Scrapbook Seventeen…



Forrest often has said that he was born a few hundred years too late. Although he uses a computer to write, he thinks he’s not ready for the 21st Century and all of the fancy gadgets that it brought along. Family members are moving apart, he laments, “because children today have so many distractions. They never use the telephone because there are faster and better ways to communicate. When he told me that his two daughters, both older than fifty years, don’t know who Clark Gable is, I suggested that it was more a reflection of who he is than who they are.

This picture of Forrest, leaning against a 600 year old wall at the privately owned San Lazaro Pueblo, reveals a man who is contented. He says it comes with being in a serenely remote place, alone or in the company of a special friend. His hand rests on a stone threshold, worn smooth over the centuries by the bare feet of countless humans, all of which are unknown to us now. The following words are taken from his book, The Secrets of San Lazaro Pueblo.

“When I was just a kid, more than seventy-five years ago, my father and I often walked the wooded hills and along the creek bottoms in Texas, searching for signs of ancient man. We loved doing that together. The thrill of finding my first arrowhead ranks among my fondest memories. It was not the arrowhead alone that marked the event. It was also that my father was there to share it with me. I have long remembered the expression on his face as he watched mine. A few years before he died, he sent me this poem. Some words can be worth a thousand pictures.”


O’er fields of new turned sod

Communing with my God,

I tramped alone.


And in a furrow bed

I found an arrowhead

Chiseled from stone.


Then fancy fled on wings

Back to primeval things

Seeking the light.


What warrior drew the bow,

Sighted and let it go

On its last flight.


How oft this flinten head

On deadly errand sped

I do not know.


Nor will the silent flint

Reveal the slightest hint

How long ago.


Were its grim story told

What tales would it unfold,

Tales that would chill!


I know but this one thing

Beyond all questioning,

“Twas meant to kill”.


Ages have worn away,

Warriors have gone their way,

Their bones are dust.


Proof of a craftsman’s skill

Survives the ages still

Left in my trust.