rocks & roots

For YEARS we’ve been collecting rocks at random places.

It’s the easiest souvenoir idea when you have lots of little kids. “You know what kids? Instead of a t-shirt or a toy that will break before we cross the state line, you can each have your very own souvenoir – that’s right.  A rock!”

Over the years some have been lost. Some have been left behind at other homes. Some have disappeared.  But we still have a handful of them. Some with actual names and dates in Sharpie.  On some the Sharpie has worn off. Some are so unique we actually remember the river from whence it originated.

After our recent move, the rocks were sitting in a blue bucket in our driveway. For, you know, the past eight months. Whatever. Times are busy.

Last night, after BEATING Otto in a game of Around the World, I saw the blue bucket. The Avett Brothers were playing “Ain’t No Man” into the cooling dusk. I needed to go in and complete my day’s work and I decided that was the exact right time to do something about those rocks.

And so I did.

Nothing fancy.

Aren’t the best ideas simple ones after all?

I just spread the rocks around a tree in our front yard.  

It’s no big deal, actually.

Except. To me, it sort of is.

A tiny history of some of our days. A rock from Colorado Springs. A Wyoming rock. A colorful one that the kids painted. One that looks like common gravel that a less discerning little kid pocketed.

A small rocky bit of our story landing on solid ground. 

At our own house.

Rocks.

Amid the roots.

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