When I was a child, our family traveled often to Oak Springs, Arizona. Oak Springs is on the eastern slope of the Carriso Mountains, about fifty miles west of Shiprock. My father grew up there, and we have many relatives in the area. Our family has a plot of land with a hogan and storage cellar there.
On one occasion, we were going to Oak Springs, and there were perhaps six or seven children in the back of the pickup and Mary, an older cousin. Mary's father and my mother are siblings, so she is considered our sister. She is considerably older than we are and did not take part in the noisy playing we were involved in. Since she was the oldest one in the back of the pickup, she was responsible for our behavior or misbehavior.
As we went past Shiprock, there were flat mesas, gentle sandhills, and a few houses scattered at distances. Mary pointed to a mesa as we rounded a curve and asked, "See those rocks at the bottom?" We stopped playing and moved around her to listen. The question was the opening for a story. The rocks she pointed at were midway between the ground and the top of the rock pile. The mesa loomed behind, smooth and deep ochre. The rocks were on the shaded side of the mesa. Then Mary told this story:
They said a long time ago, something happened where those rocks are. When I was little, they told me that one time before there were cars or even roads around here, there was a family traveling through here on horseback. They had a little baby girl who was sick. As they came near here, the baby became sicker, and she kept getting worse. They finally stopped. They knew it was no use going on. They just stopped and held the baby. By then, she was hardly breathing, and then finally she just stopped breathing. They just cried and walked around with her.
In those days, people were buried differently. The mother and father wrapped her in a pelt of sheepskin and looked for a place to bury her. They prayed, sang a song, then put the baby inside. They stacked rocks over this place so that the animals wouldn't bother her. Of course, they were crying as they rode home.
Later on, whenever they passed by those rocks, they would say, "Our baby daughter is right there," or "She would have been an older sister now." They wiped their tears, remembering her. A lot of people knew that the baby was buried there-that she was their baby and that they still missed her. They knew that and thought of the baby as they passed through here.
So that's why when we come through here, remember those rocks and the baby who was buried there. She was just a newborn. Think about her and be quiet. Those rocks might look like any others, but they're special.
We listened to the story, and since that time we have told the story many times ourselves. Decades later, those particular rocks hold the haunting and lasting memory of a little baby girl. This land that may seem arid and forlorn to the newcomer is full of stories which hold the spirits of the people, those who live here today and those who lived centuries and other worlds ago. The nondescript rocks are not that at all, but rather a lasting and loving tribute to the death of a baby and the continuing memory of her family.
--Luci Tapahonso
