A Box of Rocks

I was invited to a neighbor’s house for dinner this week to meet some of her kin, visiting from out of town. The occasion was a niece’s 11th birthday.

The kids bashed a candy-filled piñata and we all feasted on cake and ice cream. Then, it was time to open presents.

I haven’t been around children this age in a long time, so it was fun to see how they interact and what they like. Young Elena got a personal robot, a sequined purse, games, jewelry – but of all her gifts, what she seemed to relish most was a box of rocks and minerals. Immediately, she dumped them all out onto the floor.

“Feldspar!” she said, holding one up. “Here’s a tiger’s eye! And pyrite – this is fool’s gold!”

What an unexpected delight – a reminder of my 11-year-old rockhound self.

Even as an adult, I have a “box of rocks.” Pictured here, it sits on my desk. There are specimens from my favorite beach in Greece, and from my great-grandparents’ graves. There’s a rock that looks exactly like a brownie, ready to eat. A couple are shaped like hearts.

There are Apache tears and Oregon sunstones from an old family mining claim, polished by two of my late uncles, Dean and Vernon. I remember digging for these rocks as a kid in the hot, high-desert sun, alongside my mom, grandma and aunts.

You might even notice the ringer in the center of the photo – not a rock at all, but a round, acrylic keepsake with an angel inside. My mother used to hold onto it, and it sometimes seemed to calm her in the fog of dementia.

It was fun to come home after the birthday party and look at my collection with fresh, young eyes – stones precious only to me, but precious indeed.