The Minnesota Farm Woman

One of my favorite movies is a Lucy and Desi comedy from 1953 called The Long, Long Trailer.  Lucy plays a young naive bride who saves a rock from each stop along the way of their trek across the United States so she would have the memories to look back on when they finally reached their destination. She hides them in every nook and cranny of the trailer with hilarious results.  Although I never had to hide my rocks, I have a special understanding of the character she played.   Florida has no rocks. One doesn’t think much about missing something like rocks until you live somewhere where there aren’t any. Oh, there are landscaping rocks and stones that are shipped from the north and that people pay a premium price for. There is coquina, which kind of looks like a rock, but is actually of thousands of tiny shells cemented together by Mother Nature and is hard to find in a round shape unless you once again want to pay a premium price. In the days before security became so tight on airplanes, I sneaked a rock or two from our cabin property into my suitcase to begin my own memory garden. I can just imagine how things might go these days.  Airport  Security Officer: “So you have rocks in your suitcase because you miss rocks.”  Me: “Yes. I miss rocks.” Airport Security Officer (Looking pointedly at his coworker as he dials for the paddywagon) “Yes, Ma’am. Let’s get you into a special room where you can talk about your rocks.” Several years later I attended a family reunion and was privileged to get a tour of the original family homestead, still owned by a 94-year-old relative named Agnes.  As I was admiring the flower garden lined with stones, I asked her if I could have a couple of the smaller ones. Agnes:  “You want what? Rocks? Me:  “Yes, please.” Agnes: (Looking pointedly at another relative and much too polite to make the crazy motion with her finger making circles around her head and probably glad I wasn’t asking for the family silver), “Take all the rocks you want, I have plenty!” Those particular rocks didn’t go into my garden, but had a place of honor on the mantle in my living room.  When we moved back home to Minnesota, I wrapped them carefully in tissue paper and packed them in a special box which I carried with me in the car. When we built our stone fireplace out of lovely smooth Minnesota rocks, I asked our builder, who is also a gifted stonemason, to fit these smaller rocks in. They are there, along with a piece of Florida coquina in my own memory garden of sorts. As I rub my hand along their surfaces, I wonder about a long ago great-great grandmother, who originally homesteaded that farm.   Did she perhaps bring a rock or a smidgen of earth when she travelled from her beloved Norway? Did she touch these same stones as she worked among her flowers? As her children grew and had children of their own, could she even imagine that her own great-great granddaughter would someday  be writing about her?  As I touch those smooth stones and remember this special woman who I never knew but in part gave me life, I know that I have finally reached my own destination. I am happy and healthy and will soon have grandchildren of my own. I will help the little hands seek out the special stones. They will hear the stories, and  they will know her. I think she would be glad for that.