We're rich in rocks on our farm. Having grown up rock-deprived in sandy central Florida, I treasure the beautiful rocks that adorn our landscape. They're less welcome in the garden, of course, and we are the latest in a long line of tenants of the land to clear the fields of the yearly crop of rocks that work their way to the surface. The smaller stones and bigger pebbles get flung into the road -- larger rocks are earmarked by my son Justin for inclusion in another stone wall. And really pretty ones get brought to the house.
But our own rocks aren't enough. In my collection (a dignified word for what is more of an accumulation) are small river rocks a friend brought me from a river in the Dominican Republic, a beautiful round, pink, door knob-sized rock that I picked up on a beach in Scotland, a rock from Maine, used as a doorstop, that looks just like a big baking potato, rocks from the Carolina beaches, and a rock from nearby Tennessee that looks like a
Napolean pastry.
Rocks on shelves, rocks on the porch railing, rocks on window sills, rocks in the pots with the house plants. Once, visiting near Lake Erie, I was captivated by the gorgeous smooth glacier-ground rocks to be found and filled every cranny of my suitcase with them. They were so
different from our North Carolina rocks!On the flight home, the woman who checked my bag asked if I had rocks in there. I just smiled
.
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