Friday, August 25, 2006
Rocks are the ultimate souvenir
Libba Wolfe
Libba Wolfe's column appears twice monthly in Extra.
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Some people travel for new things to see. New cultural experiences. New birds to add to their life list. Some to eat and some to shop. Everybody has his or her interest. Mine is rocks.
I think my fascination with rocks stems from a rock-deprived childhood. Eastern North Carolina is flat and sandy. Creeks and rivers are bordered with sandy beaches or marshes. There are no outcrops or cliffs.
After many years in Southwest Virginia I am still stopped dead in my tracks by water falling over tilted, striated slabs of stone or rushing through channels of boulders. I can't get enough of the rocky coast of Maine or the mountains and canyons out west.
All the rocks are different. I can't help thinking how they were formed and traveled to their present angle of repose. I also can't help thinking, "I gotta have some of those rocks!"
It started as a harmless habit. A pocket full of pebbles. Maybe an interesting palm-sized stone slipped into my suitcase. Something really unusual in my carry-on bag. Just a small souvenir to remember a special place.
I had a breakthrough (or breakdown, as my husband called it) on a trip to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We spent a week on the coast of Lake Superior. Oh, my ... you can't imagine the colors and shapes. Rocks brought in and polished in the last Ice Age. Banded and striped. One beach full of terra cotta and white polka dotted rocks. Every day I lugged more rocks back to our hotel room.
At the airport I had to smile and answer "yes" at the complaint, "Hey, lady, whatcha got in here -- rocks?" Then I had to suffer the humiliation of repacking two suitcases full of dirty clothes and rocks in front of all the curious folks waiting in line. I learned my lesson. Now I sneak off to FedEx and ship the really heavy rocks home.
My ideal trip would be a cross-country drive in a dump truck. I haven't gotten too far with what I consider a terrific idea.
I consider myself a collector of rocks, not a rock collector. I pick up whatever unusual colors and shapes catch my eye. My rocks aren't labeled but they are displayed all over the house and yard.
I have a bird's nest filled with tiny smooth egg-shaped rocks. I have a small cairn in the shower, and when the water is on the colors and patterns shine. I glued rocks onto the tacks that anchor a big map of the United States. Large stones are bookends. House plants are mulched with river rocks.
When the tile guys were working on the kitchen they left some blank spaces around the fireplace, on the backsplashes and above the stove. They were a little dubious about my "vision" but they taught me to use Quick Set. I filled in the blanks with some of my favorite stones. My coast-to-coast strip of pebbles from Cape May to Point Reyes is behind the stove. Flat black rocks I hauled home from Ireland surround the fireplace. And when I'm doing dishes I can enjoy some gorgeous samples from Montana and Arizona.
I know I'm not the only rock nut out there. I have a neighbor who browses at Blue Stone Block just for the pleasure of being near all those big stones. Another friend marks her rocks with the places she found them. She can sift through the bowl in her den for instant memories.
We're the ones who slow down for interesting road cuts. Who never go for a walk in the woods without a grocery bag crumpled in our pockets. Who always have that "extra heavy" special sticker on our coming-home suitcases. We're the ones who understand why the ancients rubbed smooth pebbles to soothe their worries.
What started as a hand full of pretty rocks has led me to geology books and museums, to mines and Web sites and on long backcountry hikes. They've led me to think about time and the forces that form our earth.
We're planning a trip to New Zealand next year. I'm already anxious about the FedEx charges.
