by Lucie Shores

Created on: February 22, 2009   Last Updated: February 04, 2010

I picked up the spade, planted it in the ground and lifted out another shovelful of dirt, throwing it on the pile reserved for plantings. I'd collected the rocks I'd been moving with me for fifteen years and placed them in the wheelbarrow outside the front door. We lived in an old, leaky Frank Lloyd Wright house. The levels outside were what convinced me we should buy the place. Once the snow melted, I saw the large patio in front, the lower patio in back and steps to both on east and west sides of the house.

I was standing in the trees near the lower patio with a large space between them all, perfect for a rock garden. There were already ferns, Lady Slippers and Lily of the Valley there, along with some other native species I couldn't name. I wanted to plant myself and never move again. I figured the rocks were the only thing heavy enough to keep me there.

"Hey, do me a favor, will you? Would you go get the wheelbarrow and wheel it around here? It's got some rocks in it; up on the patio". My youngest turned pleasantly occupied and lofted over the wall, scrambling up the greenery of the hillside. Soon he came bouncing the front tire of the barrow pleasantly down the grass-covered steps, ducking under the young apple trees and landing the wheel barrow neatly by my side.

Nothing could disturb my peace, now that I was finally planting my rocks. First I placed the large liner in the ground and filled in the gaps with dirt I'd left out for plantings. Then I picked out the first rock. It was the chunk I'd got in the Alps; a beautiful fossilized rock with lots of squiggly creatures embedded in it and a pointy tip that looked like the mountain it came from.

"Hey, what are you doing with that rock?" My son was surprised. I had used them for book-ends or napkin weights, but this was the first time he'd seen me take them outside.

"Don't you think they'll look nice here?" I asked as I placed the top of the mountain at the bottom of what used to be Lake Aggasiz. I could almost feel the little creatures coming alive as they settled into something like their original home.

My son continued, "Yeah, but those were, like, expensive, weren't they?"

"Yes, but only because someone charged money for them". My son let out a smirky sound of approval at my attempt at humor.
Next I took the big chunk of pyrite I'd purchased in the foothills of the Pyrennes.

"Where'd you get that?"

"From a couple of old Basque guys who were selling Pacharan and fool's gold outside a little tapas

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