My brother, when he was about 7, found a rock at the beach about the size of his head. This thing was grey, rough, but marvelously consistant in texture. He insisted on carrying this giant rock several hundred yards to the car. My parents, as always were thrilled to play along. My brother even named the rock--Kowishi. I am not actually sure if that is the spelling he intended, as I don't think the name of the rock has ever been put into print. Anyhow, we kept the rock sitting in our backyard for what must have been 15 years, even took Kowishi with us when we moved. Now that I think about it, I haven't seen Kowishi for a awhile. May be time for a visit, just to make sure he/she is OK.

My story is not about a rock but what came to mind when thinking about things that reminded me of home and growing up.

There was a sign in my garage that said, “Think”. It was written with an ink marker on a small piece of white cardboard. It hung all the way at the back nailed to a beam. The garage was my grandfather’s workshop and he spent all of his time in there. He would always say that he couldn’t be bothered with small talk and that you needed to "think" before you asked a question. He would often point to the sign and asked what it said. To remind us that we needed to use our brain and figure it out! Looking back he really was all bark and loved having the kids around. I think of that sign often and wish I had taken it when I left the house. It hung in the garage for the fifteen years that I lived there and who knows how long before that.

When it comes to rocks, we are talking of building my own quarry! I started picking up rocks around age seven or eight I suppose – an offshoot of my Raven-esque desire for anything remotely round; marbles, coins, washers; flat or spherical – didn’t matter much as long as they were round and bore some semblance to or having been someone elses’ at one time or another.
The rocks – oh those rocks as Rina would say – on the other hand became touchstones literally for things and times remembered at later dates. Anything from insignificantly small and smooth, to medium sized that may or may not reveal landscapes in their surfaces to explore and then upwards to the size of my currently inflated head! (this due undoubtedly to the fact that Ms Poetess allows me to continually randomly post herewith!) If it fit in my pocket – it was a sure thing to grab anyway, and looking back at them piled here and there in small groups or gathered in cast off bowls I can most determinedly remember where and when, but most importantly; why I kept it. As I sit here and type this comment – I am looking at a particularly fine one (albeit purchased this time for a specific reason) called a punta or something or other. A small white carved stone resembling lovers entwined in an embraced kiss from Peru; just under one inch long and you tie two strands of hair thru the opening near the necks – signifying that you are now “tied for life” to your recipient (the hair obviously having come respectively from one of each of us).
My habit has unfortunately rubbed off on Rinas’ daughter, who now stoops – ever so daintily it seems since she is much closer to the ground at almost three years old than I to gather up and then attempt to stuff into nonexistent pockets before proffering them to me to hold for her. So now poor Rina has two collectors in her household and between us I am sure – will gather enough stones to hold our humble little domicile firmly to the sloped hills of San Pedro I have come to call home.

So I realized today the kind of things that can leave a lasting impression in a person's heart !

The rock will be yours to keep when you want it. It is the only "real" piece of Cuba we have and I know you'll take good care of it.