|cool rocks . . . but not mine!|
From everywhere we travel, I collect a cool rock. Sometimes lots of cool rocks. It's tradition. My husband knows that at any moment I might yell PULL OVER because I've seen a rock I absolutely have to have. My backyard garden is a museum of rocks from all over the western US (carried home in the back of the fabulous silver Tundra). The railing of my deck is lined with river stones from every river I've ever visited and ocean stones from every ocean. Then there's my collection of heart-shaped rocks . . . . one of those came from an ancient seabed that's now atop the Tetons and it's chock-full of fossils. So very cool.
Call me crazy, but rocks are as much a part of my memories as any photograph--for everyone of them I could tell you where it came from and what we did that day. My husband sometimes rolls his eyes, but he always helps me lug my latest find home. I guess deep down he's just grateful I don't collect gnomes. But I could. I love gnomes. They rock--and appear on quite a few pages of my latest book, being.