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This is Jonathon’s story,
the story of a poor boy and his dream.
Picture him, a scrawny, scrappy lad,
belly always hungry, body tough and wiry,
working in his mama’s kitchen garden
or digging, planting, weeding
for whatever anyone would pay,
saving up his pennies,
cause he’s getting out of there,
heading west to where he’s heard
there’s gold in the mountains
just waiting to be dug,
and if there’s one thing he knows how to do,
it’s dig.

Picture him now, walking down the highway,
thumb out just in case,
but he’ll walk to California if he needs to.
Gold, that’s the answer.
He’s been dreaming of it,
mesmerized each time he saw it
gleaming on the fingers, wrists, and necks
of all those fine rich folks,
those well-dressed, well-fed folks,
who looked down from their carriages
but didn’t even see him in the dirt.
He’ll dig until he’s got so much
he never has to miss a meal again.

Picture how he stands,
for the first time in his life completely still,
upon the piece of land he’s found
beside the stream, beneath the mountain.
Already he imagines he can see
a yellow sparkle in the dust.
Everything is just the way
he always knew it would be.
So here he’ll stake his claim,
build his cabin, plant his garden.
Here beneath the mountain
he will dig until he’s rich.

Picture Jonathon out on the road again,
standing even taller
despite all the weight he’s carrying,
fancying himself a wealthy man,
wary now in case he’s being followed,
carrying his treasure to the city,
where the bank’s appraiser grimaces
disdainfully and spits a single word:
“Pyrite.”
Certain that this man
must be a liar and a cheat,
he tries another bank, but there
the answer is the same.
But at least this man is kind to him,
advises him, “Keep digging, son;
your gold is out there somewhere.”

Picture him now, trudging
through the lonely night,
carrying his heavy pack of foolishness,
wondering if he should empty it
but loathe to lose what only hours before
he’d thought of as the wealth
he’d always dreamed of,
wondering also how he’ll live
while digging for his dreams.
See him in the morning,
heading into town to find work
gardening.

Picture now the young man
as the folk in town regard him.
Every day he works their garden plots;
every night he works his worthless claim.
See their tolerant amusement
changing slowly to respect,
because he’s working and surviving
in a place where that’s what counts.
And he’s learning, too, night after night,
poring over volumes of geology,
studying the bits of ore he’s finding,
learning how to recognize the minerals.

But no matter what he learns
about what is and isn’t valuable,
still he loves the glitter of the pyrite,
only wealth he’s ever known.
And so he saves it all,
sometimes laughing, other times
ashamed that he still cares about it,
locked inside a trunk beneath his cabin,
secret treasure trove of gold for fools.

Picture sturdy Jonathon
returning to his home one afternoon
to find his front door broken in,
cabin ransacked, trunk of glitter missing.
The sheriff, grimly sympathetic,
silently surveys the scene,
careful not to speak a word
that might resemble pity,
finally must ask the question
Jonathon has dreaded: “How much did they get?”
and does not seem surprised when he says,
“Nothing.”

Picture Jonathon now climbing
for one last time up the mountain,
looking down into the vale
where he has made his life,
noting wryly that his assets
can be listed on a single breath:
cabin, garden, mule, assorted tools, and pickup truck.
But then he gazes further,
where his educated eyes
are able now to recognize the hidden signs
of rich soils, mineral deposits, springs.
Jonathon has changed.
He knows now where to find these things,
and what to pay for them
in sweat and dollars.
But still he also sees
in his mind the valley of his dreams,
recalls the years of digging foolishness,
the wrenching pain of losing it.

What’s a man to do?
Will he start anew, apply his knowledge
to the finding and the working
of another piece of land,
perhaps this time uncovering
the gold he came here seeking?
Will he use instead his feeling for the soil
and his skill with growing things
to prosper as a farmer?
Will he market his experience,
advising others in those matters
where his expertise has won for him
the admiration of his neighbors?

Looking down, he sees the glint
of something by his foot,
a pretty pyrite crystal.
Automatically he reaches down to pick it up.
But as he contemplates its beauty,
he feels inside him
such a surge of bitterness
for the wealth that proved so false
that he resolves right then
to live out his days a bitter hermit,
bereft at last of foolish golden dreams,
and so much better off with out them.

But even as he cocks his arm
to fling away this one last foolish treasure,
he pauses, anger leaving
just as suddenly as it had come,
for all about him he can see
with eyes no longer blinded
by false glitterings
the beauty and the possibilities.
The object in his hand seems now
not treacherous but only humorous.
He drops it in his pocket
as he starts back down the mountain.