By Karen Stevenson
I love rocks! After spending a day trekking around the countryside, I have been known to arrive at home with my pockets filled with rocks. I suppose I learned that habit from my mother. She kept a jar of small stones in her living room. I called them Memory Stones. Whenever she was some place special – hiking, picnicking, visiting her grandchildren – she would slip a stone in her pocket. At home she would get a permanent marker and write on the stone the date and location of where she found it, and put it in the jar. She could take a stone out of the jar, and as she held it in her hand she would tell you exactly where she was that day, what the weather was like, who she was with, and describe the smells and sounds of that particular day.
My latest rock find was too big to stick in my pocket! It was as big as a chair, and even shaped like a chair, complete with a backrest! Unlike the rough scoria rock that litters the landscape in eastern Montana, this particular rock was smooth and dense with stripes of colors swirling through it. I wondered about the forces that created it…fire? water? pressure? As I sat on the rock and wondered about its story, I thought of my mother’s rocks and the stories she attached to them. I will return to this rock, which I have dubbed The Thinker (Rodin!), and maybe I will discover its story and add my own to it. They will be memories etched in stone.