As we were driving around the other day, I noticed that a “Rock Show,” or more accurately, a “Gem and Mineral Show” was happening at the nearby event facility where I used to work. When The Fisherman asked me what it was, I explained it’s multiple “Rock Clubs” that put it on, with vendors and display cases of their rock collections. It’s hobby people do their entire life, and many of them really throw themselves into when they become “Seniors” or retire, meaning when they have more time to travel the country looking for those rocks and gems. I also think they view it as a social activity as well. I went on to remind The Fisherman that I used to be into collecting rocks when I was a kid. I say “remind” because it’s probably one of those stories where he goes, “You already told me that,” to which I reply, “Well, I’m telling you again.” That’s an entire story for another day, but today it’s about rocks. Riveting, I know.
I think I got into rocks as a little kid, because of my Grandfather’s friend, Mike. Mike had a rock tumbler and I was fascinated by it. I now can look back and understand that Mike and his wife, Nettie (there’s a name you don’t hear anymore, ) were themselves, “Rock Hounds,” the name those who hunt rocks give themselves.
I never went with my Grandpa to Mike’s house that I didn’t come away with some very shiny rocks that came out of the tumbler. I recall asking Mike a ton of questions about what kinds of rocks he had and what I should look for and he told me that, while agates are pretty easy to spot at the beach, remember that sometimes a rock can look plain on the outside but you’re surprised at how good it can look when it’s polished. Somewhere in there is some deep, philosophical lesson, right? But at the time, Mike and I were just talkin’ rocks.
Bottom line: I came away hell-bent on getting me a rock tumbler! I harped about it all the time, and while I worked on wearing-down my parents, in the meantime, I worked on gathering rocks for the tumbler that I was confident would soon be mine. Every time we went to the beach I brought along a bucket, but not to make sand castles, oh no——my bucket was along for gathering rocks! Sometimes I even convinced my younger brother that, after he was done digging in the sand, he should also donate his bucket to my rock-gathering cause.
Yes, I did find my share of agates I knew would polish well, but I remembered Mike telling me about those plain rocks that can surprise you when you polish them, so I gathered EVERYTHING! I saw potential EVERYWHERE! When it was time to head home after our day at the beach I would head to the car with my buckets of rocks and I will hand it to my Dad, he always let me bring them home. He would sigh and load them in the trunk of the car, where they would always end up tipping over on the drive home..
The funny thing is, to this day, I don’t really know what happened to those rocks. I remember saying I wanted to take them to Mike’s tumbler, and, at the same time, I would throw out my sales pitch for how it I simply had my OWN tumbler, I could polish them all myself. Then, being a little kid, I guess my attention would go elsewhere, and I never followed what happened to those buckets of rocks. I’ll wager my grandpa added a lot of rocks to his driveway over the years. I assumed they were being stockpiled for the glorious day my tumbler arrived.
My nephew, who is now in his early 30’s, had my same rock obsession when he was a kid. When he learned how plain a Thunder Egg looks on the outside, he saw no reason not to believe you could find one of them out in my Dad’s gravel driveway on the farm. My nephew was always out there gathering handfuls of 3/4-minus gravel, just sure one of them was valuable.
Lucky kid that he was, he DID get his own rock tumbler. Yes, I was jealous. Like me, he didn’t have a lot of patience when he realized it took days on end of tumbling before you got a shiny rock out of it. So, artistic, creative kid that he was, he took a different approach. When he was about 7 or 8, he loved to go with my Dad to the auto parts store, and one day he convinced his grandfather to buy him a can of chrome paint. The next thing we knew, he was out in the gravel driveway, picking up 3/4-minus gravel and spraying it with chrome paint. He walked into the house with these blindingly shiny nuggets and announced, “I decided just to make my own valuable rocks.”
Why didn’t I think of that?! Probably because I never went with my Dad to the auto parts store. Did they even sell chrome paint back then, and either way, I was too busy creating my campaign to get my own rock tumbler.
The other day when I remembered my obsession with wanting a rock tumbler, I recalled a conversation I had with my Mom asking her if she remembered how much I begged for a rock tumbler as a kid and how she refused to buy me one. She chuckled and said, “Yes, I remember it well and we didn’t buy you one because your Dad and I knew you didn’t have the patience for it, and we were right.” I laughed and agreed, adding, “So, then you bought me a wood-burning set I also teased for, and I proceeded to get a big burn on my thumb, and refused to ever use it again.” My Mom countered with “Yes, you burned your thumb because you were not patient enough to wait for me or your Dad to help you take the hot end off of it.”
Ah yes: That patience thing again. Of course, my mother was right about that. With time and maturity, I have learned how to have some patience, thankfully, about some things but I will admit, not about everything. The Fisherman can attest to that. When he reads this he will think, “Traffic: That’s one thing she has no patience for!” I will agree with that and I’ll add that I still probably don’t have patience for a rock tumbler….or a wood-burning set. Do they even make those things anymore, and for kids? That seems so odd looking back.
For many years I had a brandy snifter that sat on my coffee table full of 3/4-minus gravel. It was a conversation piece. People would ask, “Why do you have a glass brandy snifter full of gravel?” My response was, “Oh, those all came out of one of my dogs. He was a rock-eater. Thankfully, he would throw them up so he never had to go through surgery to remove them. I collected the biggest, most-impressive ones and keep them in that glass to just marvel that those were in him. Impressive, huh?” My answer would either freak them out or they would laugh and be impressed that he could swallow those rocks and vomit them back up. One day the glass cracked and broke, and since the dog had passed on many years earlier, and I think everyone had heard the story of the rocks in the brandy snifter, I went out in our side parking area and added those chunks of 3/4-minus to the rest of the gravel. Yet another rock collection of mine left in a driveway.
Maybe I should have bought a can of chrome spray paint.
Observations on getting used to being one of those gray-haired retired people 