Did you ever see a rock grow?
I have.
It’s right here in my yard, big and bold as ever. I wouldn’t mind except that it’s blocking my shed and creating a nuisance when I attempt to back my car.
It didn’t start that way but as a tiny stump sticking from the ground, not a bother to anyone. In fact, the protrusion matched others along my dirt road at the camp. Then one day, everything changed.
An industrious son of mine, on a hot, muggy day, decided to feel his oats. He grabbed a pick and shovel from the shed and set to work. What instigated him is anybody’s guess. This is the same kid who never emptied the garbage, much less hung his clothes on a rack.
Now here he was, attempting to dig up a road. Out came one rock, then another, and one or two more of modest proportion. A chain gang wouldn’t have devoted such loyalty to this project. Standing on the outskirts and cheering his Dad on was “The Rock.” That’s my three-year-old grandson Rocco, whom I’ve nicknamed “Rock” for his granite-solid frame.
He was ready in case his dad needed reenforcements.
Then came this hump smack dab in front of the shed. “We’ll make this the last one,” says Hercules, “then take a swim. Get the grill charred up.”
The guy dug and dug and dug. The more he dug, the bigger grew this rock. I offered some sage advice.
“Leave it alone,” I suggested. “Let’s put the dirt back where it came from and save ourselves the anxiety. It must weigh a ton.”
But no. The excavation work continued. This son tends to be a determined sort. When he starts a project now, he aims to finish it, especially with a resolute wife behind him. Had she not been seven months pregnant, the woman would have taken matters into her own hands.
With the use of sturdy wood, picks, shovels, poles, and pools of sweat, we managed to find bottom, halfway to China. The trick was getting the monstrosity to level ground. Then what?
“We could roll it into the woods,” came the hardy suggestion. “Then get bags of loom and fill in the hole.”
Sounded like a plan, only it didn’t work. The rock was shimmied from his home but no further. It wouldn’t budge another inch. Sort of reminded me of a dorsal fin in the ocean that turned out to be a Great White. This rock became my leviathan, left for me to dispose at another time.
So there it stood for days—its fate a dubious one. One neighbor suggested planting some flowers around it and turning it into a rock garden. Another recommended painting my address on the front. My friend John has the Rock of Gibraltar in front of his home and he turned it into an aesthetic wonder.
I could put up a sign on the road and entice people to see “the rock that grew.” Then again, I couldn’t pay them to come. They must have rocks of their own.
On came other proposals.
“Dynamite it,” said one.
“You may not need a crane but a forklift,” offered another. “Go to a rental store.”
I wasn’t in any mood to shell out ransom money for a construction vehicle, much less hire someone to rid the eyesore from my property.
A more logical solution was offered. Rent a harness and some heavy chains for less cash and ask your neighbor to pitch a hand with his truck. He’s got a boat hitch in the back so what’s a 1,500-pound rock?
Larry’s a regular guy and like the good neighbor, always ready to help. The moving day arrived none too soon. Employees at the rental store reviewed the procedure. I paid the $14 and off I went with material in hand. It was a day better suited for the hammock. You could cut the humidity with a knife.
We wrapped the harness around the girth and hooked the chain to the truck. Seemed as easy as skipping a stone in the water. Our Goliath budged an inch or two before the strap became disengaged and we were moving air.
Out went the belt and we tried just the chain. First one attempt, then another, probing, angling, resituating, and cursing until we got the rock into the woods between two trees where it now stands, presumably for an eternity from whence it came.
Actually, not a bad seat when the gang gets together for horseshoes. The next time we got together for a game, people were scrambling for it.
Tom Vartabedian
Latest posts by Tom Vartabedian (see all)
- Vartabedian: My Final Column - November 13, 2016
- A Hat to Match Any Occasion - October 19, 2016
- More Smiles Keep the Frowns Away - October 12, 2016
Be the first to comment