My parents turned my nephew and me into amateur rock hounds. Mike was only three years younger than me. I was a late-in-life 'miracle' baby for my mom. Mike's mom, my sister, was fifteen years older than me. When she divorced, she and Mike moved in with us. We grew up more like brothers than an uncle and a nephew.
During that time, my folks bought some land in northern Michigan. It provided access to the shores of Lake Huron. We'd spend weeks at the property, as we called it, carrying plastic bags with our last name on both sides. My dad got the bags from his brother, the former mayor of Warren. The bags were campaign swag for my uncle's campaigns. We'd fill the bags with Petoskey stones, chain coral, quartz, agate, fossils, and bits of glass tumbled smooth by sand and water. Anything that looked unique or exotic.
The rocks and stones would come home with us. We'd dump them on spread-out newspapers and sort them. The glass gems got put in a jar that sometimes sat on the windowsill. The stones were put in jars with some gooey mixture my dad concocted. The jars were placed on the rollers of the rock tumbler, a machine that sat on my dad's workbench in the garage. A small motor turned a large wheel that pulled a belt that spun a smaller pulley that spun the rollers. Sound like a Rube Goldberg contraption. Days would pass, maybe weeks. The rock tumbler turned the plastic jars continuously.
Finally, the day arrived to turn off the machine. Dad would bring the jars into the kitchen. Mom would spread towels on the table and the jars would be opened. The stones and rocks shined from the constant churning and the goo my dad poured inside the jars. We'd sift through the treasure, picking out the truly spectacular stones. The best of the lot got put in a pewter ice bucket. The others were given to neighbors, used to make bolo ties, earrings, or cuff links. After that, the leftovers were dumped in the side driveway where my dad parked our travel trailer and later motorhome.
During holidays, when the family was all together, the pewter ice bucket came out and we would reach in and pull out a stone. Each one generated a specific story about when and where it was found, and who found it.
I have a lot of stories about rocks. I'll polish them up and share them over the next fifty-two weeks.
Stumpstone Quote of the Day:
We have forgotten what rocks and plants still know. We have forgotten how to be still, to be where life is here and now. --Eckhart Tolle
"Bates Bags." We had many of those. I also remember the rock tumblers in your garage, always turning. We have some stones around here that your dad polished.
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