It was an old, faded green truck. The
body looked like it had been kicked around and abandoned.
Surprisingly, the motor still purred, almost—almost--like a new
vehicle. That was because the owner was constantly puttering over
the innards hidden under a dented, damaged hood.
In spite of its sad appearance, the
owner never hesitated in letting his wife and his sister drive it to
remote areas in the mountains or out into the desolate desert,
searching for beautiful and unusual rocks. They would pack a lunch,
a thermos of coffee and another filled with water, and then be off
before the sun got too hot, and headed home before the sun went to
bed and the moon filled the sky.
They would be tired, dirty, but
giggly, happy if they found even just one or two special rocks.
They never considered they might ever
be in any danger. Snakes slithering in the sand or twisted branches
of sagebrush scared them silly, otherwise they felt safe. Until one
afternoon, both bent over, digging in the sand, until suddenly
spotting two rough-looking fellows, just a short distance from them.
Both were holding rifles, Liz, the youngest one, was terrified.
Where could they go? Nowhere to hide. No way to call for help.
Kate quietly assured her that
everything would be fine, as she slowly approached the two strangers.
When Liz felt sure they were friendly and would do no harm, she
relaxed. She watched the scruffy looking gun-toters walk towards
their truck, as Kate joined her. With the deer hunt just weeks away,
they were out there sighting with their guns. Liz really didn't
care. She firmly declared, “Let's go home.”
The good old days of the early 1930s.
