...Stones...

Last week my other half and I came down with a miserable cold at the same time. The chances of that happening over the course of 40 years have only been a few times. It never fails, soon as I start feeling better, I get the urge to clean and go through boxes stored with mementos I’m not ready to part with. I wrote about these “ghosts” that take residence and won’t leave a while back in another blog. The exorcism’s I tried to perform are still unsuccessful. Trouble is, most of little “ghosts” bring back such fond memories I don’t want them to leave quite yet. They have gotten used to being moved around and always settle in comfortably at the new home I find for them in another closet or the attic.

I love refinding things. The memories connected with them makes me smile and transports my mind to relive the happy event. One of the many things I refound today was two, canning jars of stones and one of shells. Oh, there were many more jars in the past, but these three were the only ones that survived the years and mom’s trashcan when it was time to “clean house.” After three moves across country, I am still amazed the jars haven’t cracked, chipped or shattered. The individual jars were thoughtfully wrapped in white butcher paper, and then padded with bubble wrap. This was not your ordinary bubble wrap, but the kind with the big air cells and when stomped on, sounds like a shotgun going off. You know, the stuff the ignites our imagination and provides cheap entertainment!

“Owww, the good kind!” my kids would giggle with delight. The big bubble wrap was definitely the best! I watched their eyes light up and something tickle their insides as we deviously conspired to scare dad when he came home. It was hard for them to control their laughter as I watched them sneak around the corner. Heck, it was hard for me to control my laughter as well. BAM…BAM…BAMBAMBAM…. the safe firecrackers went off as planned! Exhilarating laughter filled the house, and after the initial shock wore off, their surprised daddy runs after them down the hall with his hands extended in a tickling motion. The booming words, “I’m gonna get you!” resonated from the other room with more laughter throughout the house.

The stones collected were nothing special, small smooth stones that fit in a child’s clutch that glittered when the sun shone on them, pretty agates, granite, quartz, and pyrite. To my children, the exceptional finds were referred to as “treasures.” We made over each one of their discoveries, kept them safe in our pockets until we got home, and helped them find even more pretty ones to add to their growing collections. My daughter’s collection contained stones from France, Holland, Africa, Spain, several different states, and of course, from the trail behind our home. Our son’s collection didn’t have foreign stones. The majority of his were fossilized remnants from the Petrified Forest off the Navajo reservation. With permission of a Navajo friend, we were fortunate to have gotten those. Some are smooth terra cotta colored pieces while some of the larger pieces have begun to crystallize. When they were tired of examining and playing with them, the stones went back into the water filled jars on the windowsill to sparkle like precious gems in the sunlight.

As a young mother, I was sometime frustrated at the amount of stones collected, picking them up everywhere in the house and secretly disposing of the “bland” ones in my potted plants or out the back door. Eventually, the amount of stones collected gradually decreased as the kids grew up. The realization happened when we were on our usual hikes I would pick up a “really good one.” I was flashed the disinterested look that told me they were too old for that kind of kid stuff.

My kids are now the adults with families, and I’m certain they have gone stone hunting with their own children starting new collections. As parents, I wonder if they saved any of those “treasures” as their own children grew out of that phase like their mother did...probably not.

Anyway, this was my walk down memory lane. On this cold blustery rainy day, the sunny days of yesteryear shine on my face and warm my heart, and I am thankful to have shared this wonderful bond with my children. I carefully rewrapped each stone filled jar, placed them gently back into the individual bins that house, and protect the young memories I have saved for my children when I’m gone, and hope it puts a smile on their faces on a different rainy day.

I still have the tendency to pick up an unusual stone that catches my eye on a trail, or kick my feet in the sand hoping to uncover a hidden treasure on the beach. I know my husband walks behind me, with a smile on his face. I know, and he knows, the “kid” in us still remains.