Day 11

I've been thinking all day about my grandfathers, cousins, and friends who have served and are serving in the military.  I know "thank you" doesn't quite cut it, but it's all I can say because there are no words for my gratitude.

I was going to do another picture post, but decided instead to talk about my predilection for picking up rocks.  I think it started with my granddad (my dad's father) who also picked up rocks.  In fact, I think he gave me one of my first rocks--a good-sized chunk of obsidian.  I remember going to places like Bryce Canyon and wanting all the rocks in the gift shop when I was little.  If it's a pretty color or an interesting shape, my eye is immediately drawn toward it.  This is why there is a rock from somewhere outside St. George in my car, a piece of possible pink quartz on my desk, several rocks on my windowsill, and a box of them in storage.  Another thing I just remembered is taking a white rock from a neighbor's flowerbed when I was 6 or 7.  They lived across the street from us in a trailer and had white rocks around a tree or something, and I thought no one would mind.  My parents found out and told me I shouldn't take rocks from other people, and I catch myself picking rocks off the sidewalk and putting them back in flowerbeds even now.  I don't, however, hesitate to pick up rocks that are in parking lots or on trails unless I know it will disturb something.  I rarely come home from an adventure without a rock in my pocket.

Can I tell you what they all are?  Nope.  Do I remember where they all came from?  Not a chance.  Do I want to give them away?  Nope, not a chance.  I could get all poetic about the whys, but let it suffice that I just like rocks, smooth from the river, broken off a mountainside, or faceted and polished.

I guess I figure this has to do with creativity because I notice texture, shape, color, and weight in a lot of things.  I like to touch things, and that includes rocks. :)