When my father died in 1973, I found
in his belongings an old sepia-colored photograph of a stark desert
setting. The most conspicuous features were a pair of low hills,
distinctive mainly because the surrounding area was so flat.
My father grew up in the
northwestern corner of the Texas Panhandle, just across the state line
from
Clayton, New Mexico. Nothing on or with the picture indicated where it was
taken, but I suspected it was in the vicinity of Clayton, an area which Dad
sometimes mentioned.
A year ago, I found myself driving
through that area. I’d spent a couple of days poring over records at the
Dalham County Courthouse. I’d also located my great-great-grandparents’
graves at the Texline, Texas, Cemetery. After all that searching, my wife and I
were headed west, out of Texas, and braced for a full day’s drive to Salt Lake
City.
Then something caught my attention.
The unwavering horizon had a slight deviation after all. The closer we got to
Clayton, the more clearly a couple of mounds stood out, making a memory
flash appear in my mind of that old photo of my Dad’s. When the hills were
close enough to register a strong match with the image in my head, I pulled
over and took a picture.
Back home in Spokane, I dug out
Dad’s photo and verified that I had located the same place. A little time with
Google filled in some blanks. The early Spaniards called the two
hills Orejas de Conejos, or Rabbit Ear, and when the Santa Fe Trail
became a significant route from Independence, Missouri, to Santa Fe, New
Mexico, the Rabbit Ear was a landmark that alerted wagon trains to a
surprisingly good supply of water, food and grass.
In the 1920s, my father and his
family pushed on to the Pacific Northwest with its towering mountains, so
different from the flat monotony of the Great Plains. Dazzled as he was by the
Cascades, my father found enough meaning in his memories of the Rabbit Ear that
he held onto that photo the rest of his life. I probably will too.
Story & Photos shared by EWGS member, Doug Floyd