I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
It was a gathering of the wives.
My husband has eight brothers, so when the family gathers, the wives talk.
Several of the families had recently moved or been moved, and one of the recently moved wives said, “I put my foot down about the rocks.”
We all looked at her and waited for her to continue.
“I told him, ‘One box of rocks. That’s it. No more. We’re not hauling rocks all over the country.'”
We all kind of laughed. Of the nine boys, five had gotten degrees in geology. Even the ones who hadn’t studied geology in college (like Bobby) loved rocks.
One of the other wives said, “You’re tough! I let my husband pack three boxes.”
Another wife said, “I just threw most of them out. I figure he can find more.”
I didn’t join the discussion. First of all, we had only moved twice at that point — once as newlyweds when we had nothing, and the other after we had lived out west for four years, and I marveled at the Wyoming red granite just as much as he did.
I’ve never set a limit on rocks, and Bobby loves placing them around our home. They’re like hidden treasures for those who have eyes to see.
Here are just a few you might find at our house:
Today’s daily prompt asked whether I’m a rock or not. I don’t know if I’m a rock or not. Some days I’m a rock, while other days I’m jello.
I do know that I married into a family of rock-lovers. And that’s not such a bad thing.