Petrified Dreams
This was beyond my expectation. Colorful rocks of petrified wood, large and small, were strewn everywhere as far as I could see. How does wood become a rock, anyway?
I was 11, and my small family was on a three-week vacation to the western US. Today we were in the badlands of Arizona, visiting the painted desert.
My grandparents had been a couple of years before and came back raving about Arizona and all of it’s wonders. It was clear that this state was where my grandfather wanted to retire in a few years. Perhaps we were invited on a PR trip. Perhaps not. Perhaps my grandmother needed convincing that it would be ok to leave us if we liked it, too.
No matter, here we were. At this point in time my grandfather was a Vice President for a Savings Bank. He had begun work as a teller there right out of high school and worked his way up to VP of HR. An American success story, the way it used to be.
Muckety-mucks at the bank were entitled (encouraged, even) to take the company car to use on vacations. This was sensible, since the car was garaged in New York City and seldom driven for work purposes except on company retreats or golf outings. The car was a giant station wagon – one of those things that sat 6 in two rows and then had facing folding seats in the back. You could put a family of 10 in that vehicle. The five of us had ridiculous amounts of room – my grandfather or my father driving, the other riding shot gun unless my grandmother insisted on the front seat. The other two adults were in the back seat, and I, gloriously reveling in pre-teen-ness, had the backwards facing seats to myself.
We drove that oversized American Dream car from the suburbs of New York all the way across the country on a grand tour of the west. We visited Arizona, Bryce Canyon, the Grand Canyon, the North Dakota badlands, Mt Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park before heading home sometime in mid-September (how did they get me out of school for this? I have no idea.)
The Painted Desert was not yet a National Park, and didn’t become one until 2004, some thirty years later. It was a designated wilderness area, but with no park and no rangers to curb theft, loss of petrified wood from the park was a real problem. No one called collecting “theft” in those days, but they do now.
As I remember, there was a visitor center, and there we were impressed not to pick up or move the rocks – because once they were moved from their original site they could not be returned there with any accuracy. A park full of dinosaur fossils waiting to be explored, it was like one giant dig site - don’t touch anything!
For an 11-year-old, this was nearly impossible. All I’d wanted to do since my grandfather came home telling me about this park was to touch the petrified wood. I had to find out for myself if it was real. Around my feet were gorgeous, small, colorful pieces I was dying to hold. I had to satisfy myself with getting close to and gently touching the bigger “trunks” of the trees. It was so odd. You could feel the outlines of bark on the outside. And yet, I was still drawn to the bright colors on the inside. It was clear to me that yes, this had been a forest. At that point, I had to accept on faith that this incredible piece of science had happened. Geology study was still in my future.
I was 11, and my small family was on a three-week vacation to the western US. Today we were in the badlands of Arizona, visiting the painted desert.
My grandparents had been a couple of years before and came back raving about Arizona and all of it’s wonders. It was clear that this state was where my grandfather wanted to retire in a few years. Perhaps we were invited on a PR trip. Perhaps not. Perhaps my grandmother needed convincing that it would be ok to leave us if we liked it, too.
No matter, here we were. At this point in time my grandfather was a Vice President for a Savings Bank. He had begun work as a teller there right out of high school and worked his way up to VP of HR. An American success story, the way it used to be.
Muckety-mucks at the bank were entitled (encouraged, even) to take the company car to use on vacations. This was sensible, since the car was garaged in New York City and seldom driven for work purposes except on company retreats or golf outings. The car was a giant station wagon – one of those things that sat 6 in two rows and then had facing folding seats in the back. You could put a family of 10 in that vehicle. The five of us had ridiculous amounts of room – my grandfather or my father driving, the other riding shot gun unless my grandmother insisted on the front seat. The other two adults were in the back seat, and I, gloriously reveling in pre-teen-ness, had the backwards facing seats to myself.
We drove that oversized American Dream car from the suburbs of New York all the way across the country on a grand tour of the west. We visited Arizona, Bryce Canyon, the Grand Canyon, the North Dakota badlands, Mt Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park before heading home sometime in mid-September (how did they get me out of school for this? I have no idea.)
The Painted Desert was not yet a National Park, and didn’t become one until 2004, some thirty years later. It was a designated wilderness area, but with no park and no rangers to curb theft, loss of petrified wood from the park was a real problem. No one called collecting “theft” in those days, but they do now.
As I remember, there was a visitor center, and there we were impressed not to pick up or move the rocks – because once they were moved from their original site they could not be returned there with any accuracy. A park full of dinosaur fossils waiting to be explored, it was like one giant dig site - don’t touch anything!
For an 11-year-old, this was nearly impossible. All I’d wanted to do since my grandfather came home telling me about this park was to touch the petrified wood. I had to find out for myself if it was real. Around my feet were gorgeous, small, colorful pieces I was dying to hold. I had to satisfy myself with getting close to and gently touching the bigger “trunks” of the trees. It was so odd. You could feel the outlines of bark on the outside. And yet, I was still drawn to the bright colors on the inside. It was clear to me that yes, this had been a forest. At that point, I had to accept on faith that this incredible piece of science had happened. Geology study was still in my future.
I could have spent days in that park, squatting down, investigating, touching, seeing. But we had many miles to cover in the days to come. On we went.
Years later, cleaning out my grandfather’s house, I found a small collection of rocks in his top desk drawer – each one carefully labeled in my grandfather’s neat hand. A rock from Boot Hill Cemetery. Another from the Grand Canyon. And yes, in a piece small enough to hide in your pocket, Petrified Wood.
They never did retire to Arizona.
Years later, cleaning out my grandfather’s house, I found a small collection of rocks in his top desk drawer – each one carefully labeled in my grandfather’s neat hand. A rock from Boot Hill Cemetery. Another from the Grand Canyon. And yes, in a piece small enough to hide in your pocket, Petrified Wood.
They never did retire to Arizona.
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