Like a rock

As a young girl I have fond memories of visiting my grandparents at their cottage in Elliot Lake, Ontario. Driving up north, we always knew we were getting close when the highway on either side became framed by the solid rock through which the road had been carved. Imposing walls of granite sprouted up for mile after mile as we drove into the Canadian Shield. Rocky and remote, it seemed to me that my grandparent’s cottage was in frontier land – relatively untouched and undeveloped. Yet, here in this rustic environment, my grandfather had created a small oasis. A place to relax, spend time reading and enjoying time with my Grandma, surrounded by wilderness.

Grandpa was a creative and artistic man. He carved beautiful figurines of wood. I remember horses and dolphins. Snappily dressed at all times, he was a gourmet cook, an avid reader, a music lover and a great letter writer. It seems odd now to think of him in such a rustic environment. I recall finding an old mason jar filled with beautiful shiny stones on a bookshelf one day. Asking him about it, he showed me his rock tumbler. He would take old stones and rocks he’d find while out walking and polish them up in his tumbler to expose their inner beauty. I was astonished. Being young, I had no idea how that tumbler worked, but it fascinated me. Rough grey dirty stones went in and shiny blue veined or purplish or orange spotted beauties came out. It seemed magical.

Since first spying that rock tumbler, I have been fascinated by rocks. Like people, each stone is unique, each rock a journey in itself. A story. Playing on the beach at our family cottage years later, we used to collect stones and bits of beach glass to paint or glue together into little rock people. We’d play with our creations for hours. Naming our rocks and giving them little back stories. We would cover our dull stones with red sparkles or blue painted happy faces, making the rocks pretty, oblivious to the natural beauty within the stone itself.

As an adult, in my travels I have frequently picked up a rock as I’ve roamed and taken it home with me. Stones I found while walking by the Seine in Paris, rest on my bookshelves amongst others I collected in Galway Bay and the red limestone inukshuk of stones given me by Mom. Each one a reminder of something special in my life.

I’d like to think that when I’m gone, I will leave the world a better place. That I will have brought joy to some, comfort to others, enriched rather than tainted those I touched. But maybe the best I can hope for is to be remembered like my rocks… solid and well traveled, somewhat worn around the edges, steadfast, beautiful on the inside and utterly unique.