I have a serious thing for rocks. I mean, let’s do the math on this. I have dedicated two display shelves in my den for displaying rock specimens. I go to gem and mineral shows for fun. One of my blog categories is literally titled “Rocks.” If I’m out walking, I’m looking for rocks at the same time. Honestly, I suspect I like rocks better than the proverbial “next guy,” unless the next guy is a geologist who licks them to identify minerals.
All
that considered, there are moments when I am not seeking rocks and would prefer
they stay hidden—digging a hole to plant a tree, for example. And yesterday,
while scooping out a handful of what was supposed to be garden soil from a
1½-cubic-foot bag we bought a few weeks ago, I fished out a rock nearly big
enough to qualify as a boulder. Nothing pretty. Just a plain, garden-variety
lump and exactly what you don’t want in your garden soil.
To
be fair, calling the stuff big-box stores bag up and sell as garden soil is
something of a stretch. Typically, what you get is a bunch of small sticks from
a big-city compost pile, some of which are mashed up pretty well.
But
on this one, I think someone owes me my rightful handful of sticks.
I’ve posted a photograph of the rock posed with a Cold Smoke beer as a righteous reference to size.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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