The Indian Ruins

          We loved to go for walks with Grandma Russell when we were up at the cabin, especially to the Indian ruins.  There were many ruins scattered around the hill tops along Haiger Creek, but the ruins we enjoyed the most were on a big hill past the spring.  It was a long walk for little feet, but worth it. 

          The first time Grandma showed us the Indian ruins I didn't think much of them.  To my young eyes it was just a bunch of tumbled down rocks, with clumps of tall grass, prickly pear cactus, spiny agave, and once in a while Indian Paintbrush flowers pushing up through the rubble.  Then Grandma explained the ruins to us.  She showed us how the rocks were really tumbled down walls of Indian houses.  In some places they still made straight lines, and we could see the outline of a building. 

          Grandma picked up reddish brown rocks and showed us how they were really pieces of pottery.  They were light to hold, and smooth.  Once in a while she even found a piece that still had  patterns on it from being pressed against a straw basket when it was made.  At first the pottery looked the same as the red rocks, but with practice we could tell the difference.  It was the same thickness, all the way across, and lighter than rock.  When we were really lucky we found pieces of painted pottery, or the top of a jar with a smooth, curved rim. 

It always smelled wonderful up on the Indian ruins hill.  The sun shone hotter there, because there were no pine trees for shade.  The grass smelled like it was baked in an oven. Big, black horse flies and butterflies chased around through the remains of those long ago Indians.  Standing on the hill, we could see forever.  Below, to the south, was a meadow with a few cabins and gardens.  Across the creek above the bluffs lay big, empty meadows, climbing into hills and then mountains covered with pine trees, standing dark green against the blue sky.  We liked to imagine the Indians, living on their hill, able to see for miles and miles in every direction.

My little sister, Linda, was especially fascinated by the Indian ruins.  She would sit on a rock and daydream for hours about the people who once lived there.  Sometimes her eyes would be red and puffy when she finally got up and walked home.  I never knew why, until she finally admitted that she used to sit and cry for the poor people who had lived and died in that place.  Linda always was the dramatic one in our family.