The Turquoise Ledge Read Free

the concave space prevented the hard dry beans from ricocheting and scattering all over when the stone mortar struck them. Previously I’d walked right past these grinding stones without realizing what they were because I was accustomed to grinding stones made for corn which are nearly flat.
    These grinding stones were fundamental to survival on the mesquite and palo verde seeds or “beans” that the trees bear in June. The beans, though plentiful and nutritious, were indigestible unless they were ground into flour first then cooked in tortillas. Without a good grinding stone, precious beans would be wasted along with the energy and hard work it took to gather them. For a woman, her grinding stones were her partners in feeding and caring for her family. The stones were handed down from generation to generation. No wonder the grinding stones sometimes talked, and gave their owner warnings about those who might harm her or her family.
    The ancestors left the stones under the trees because year after year, they returned there to harvest the mesquite and palo verde beans. It was inconceivable that anyone would steal or remove the grinding stones because they were so heavy, and only useful right there for the hard seeds.
    Once I realized what they were, I kept my eye out for the grinding stones and the next one I found was under a large foothills palo verde that was hundreds of years old. After that I made it a practice to look beneath the oldest trees for grinding stones, and I usually wasn’t disappointed.
    Grinding stones are like other objects that humans make and use every day; they take on a presence of their own. When I see a stone that has been worked by human hands I bring it to the house so it will have a home again.
    Up here late at night in November sometimes in the wind I’ve heard the voices of women singing their grinding songs. After dark I avoid looking out the living room windows on the west side of my old ranch house because I’ve seen as many as a dozen figures walk past in a group.
    In my kitchen there is a window that looks into the hall and laundry area but at one time the window looked outdoors. Four or five times in the thirty years I’ve lived here, out of the corner of my eye I’ve gotten glimpses through that window of a woman and a man in the laundry area. I never see their faces clearly but they appear to be young adults, dressed simply, the woman in a gingham dress, the man in jeans and a shirt.

CHAPTER 3
    I n the rain mists that shimmer across the shoulders of the mountain in the west wind I can make out the tall graceful forms of the shi-wah nah, the cloud beings. I was amazed the first time I saw them crossing the Tucson Mountains.
    Once when the rain clouds were hurrying east over the Tucson Mountains, I watched them from my front yard. They were dark with moisture and I wished they’d give us rain, but I could tell by their speed that we’d get no rain—maybe the taller mountains across the valley would get rain. Still the clouds were very lovely—I could smell their sweet moisture and felt the coolness as I watched them move past. Behind the main group of clouds, came others and I noticed one small cloud trailing them—its belly was fat and dark blue but its edges were sunlit silver—“Ah what a beauty you are,” I said out loud, “just look at you!”
    Then the most amazing thing happened: the small cloud left the path the other clouds followed and it came right over and rained down gently on us before resuming its journey behind the others.
    Once I told this story at a Hopi school at lunchtime. Afterwards one of the teachers told me this: a year or so after her seven year old son died, she was outside her house when a small rain cloud stopped above her and rained a few drops before moving on. It was her son. Beloved family members and the ancestors show their love for us when they return as clouds that bring precious