ROBBLOG: I am a rock

I am a rock ... person.

Totally.

You know how when visiting a place, people often follow a tradition of leaving a stone behind, as a silent witness to their visit?

I've got a reverse tradition going. Wherever I travel I often bring a rock home with me, as a souvenir of my visit.

To me, rocks can be interesting. Some have incredible character, shape, coloration. And they last forever. Everything, with the possible exception of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, is pretty much fair game in my book.

My collection includes examples from Thoreau's cabin at Walden Pond, the Monterey Peninsula, Florida, Maryland, Colorado, Pennsylvania, good old Cape Cod, the UK, France, Italy, you name it. I once found an interesting boulder in a stream while fly fishing in New York State and struggled knee deep in 40º water to work it loose just so I could lug it God only knows how far to my car. That was very nearly a hernia-inducing event.

So what do I do with these durable souvenirs?

Put them in my garden. Nothing blends better with plants than interesting rocks and boulders.

Garden gnomes are for wimps.

No doubt I've broken innumerable laws in my ceaseless quest. Perhaps, someday very soon, a surveillance drone will spot me in flagrant derocko, report my GPS coordinates to the authorities and there'll be hell to pay. Fines no doubt. Community service even.

My only hope is if they make me turn big rocks into little ones, I'll be happy.

I may even be able to sneak one or two home with me.