Sunday the Fourth, 22 January. I delayed beyond my usual morning walking time, hoping for a bit of sun. Won’t make that mistake again. Got to the park after 1:30pm, and found a mob of unruly children perched atop the rocks near the cave, shouting and dropping things down onto the ducks below. I felt absurdly angry; though I admitted they had some right to be there, their loudness disturbed my Happy Place. I moved briskly down to the south end of the lake, where I hoped the water running over the spill and the rocks would mask their shrieks and shouts. I remind you, gentle reader, that I’m a geezerette, and inclined to take offense at the antics of junior primates.
I scrambled over the rocks, and down to the large rocks that form a water-break below the spillway, thinking uncharitable thoughts about the bunch of yard-apes on the rocks by the cave. And suddenly I found myself wondering, what is it about rocks and humans? We see a big rock, or a pile of rocks, and we’ve got to climb it. We see a path of rocks, across land or water, and we’ve got to cross it. We hunker down and sift through rocks in gravel beds, in flower beds, in driveways, looking for “neat rocks.” We pile up tiny cairns of our own, marking something only we will ever know.
Rocking out, I went from the dam to the creek bed, to poke around in the rocks. Found a number of “neat rocks”, I’ll only inflict one such pic upon you. Found a few tiny rock constructions, ditto on the pic. Found a place where a large flat limestone outcrop had been used by who knows how many of my fellow hominids to bash other stones into fragments. Found a place where someone decided to go “half timbered” with their cairn, by placing a rock carefully on an exposed tree root. We just can’t help ourselves. After thinking it through, I was almost – but not quite – forgiving of the junior hominids atop their rock.