It rests in my herb garden, a memory stone. It’s a reminder of a slower, quieter time, of the strong, good people who owned the farm which was the rock’s home. It’s just a dark rock, pitted by millenia. Cows’ and horses’ hooves have stepped on it and probably bare-foot children have stubbed their toes against it.
If rocks had ears, it would have heard, as it lay in the barnyard at Etta, the voice of the farmer coming in from the fields and unharnessing his team of mules. It would have heard him coming down morning and evening to milk cows. It may have listened to the voice of the the farmer’s wife as she came to the springhouse to get butter for supper.
I found the rock one day while visiting my mother’s childhood home at Etta. I took it with me to my home at Manos Meadows and when I moved to Arkansas, I brought it with me.
The ancient Israelites used stones as reminders of God’s goodness and providential mercy. (Samuel 7:12 and Joshua 4:1-9.) When the people saw these rocks, they would remember their godly heritage and the story behind the stones. So, this rock in my garden with its rough surface and its earthy colors is a reminder of my heritage and the dear people who lived in the farmhouse just up the hill from the barn yard at Etta Bend.
It’s more than a rock. It’s a memory stone.
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