Stones

When I was younger, living with my parents, sister, and two brothers, our humble place of residence was a 2 bedroom, one bathroom, 900 square foot suburban home, that did not have a garage, or a blacktop driveway. We had a gravel driveway that I loved to listen too when my dad drove the car up to the house. I liked the way the stones sounded when they crackled under the weight of the car, and every once in awhile a stone would pop out from under the tires and make a sound like a big bubble gum bubble bursting.

During the summer my sister and I had to remove the stones that found their way from the driveway to the grass. We took turns raking. This precaution my dad inflicted upon us once a week was so he could mow the lawn unencumbered with concern that a stone would fly out from under the push mower and break a window, or worse, hit some innocent bystander. I think the lawn mower had a guard on it to prevent those pesky, maiming, window breaking objects from rocketing out to do harm in the world, but my dad was generally safety conscious and we had to rake.

Every few years my dad would order a truck load of gravel, which was dumped at the top of the driveway. He would don his white yard work t-shirt, and have (as he called it ) a hankie tied over his nose and mouth, I specifically remember a brown and cream plaid one, to help prevent breathing in the dust from the stones. My father suffered from chronic asthma and somehow rationalized that the hankie was a bearer to stone dust. Usually he had a pack of filter less camel cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve revealing his skull tattoo. When he took a break from shoveling the stones into a wheelbarrow, hauling the load to a designated place in the driveway, and raking the stones level, my dad would smoke a cigarette. The necessary replacement of stones would sometimes be completed in one weekend, maybe two, depending on the weather and my dad's asthma.

However long it took was to long for my sister and me. We would watch my father shovel, haul, level, and try to keep track of the stones we were sure contained gold. The second the pronouncement was made that the work was finished, my sister and I would race to the spot where we were sure the stones had arduously been put, stake our separate claims, work out the boundaries, and begin to mine for gold. Picking carefully through the stones, separating the ones veined with gold from the lackluster common stones, we would shout to each other how many were found and how much the gold weighed.

I am not sure how long we entertained ourselves mining, discussing the things we would buy with all the money we would have, but the effort always ended in disappointment. After careful scrutiny of our geological finds, my father would inform us that the only gold in the stones was fools gold. Nothing that could be traded at the bank. That didn't stop my sister and I from talking and dreaming of the things we would buy or what we would do if we had money.Later we would try to determine how long it would be before a new load of stones would be delivered and assure ourselves that that load would have gold in it.

Today it's hard to find a gravel driveway. I do not hear the crackle or pop of stones, but I am always listening and looking for gold.