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Trips to Farmington were a special treat
when we were children.
Sometimes when we didn't get to go along,
we cried so hard that we finally had to draw straws
to decide fairly who got to go.
Always my oldest brother went because he drove,
my other brother went because he helped carry laundry,
my father went because he was the father,
and my mother went because she had the money and
knew where to go and what to buy.
And only one or two kids could go because we got in the way
and asked for stuff all the time.
We got up early on the Saturdays that we were going to town,
getting ready, sorting laundry
and gathering pop bottles that we turned in.
My father always checked the oil and tires on the pickup
and then he and my brothers would load up the big laundry tubs,
securing the canvas covers with heavy wooden blocks.
We would leave and the unfortunate ones who had to stay
home waved good-bye sullenly and the dogs chased the
truck down the road a ways before going home.
In Farmington, we would go to the laundry first.
It was always dark and clammy inside.
We liked pulling the clothes out of the wringer
even though my mother was nervous about letting us help.
After that, we went downtown and parked
in the free lot on the north side of Main Street.
Sometimes my father got off at the library and
we picked him up after we finished shopping.
Someone always had to "watch" the truck and
usually the one who made a nuisance of himself
at the laundry had to sit in the truck for two or
three hours while everyone else got to "see things"
around town.
If my father didn't go to the library--he stayed
in the truck and read the "Readers Digest" and
the kids were off the hook, naughty or not.
When we stopped at Safeway, which was our last stop,
it was early evening.
My mother would buy some bologna or cooked chicken
in plastic wrapped trays and a loaf of bread
to eat on the way home.
After the groceries were packed in securely,
under the canvas and blocks,
we loaded up again and started west to Shiprock.
We would eat and talk about who we saw,
what we should have bought instead of
what we did buy (maybe we can exchange it next time)
then the talking would slow down and by the time
we stopped at the Blue Window gas station,
everyone but my father was sleepy and tired.
He would start singing in Navajo in a clear, strong
voice and once in a while, my mother would ask him
about a certain song she heard once
"Do you know it, it was something like this…"
and she would sing a little, he would catch it
and finish the song while we listened half-asleep.
I whispered to my sister,
"He sings like those men on Navajo Hour,"
"It's so good," she said and
we went back to sleep until we reached home.
