Hello, I am Kathryn, and I am a Rockaholic....Hi Kathryn!

Walking along the road, the old log trails, the creekside, all along and among and between and beyond the mountain and the cove where I live, lay rocks that have tumbled from their hiding places and await my glance. It goes like this: I walk with head bent down, casually, la tee dahingly. I don't want Good Man Roger to notice, for he has seen the extent of the gluttony of my rock houndedness. When I see that perfect rock, it calls out to me and I must pick it up, turn it over in my hands, feel it, rub the contours, and then, I slip it into my pocket, where I feel it cold, or warm, against me, feel the weight of it, and when I return to our little log house I examine it, them.

Some have indentions where water has flowed over the rock for years upon years. Some have sparkles embedded. Some have layers of lighter or darker rock inside the mother rock. There are reddish and orangish and alabaster and green and -- oh! Rocks!

Rocks on the windowsill, rocks in bowls, rocks forgotten in pockets, rocks lining the gravel driveway, rocks on shelves, rocks rock rocks and more rocks. I try to limit my rock-taking to places where it won't insult the mountain, where the rock will not be missed. I try always to respect nature, my surroundings.

At a restaurant in another town, a rock garden! I walked with my head down, pretending to watch my fashionable boots, but I was scanning the beauties - not beautiful in the way of rubies or emeralds or diamonds, but the pocks and lines and damage of rock personality. All during lunch, I thought of those rocks and when we exited the restaurant, I quickly leaned down and plucked four of them. My friend laughed, asked, "Can you do that? Won’t they come out and arrest you or something, for rock stealing?"

I said, "Who cares? Um, hurry, get in the car!" and I sped away, the rocks heavy in my jacket pocket, and later, I spilled them out, feeling each one, placing them on the console beside me. "Ohhhh," I said, "Look at that one." Cynthia was not impressed, but she indulged me with a, "Uh huh . . .”

Another time, I stopped at a food/gas joint and yes, you know it, Rock Garden. I spy with my little eye . . . on the way out, I said, "no nono; I will not." But, I sat in the seat of my car, legs on the ground, pretending to stretch - because there before me was this little brown rock with a deep indention in it--as if water has dripped there for a thousand years. It must be mine. IT IS MINE. I pretended to stretch, for there was an employee outside, I reaaaccchhhed and plucked it up, and while I plucked it, I accidentally sorter on purpose accidentally picked up two more. Oh, addiction of mine. I hurriedly palmed them, closed the BoopMobile door and sped away, laughing and laughing and laugh laugh laughing!

One morning when I walked on the mountain with Good Man, Fat Dog when she was alive, and Not Quite Fat Dog, I came upon a place gouged by damned developers, heavy sigh. I saw where millions of years ago the earth had heaved and moaned and pushed layers of rock up up against each other. I lay my palm flat on the rock and felt the millions of years as it vibrated against my hand. I filled my pockets with the unusual beauty of them. I took them because they asked. They will end up unappreciated once the house is done - scrapped and swept away.

Once home, I put the beauties in my bathroom sink to wash them, and became mesmerized by the water cascading over and around the rock, just as if there was a natural mountain and creek right in my sink, and I began rearranging the rocks here and there, and I added some more, and rearranged them, and watched the water flow over them and I added the rock with the deep indenture and watched the water curve up and out from it, and oh, it so reminded me of that scene in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" when the character sculpted his mashed potatoes and said, "this means something . . . this means SOMETHING; DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" while his family looks at him as if he is insanity personified.

Oh Rocks! You do mean something . . .

(The length of this post should tell you something; who else writes so much about rocks? me.)

So, my friends: What passion do you have that no one understands? Or what do you love that people snicker about? Or what do you “collect” that most people would never notice? Tell me . . . Now, have a great weekend and I hope to be by to visit this weekend...