Nonfiction by Ron Theel
This time, I need a rock, not just any rock, but the right shape and size rock to finish the stone bench I’m making for my backyard. Usually, I find rocks easily. I forage the edges of farmers’ fields. I scavenge the curbs of newer-home neighborhoods, tracking my quarry, old stone leftovers from rebuilt patios and walkways. I bring these home like well-deserved trophies.
I’ve always appreciated stone, its beauty and durability. Things made from stone have simple lines and natural elegance. Stone endures without maintenance. No painting, staining, or waterproofing is required. I spent college summers working for a small company specializing in “stonescaping.” I learned how to use rocks and stones to beautify backyard landscapes by creating features such as waterless ponds and dry streambeds.
Today, I need Craigslist for help with the hunt. I scour headings like “free stuff” and “gardening.” That’s how I met Ilka. I saw her post, “landscaping rocks for sale, $20 each, your choice.” An email and text exchange later, I have the address and drive up to a small ranch-style home painted Easter-egg purple, nestled on top of a hill. Rocks surround her home and front yard. Tons of granite, sandstone, limestone, and more. Stacks of rocks line both sides of the driveway. The backyard is an overgrown field dotted with clusters of rocks like wild grapes waiting to be picked.
As I walk up the driveway, a woman approaches. She’s statuesque with timeless natural beauty: a tanned face framed by long, slightly graying, blonde hair, chiseled, high cheekbones, and turquoise eyes. She speaks in a deep voice, “I’m Ilka. I grow rocks in my yard. All kinds of them. They just pop through the ground like mushrooms after a spring shower. Let me know if you need help.”
I know where the rocks really come from. Ilka’s property rests upon drumlins, small hills of rocks and gravel deposited millions of years ago by receding glaciers. The alternate freezing and thawing of the ground during winter pushes new rocks to the surface every spring. I say nothing of this to Ilka. I’m sure she secretly knows that rocks cannot be grown.
It does not take long for me to find the perfect rock for the bench. It’s a large slab of limestone, beautifully imprinted with tiny seashells and fossils. Ilka helps me hoist the rock into the back of my SUV. “Come back in spring,” she calls. “I’ll have many more rocks.”
That night, I dream of Ilka, the Druid Queen. Ilka, the Earth Mother. I see her dancing and leaping across the yard, beneath a frosty autumn moon, weaving in and out of the rock piles. I hear her chanting an ancient runic rhyme, calling forth next year’s crop.
Ron Theel is an educator, mixed media artist, and freelance writer. His work has appeared in Lake Life and in the November 2022 issue of The Bluebird Word.
