Only the Stones Remain
“Layers of time etched in a stone.”
lyrics from the song Little Things
Every rock has a story. Some tell of big things like Stonehenge, while others mark the passage of time. On the family farm in Tennessee, there are several stone walls in various states. Some are still as strong as the day they were built. Others have fallen, with stones scattered among the trees, or into the field. History informs me that these walls, often referred to as "slave walls," were actually built by Irish and Scottish immigrants in the 19th century — which happens to be a prevalent line in my own genealogy .
There are also the remains of several houses, which have been reduced to a pile of hand-chiseled stone blocks. A few years ago, on an early morning hike in February, I passed by one of these old houses and noticed a yellow spray of daffodils nearby. I thought about the person who planted them long ago. Perhaps it was a woman, making her little house on the hill a home, bringing some beauty to a life mostly filled with hardship. How could she know then that I would come along a century later and admire her flowers? The stones that remain of that little house have seen it all and have their own story about who comes and goes.
Wichahpi Commemorative Stone Wall aka Tom’s Wall
These age-old stones intrigue me. I think about the people who gathered them, cut them, and stacked them. I can’t imagine the backbreaking labor it took to build a wall or house. Not to mention the sweat, big spiders, snakes, and chiggers. If you haven’t spent much time in the South, you may not know about the microscopic bugs called chiggers. Lucky you.
I’ve always been a rock hound. As I write this, I realize I have a rock in my coat pocket, a few in my purse, several on my window sill, and even one on the floor or my car. So it’s really no surprise that on a recent unplanned day out with my mom and older sister that I decided we should go see a rock wall. In my defense, it wasn’t just any rock wall, it was Tom’s Wall, the largest un-mortared wall in the United States. Tom Hendrix built the wall to honor his great-great-grandmother, Te-la-ney, who was part of the Yuchi Indian tribe that lived along the Tennessee River near Florence, Alabama in the 1800s. The tribe called the river “nunnuhsae,” meaning the singing river because they believed a woman lived in its waters and guided them with her melodies. After their entire family and tribe were killed, Te-la-ney and her sister Whana-le were sent to the Indian Territory of Oklahoma during the forced relocation of Native Americans from the Southeast following the Indian Removal Act of 1830, also known as the Trail of Tears.
But there’s more to this story. When Te-la-ney got to Oklahoma, she could no longer hear the singing woman in the water and vowed to return home. After spending one winter in Oklahoma, she embarked on the long journey home — alone. Five years later, she finally made it back. It’s a remarkable story, and the wall that Tom built pays homage to her incredible feat. For over three decades, he devoted himself to bringing Te-la-ney’s story to life. Each stone in the wall represents one step in her journey — every rock saturated with meaning and intention. The wall is over a mile long, winding around trees and creating pathways. It ranges in height from four feet to almost six feet in some spots and also flows into a few circular gathering places that offer benches to sit and absorb the powerful atmosphere.
As I began walking on the path along the wall, I immediately felt a peacefulness. I also began to notice that within the rock wall there were offerings left by those who had come before me. A penny, a tiny shell, a painted rock — each thoughtfully placed between two rocks, or inside a tiny hole. Small tokens, gifts, bearing witness to the person who had placed it there. There were themes with sections of rocks that bore similarities including arrowheads and other Native American artifacts. One section was composed of rocks that looked like they had faces, with a nose, mouth, and eye holes. As I looked at the crowd of rock faces I felt like they had been waiting for me.
Though there were no other visitors that day, I felt the presence of many, and deep gratitude for the vision, endurance, and determination of one man. Could I be that devoted to one goal? One story? I doubt it, but I’m glad some people are. My life is richer because of this one man. Tom passed away in 2017, but the wall he built remains. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a rock the same again.
Earlier this week, I walked up to one of the old stone houses, just to see if the daffodils were coming up — they were. I decided that this coming fall, I will plant a few more bulbs and leave a few of my own special stones to tell the story to those who will come later.
