Do you ever think about how the smallest things in the past (like the waaaaay past) could have made a major impact on your life?
I do.
This is the story of the rock.
I love this story. My dad rolled his eyes when I asked him to tell me it again, because he's "told me it a hundred times".
My great-great grandpa, Peter Peterson, came up here (I believe he had first been in Red Wing, then Moorhead) to begin his new life. With him, he brought an plow, an ox, and a horse. He went out not far from where my house sits now and began plowing. He got about 100 yards down the field when he hit this rock, breaking his plow. He claimed, "If I see any more rocks like this I will not be staying here for very long." He then had to build a kiln, which is a big oven, in order to heat up his plow so he could straighten it out. What a pain in the ass, right?
It was the only rock he ever encountered in his homesteading years.
Now, just think.
What if there had been another rock similar to that one?
My dad might not be a farmer.
Oh who am I kidding? He'd still be a farmer.
But I wouldn't be here.
All because of some a silly rock.
Crazy, huh?
Love,
Kalli
No comments:
Post a Comment