Guthrie is where the Morenci mine’s train station was located; it’s where my great-grandfather lived and where my grandfather was born. The train, or at least a train, still runs through here, but it seems the massively increased size of the mine has sort of passed Guthrie by. My dad, when he was telling me how to find the place, described it as being at the end of a dirt road marked only by a cardboard sign. That sign is still there, so weathered and peeling as to be unreadable if you didn’t already know it said “Guthrie”. But there’s a new highway sign across from it, now, plain old green and white thing just like any other town’s, which is much less romantic. The dirt road is still there, too, winding a few miles past a deep dry gorge to the surprisingly green valley where… well, where my ancestors lived. Which is a strange feeling when I arrive. I don’t usually think about the fact that I have ancestors. Go figure that one.
My family settled in rolling grasslands in 1891. The family homestead is still there, although abandoned. My sister who had never seen the place, had a deep emotional awakening on her first visit. Place can be powerfull medicine. We all come from somewhere..
For whatever reason all I could picture was my grandfather as a kid, maybe eleven or twelve, just old enough to go build forts and throw rocks in the dusty canyons outside of town. Any image of what the town might have looked like, any other people, forget it; but grandpa as a kid there I could definitely see.