This was a summer house and as such one didn’t spend long stretches of time there, season following season, growing older. You would assume children who grew up in one place would have a great affection for their childhood home, of hours spent in the rooms, or perhaps the swing in the back yard. An itinerant of sorts, I moved when I was ten and then that house was sold when I went off to college. However, the summers I spent here, swimming, exploring, and jumping from rock to rock in the ever popular game of “Get From Here to There Without Touching the Grass” produced an affectionate attachment to certain naturally occurring solid aggregates. I remember when I was young and some work was done on the property involving a backhoe or some such construction machine, it came through the yard, burying or displacing the landmarks of my youth. When I discovered the rocks gone I couldn’t of course complain to adults. That would have been perceived as silly.” THEY’RE ROCKS FOR HEAVENS SAKE!” I dismissed those feelings as childish. But I don’t think they were. Certainly they were the product of carefree vacations not the grind of school or chores or responsibilities. The affection I have for those rocks is based on memory, however faulty, and I respect that.
Now I will make an effort to hold on to those ever-present denizens of the dirt. (Shoreline rocks are as fun but that’s a different game.) Woe be to the backhoe operator who destroys my friends, or alters the difficult hop/jump path one must take to avoid the grass.