Beer (case) on the rocks
Sep. 9th, 2003 12:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gerisullivanIf you end up helping me move and pick up something that feels like a box of rocks, well, it probably is.
I'm hoping to fit that particular box (a Stroh's beer case) in my car, since I'm not all that pleased by the idea of paying professional moving rates to move a box of rocks. Even after I sorted through the initial "dump" from the fountain into the box, and removed 12-20 pounds of everyday garden rocks, the kind I can realistically expect to find out east. Unlike the chert, that came from the British motorway roadside when Sparks' car self-destructed last year, or the rocks my sister sent me for Christmas several years back, each one identified by source location. "Just A Rock" from my dad's house, a Bows Lake rock (from the 1000 acres of wilderness we camped in from when I was 7 through most of my teen-aged years and day visits a few times after), other neat rocks from here, from there. Rocks from the Minnesota Iron Range, rocks from I don't know where.
There's something about rocks. It's a Fitzgerald thing. And other families, too, I know. Rocks are free souvenirs, memory treasures. I always liked the rule that said you could take back any rocks you could carry. (From areas where that was permitted, anyway.) That kept the collecting from getting too ridiculous.
If I had to choose between a good book and a good rock, I might well take the rock. Presuming I'd already read the book, that is.
I'm hoping to fit that particular box (a Stroh's beer case) in my car, since I'm not all that pleased by the idea of paying professional moving rates to move a box of rocks. Even after I sorted through the initial "dump" from the fountain into the box, and removed 12-20 pounds of everyday garden rocks, the kind I can realistically expect to find out east. Unlike the chert, that came from the British motorway roadside when Sparks' car self-destructed last year, or the rocks my sister sent me for Christmas several years back, each one identified by source location. "Just A Rock" from my dad's house, a Bows Lake rock (from the 1000 acres of wilderness we camped in from when I was 7 through most of my teen-aged years and day visits a few times after), other neat rocks from here, from there. Rocks from the Minnesota Iron Range, rocks from I don't know where.
There's something about rocks. It's a Fitzgerald thing. And other families, too, I know. Rocks are free souvenirs, memory treasures. I always liked the rule that said you could take back any rocks you could carry. (From areas where that was permitted, anyway.) That kept the collecting from getting too ridiculous.
If I had to choose between a good book and a good rock, I might well take the rock. Presuming I'd already read the book, that is.
