38 FOUR SEASONS BREEZE | SEPTEMBER 2022
Writers' Club
MONUMENT VALLEY
By Jane Czajkowski
Joe and I were fortunate to see many wondrous sights in our travels,
but there was one place to which we would gravitate whenever we
could: Monument Valley. For me, it was like some of the other special
places in our Southwest that provided an opportunity to revitalize
one's spirit in the solitude of a vast expanse of unique, harsh beauty.
Monument Valley is such a place, one that makes poets of all of us.
Goulding's has a campground in a red rock canyon, between Big
Rock Door Mesa and cliffs crowned with pinion and junipers. We
would select a site which provided a view of the valley below.
This is a magical place for any traveler. For Joe, it was more; a
desperate attempt to grasp a wisp of something from his past. He did
not know what it was, he just knew it had to be there. The compass
in his genes pointed the way. The monuments were totems to his
ancestors. Voices in the wind. Visions in the rocks. Old great-grand
mother's umbilical cord leaving footprints in the sand. When was she
here? WAS she here?
I would ask why he was so sure. His mother, half-Indian would
reminisce about Agua Azul (Blue Water Lake). Her family farmed
there. His sister Jenny was born there. Sister Trini in nearby San Rafael.
He was born in nearby Grants. No, not a whisper of recognition. Also,
the silence was deafening at Fort Summer's Bosque Redondo, where
Custer forcibly relocated those of his ancestors whose survived the
brutal march. But this valley was crying out to him: "Mijo, we're here."
In the Valley, the fry-bread tasted better, the sage smelled sweeter, and
the stars were brighter.
He was snug in the comfort of the womb.
Come and share your writings on the second Tuesday of the month
at 1 pm. We meet in the RNC Conference Room. Contact Marylynn
Archibald at mlarchibald@mac.com. ~ Mary Lynn Archibald
