It’s only a short drive from our corner of the Washington DC suburbs to Upstate New York, where my friend, Elfrieda, wanted to go, but her health was on a rapid downhill slide, and she couldn’t trust herself to make the drive alone.    

For whatever reason she had, she was obsessed with the desire to finish writing her family tree to pass down to future generations and she needed to go to her original hometown (Syracuse) – to look up all the records she was looking for.

I actually didn’t mind making the trip.  Once you got away from the city it was a beautiful drive and I was enjoying the scenery.

At one point, not that far from the next small town, I couldn’t resist pulling over to the side of the road and getting out of the car.  It was only a few steps to the river’s edge.  There was a good size boulder just a few feet offshore and I waded out to it.  As I gazed at the view upstream, I suddenly burst into a torrent of tears.  I didn’t know why; I only knew the tears wouldn’t stop.

I stumbled back to the car and told Elfreida she would have to drive.  Of course she was bewildered, and I couldn’t explain because I didn’t know.

She drove as far as the nearer roadside restaurant, in hopes that feeding me would calm me down.

Seeing the shape I was in, one of the customers invited us to join him and while we sat with him, he told us the legend of that rock. 

From him I learned that back in Colonial America, Indians where being chased off their land – shooting them was considered fair game.  Many brave warriors once died on that rock, watching for their loved ones to bring their canoe safely home. 

While Elfrieda was off to wherever one goes in search of public records for her mission, I spent my time in the library reading old history books in hopes of learning the story of the rock and why it had affected me the way it did.  I wonder if I will ever know.