Growing up on a farm, the spring ritual was to pick rocks. Mostly the rocks we picked were generic looking and unremarkable. We spent hours walking up and down every field keeping a sharp eye out for rocks big enough to wreak havoc on the machinery that would follow our tasks. Every now and again though there would be something beautiful that just had to find its way home. Considering my family’s obsession with rocks, I’m surprised that more didn’t find their way home.
We no longer farm and those hours walking the fields picking stones are gone. Our obsession with stones has not gone away though. Every member of my family has a love for stones. I know mine are everywhere. My house has stones in every room much to the dismay of my husband. I have some in my car, at work, and in my purse.
Sometimes during the spring I miss those walks, the dirt between my toes, the smell of fresh soil, and discovering pieces of our foundation. I guess you can take the girl off the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the girl.