Friday, April 30, 2010


Rocks. We walk over them. We toss them. Kids bat them. We paint them. Some people build houses using them. We cross a stream balancing on them. Rocks.

As a child, like most young children, I discovered that if you looked really, really close you might actually find a shiny rock, a rock that was white like a cloud. It would find its way into my pocket to be forgotten until it showed up in Mom’s laundry.

Dad had his Indian stones. They were made out of rocks of red, black, grey and sometimes white. The colors fascinated me. Where the rock came from was a mystery to me since I had never seen a large chunk of any of the above colors. He also had an odd fossil that looked much like a piece of honeycomb. Another looked like a slice of a corn cob. One more was lava rock. Dad had neat rocks.

My Aunt Esther, Dad’s sister, and Uncle Phil were rock hounds. Their travel destinations were not fancy resorts but to locations known for their rocks. They found these adventures a walk into history and savored the beauty of these rocks, pure treasure. I know because I am a recipient of a piece of petrified wood. I hold it and am thrust into the history of our planet, of our earth.

Because of this history in my family, my granddaughters and I take time to look at the rocks. We gather agates at the beach, we go to the rock museum. Rocks have a place in our lives, a memory of the farm and those people who lived there first.

A small rock sat on my doorstep along with a few petals and leaves. I hadn’t been gone long from home but long enough for a visit by two little girls. There was no note only these bits of nature. The girls knew that I would immediate know who had come to visit.

Rocks. A history, a mystery, a message.

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