The Women's Grinding Rock

Weekend trips were my father’s way to unwind from stressful work.  One of his favorite getaways was a  ranch east of San Diego along the Mexican border.  Semi-arid and hilly, it’s mystique appealed to me as well.  It was a relief to escape the crowded Los Angeles basin to this uncomplicated ranch nestled amidst sage-dotted hills.  The land’s sparse vegetation and up-thrust boulders made it difficult for man or beast to inhabit. 

We would hike, hunt, four-wheel, fish, and get grubby among granite formations, sage, sand, and scrub oak stands.  On the lookout for artifacts and fossils, I walked nose to the ground, hoping to spot a flint chip or arrowhead.  Despite my dedication, all I got was a crick in my neck.

One day my family decided we wanted to explore an adjacent arroyo.  A nearby granite outcrop provided the best vantage point, so the four of us clambered onto an house-sized boulder.  This huge, gray and white striated chunk of granite had punched itself out of the soil.  Much surrounding earth had eroded, providing a clear view over the wash below.

Atop the rock, we noticed pockmarks the size of cereal bowls gouging its face. Curious, I crawled from indention to indention like a blind person reading braille.  What was their purpose? 

Because an ancient Indian cemetery existed nearby, I realized natives had called this land home.  From my overlook, I could see plenty of oak stands nearby. I also knew from fourth grade California history that ground acorns provided a primary food source for early inhabitants.   Aha! I stood upon a grinding rock.

From the number  and depths of depressions, this slab had served generations of women as the local grindstone.  My imagination flew as I fancied friends gathering blanched acorns, babies, and toddlers to work and gab at “the rock.”

As I leaned against the stone and closed my eyes, time peeled away.  Morning sun would have warmed those women’s backs as they leaned into their pounding and grinding.  A sea breeze blowing inland would have rattled oak leaves just as it made leaves whisper to me.  Those long dead mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends undoubtedly talked about the same things women talk about today: family, work, joy, and sorrow.

After examining the grinding rock and sandy earth surrounding it, my family hiked down the gulch, hoping to find more treasure.  That day was  lucky indeed, for we found a vanished woman’s simple rolling pin, the stone she carried to the grinding rock.  Size-wise, it compares to any standard rolling pin.  The ends reveal wear from years of mashing acorns. 

That generated more questions.  How did she lose this stone?  Who lost it? How long ago? Was she running in fear unable to lug that heavy, awkward tool with her?  We don’t know the answers, but that artifact became family treasure that we carried from state to state during repeated moves. 

Eventually, it ended up in my home. A few years ago at an auction, I lucked upon a metaté.  Though from distinctly different regions and tribes, uniting the two seemed right. 

Each time I move them to vacuum, they remind me of the grinding rock, bridging across time to those who came before me.  Women still gather to work and talk about important issues: family, work, joy, and sorrow.     

Under the Spell of the Moon

 "Buffalo gals won'tcha come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight. Buffalo gals, won'tcha come out tonight and dance by the light of the moon?"  Every time I see a full or nearly full moon, I think of this songmy father used to sing to his little girl any time we happened to view a

 full moon together. 

That probably began the magic of moon gazing for me. The gazing improved when my mother told her wide-eyed daughter to look for the man in the moon. Sure enough, I could spot his eyes, nose, and mouth.

 To further weave the magic, we read nursery stories about cows jumping over the moon and moons made of green cheese.  My brain teamed with delightful tales and wonderful images of dancing buffalo gals who looked much like Annie Oakley and Olympian cows that could leave the boundaries of earth's gravity behind. No wonder the moon cast its spell over me.

When we moved to Southern California, we discovered another kind of

 moon magic local to place.  Grunion, a small and silvery slip of a fish, answers the call to reproduce during spring full moons.  These sardine size creatures ride the waves in during high tide to spawn on the shore.

I remember arriving at Huntington Beach at high tide to find grunion hunters under a communion wafer moon. Driving home afterwards with empty buckets rattling did not dampen our mood. 

The joy of running barefooted in wet sand under a full moon reflecting off in-coming waves and listening to the song of the pounding surf made up for our failure as grunion-nappers.  This memory returns on nights I stand outside, basking in silvery moonlight.

Songwriters, lovers,  and poets know the moon and compose songs

titled "Moon River," "Moon Shadow," and "Blue Moon."  Clement Moore wrote "The

Night Before Christmas,” and spoke of the moon "shining on the breast of the new fallen snow."  In the poem "The Highway Man" the author writes, "the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas."

            These images fed my imagination so that when I had daughters, I wanted them to sense the magic I felt.  I had learned a silly rhyme from my grandmother, and the girls and I stood under a warm summer crescent moon and recited, "Look at the moon.  Someone bit it in two.  I didn't do it.  Naughty puppy, did you?"  They would giggle as only little girls can while the moon shone on tiny baby teeth pearls and reflected in their eyes.  To this day, I cannot see a crescent moon without remembering grandmother and toddling daughters.

Though the world changes, though our families grow and shrink and grow, though we age, the moon cycles every 29.5 days.  We can stand under the moonlight and know that light shines on our loved ones no matter where they live.  Just as the pull of the moon creates tides and wave cycles, it tugs our hearts and creates a life pattern on which we can count.