piece of land together, built a family and a life. Raised four children, 11 grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. They lost countless animals in blizzards, drought, other elements. They lost a granddaughter to meningitis. They never quit.
What is physically left of the original homesteads is not much, but what is left is my legacy. The lessons learned. Be kind, fair and work hard. Love. Share what you have. That is what is important. More important than any piece of land.
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