Lucy

Moccasin, with its several families, was Lucy's permanent home. At differ­ent times, Kezia, Jane and Vine lived there too. Jane and Vine were first wives and never had to go underground. But the five Heaton brothers worked together for quite some time, and their agriculture and livestock interests were centered at Moccasin the year around. However, in the summertime, their sheep grazed the mountain ranges and valleys.

I remember sleeping with Mother in Lucy's soft bed, the sun opening our eyes early in the morning as it peeped over the orchard and into the open bedroom door. In the pleasant twilight, we all gravitated to the long front porch where the grown-ups talked of such interesting things, leaving us children torn with the decision of whether to stay and listen to go to play tag, hide-and-seek, or run-sheep-run. There was always a high swing to test our courage as to who dared go furtherest into outer space. The boys providing the energy for the take off.

The reservoir afforded us the most fun. The path to it took us through sand so hot we would use our bonnets or swimming dresses as frequent standing platforms on which to cool our bare feet. It was there I learned to swim and was proud of my accomplishment.

After one July 24th celebration, Emily and I went for a visit and stayed six weeks. With Lucy's two girls our age, Esther and Kezia, we made quite a dynamic foursome. We did our share of the work and still had time on our hands. We hunted wild strawberries, picked the geese for feather pillows, and went swimming every day but one. That one being missed so I could honestly keep my promise to Mother "not to go swimming every day". One day we got venturesome and explored the boiling spring up in the meadow. It was supposed not to have a bottom. The water was clear and cold and came boiling up from a deep, round hole. We screamed and shivered as we tested it with our toes, then little by little slipped in. We waded around in the shallow ditch, then slowly inched into the freezing, boiling caldron. We needn't have worried about it being bottomless, for the stream of water came up with such force it was impossible for us to lower ourselves against its vehement impact. Kezia thought she touched bottom once with her toes.

One time we jumped on the back of a wagon driven by a young Indian. He was hauling rock from a nearby canyon and we went for a ride. Four of us must have overwhelmed him for, although he knew Esther and Kezia well, we couldn't get him to talk.

There was always good eating at Lucy's, but nothing tasted better than her suppers of bread and milk and Moccasin onions. We climbed the orchard trees for peaches and different kinds of grapes tangled among the limbs. One evening about dusk, we went to a tree we had spotted earlier in the day. Its white, mealy fruit was just getting ripe. We filled a white flour sack about half full, then cautiously smuggled it through the back door and up-stairs to our bedroom. After we went to bed, we spent the long evening, until midnight, reading novels and eating peaches.

Any time of a late afternoon, we might expect to see one of the boys or men coming up the lane with a huge watermelon tucked under each arm, a signal for a small or large melon bust. Often some of the Indians found it handy to be around then. We always had melon for dessert at meal times, where we flipped seeds at each other with well-aimed accuracy - always at the one least expecting it. Ed loved to surprise his mother.

There was always so much fun and laughter, warmth and friendliness at Lucy's that everyone felt at home, whether it was the hired hands, the wayside traveler, businessmen, political or church dignitaries, a sick Indian, or a needy tramp. All found a rich supply of physical succor and emotional comfort and cheer.

Lucy was as busy as any mother with a large family. There was always sev^­eral, and often many, extras to do for, but somehow she salvaged time for a cheerful word, contagious laughter, and "need it now" demands from the many coming and going out of her home.

When Lucy comes to mind, I often recall "The Vision of Sir Launfal", by James Russell Lowell:

Not what we give but what we share, for the gift without the giver is bare;

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three: Himself, his hungry neighbor, and me.

- Amy Carroll Stark