The Diamond Fountain

I FIRST MET HENRY EMISON MANY YEARS AGO as I was digging for Diamonds at the Crater of Diamonds State Park in Murfreesboro, Arkansas.  The only diamond mine in North America, and the only spot in the world where one can pay a small fee, go in, dig for diamonds, and keep what you find.

     I was immediately impressed by the speed of his work. I soon learned, as did everyone else on that field, that Henry was a true man among men, one who could outwork anybody else on that field five to one. Naturally, he soon began finding many diamonds, while my diamond stash was coming along much slower.

     Soon Henry and his family decided to move closer to the diamonds, and they rented my six bedroom brick house in Gurdon, the oldest brick house in the county. When I realized the caliber of renter now occupying that old house, and how fast they were fixing it up, making it better, I opened an account at the local hardware store, told them to charge whatever they needed in order to improve that house. With, of course, a maximum of $100 per month. They did, never violating that trust, and when they had to move, years later, to find work, the house was greatly improved. That’s the sort of people the Emison’s are.

     One Sunday at the diamond mine, three men from Texas struck it big. A vein of fine sand, found very deep. It was an old creek bed from eons past. They started finding one diamond after another.

     But they had been working for days when the big strike was found, they were already tired out.  They had to go back to Texas at the end of that day.

     Henry was working nearby, and they had already noticed that Henry was a digging machine. They went to him, and, I would wager, struck a deal with Henry, the likes of which has never before been seen on that field. They told him if he would dig with them, he could share the diamonds found. At the end of the day, Henry had five nice diamonds to add to his collection, and the Texas men went home with twenty some-odd diamonds.

     Henry, also, had to go back to work the next day. He called me that night, told me exactly where the diamond-rich sand was, and naturally, I was there, ready to dig, the next morning.

     But an old man, a full-time diamond hunter, had already taken over that spot, and he dug there for days, until the sand bar was completely exhausted. He never revealed to anybody how many diamonds he found.

     So, I went back to that spot months later. But it had rained a lot, and there was now six feet of water in the hole. As I sat there, mourning my misfortune, 3 or 4 college boys came by. Naturally, being a better story teller than diamond hunter, I had to tell the story of twenty some-odd diamonds being taken from that hole in one day. When I came back by later in the day, the college boys were diving down, pulling out that sand two handfuls at a time. There is no limitation to what one will do when struck by the diamond bug.

     At the end of that day, I was just finishing up a winter of digging diamonds; thirty days, with very little to show for it. I did, however, struck gold. When digging in black stand, I found sheets of it. I learned that gold, as it comes out of the ground, is in very thin layers. After I had stored it in water for a time, those sheets roll up into nuggets. The park officials would not believed I found gold there. "There is no gold in this park"! They believed I brought it in from elsewhere. But God and I both know I did.
     My grandson Jordan, who was with me that day, told me, “Papaw, work we do for fun can never be this hard.” Great wisdom from a young child. My body was breaking down from all that hard work, and I did not wish to be in constant pain in my older years, so I hung up my screens, and have never been back.

     Time went by. Years. From time to time, Henry had gone back to that spot, and still found diamonds, as did other diggers he knew.

     Henry came by to see me a year or so ago. He was totally obsessed with that small spot of diamond sand. He was working on a theory, but this is secret, so if you read this, let’s keep it just between us. OK?

     That sand bar, if one is lucky enough to find it, seems to continually be re-supplied with new diamonds. Maybe, they are being washed down over the bedrock, far underground, into that underground sand bar, and forced up into the sand by some freak happening of nature.

     I ran onto Henry again a few days ago. Henry has just become an employee at my son Corey’s new Painted Tree Vintage Market in North Little Rock, and is considered by Corey as an extreme blue chip hire, for good reason.  But all Henry wanted to talk to me about was that natural diamond fountain. Over long periods of time, more and more diamonds seem to be forced up into that sand. His hypothesis is far too complex for me to totally understand, much less explain, and besides, this is all top secret stuff, remember?

     I asked Henry how many diamonds he had found. He didn’t really know, because he had given all but one away to people who needed them more badly than he did. He’s just that kind of guy, remember?  I guess I have finally found one way Henry and I are somewhat alike. Although my lifetime stash was, at it’s best, only a fraction of Henry’s, I have never sold a diamond, and I, also, only have one remaining.

     But I keep remembering. As you read this, that diamond fountain is still spewing diamonds up into that ancient sand bar. And only Henry and I know where it is. And we ain’t tellin’.  Someday, when I again feel the urge to start digging holes deeper than my head, I will join Henry, and we will become rich men. And we’ll have a good time, then.