The Willow Glen Resident

Both fathers and rocks can give us our strength

By Ingrid McCleary

When I was 12, I almost got my heart knocked out by a rock. But I'd stooped to replenish my own arsenal, and the rock smashed into my cheekbone instead. The game was over. The boy who'd thrown the rock jogged across Mango Junior High's baseball field to check my injury, but my friend hurried me to the bathroom so I never got the chance to pummel him for hurting me.

It hadn't healed well. And soon, I found other ways to show boys I liked them.

The scar remains with me still. It's barely noticeable in the winter, but in the summer, when my skin tans, the scar stands out like Halley's comet against the stars of my freckles.

Back then, rocks were only good for ammunition or for building dams in my backyard stream (a.k.a. garden hose). But my father's interest in geology slowly rubbed off on me.

One summer, my husband and I headed east for a two-week driving vacation. When we returned, my Dad wasn't impressed with the souvenirs we'd bought. "Where are the rocks? Didn't you pick up any rocks from any of the states?"

"I did save one from Colorado," I answered, "because it had a hole in the center. It's in the fish tank now. The goldfish swim through it."

"Bring it next time you visit."

I looked at him quizzically. "It's just a rock, Dad."

"But it's not just any rock. It's a Colorado rock."

So I began bringing him rocks from my excursions. Initially, I did it simply to please him, but in the process of hunting for the "right" rock, the joy of discovery bloomed within me, and rocks became our shared passion.

As the years passed and my father's mobility decreased, my rocks became the only connection to the trails he could no longer explore himself.

Five years ago, I found myself in the middle of Mount Hoffman, peering at its peak with distinct displeasure. It stretched above me, above the tree line, beyond comfortable oxygen.

After three hours of taking 100 steps then needing to pause, I felt I was holding the rest of the group back. "Go on without me," I finally told them.

My husband, Bill, didn't want to leave me alone on the mountain, but I insisted. Even from this lowly height of 9,500 feet, I was already looking down on Half Dome in Yosemite Valley and down at the mountain called Cloud's Rest. I was high enough, thank you.

I was satisfied that I'd made it three-fourths of the way. For 20 minutes, anyway. That's when I remembered I'd planned to get a rock from the "top of the world" for my dad.

So now, instead of going 100 steps before resting, I went only 50. I sighed in relief as I finally stepped over the crest and realized I was perched on one side of a mountain saddle and the peak was on the other side.

"Oh well," I muttered, trudging on. "I can't get Dad just any rock."

My dad died eight days later.

I still gave him the rock, though; I placed it in his coffin to be cremated along with him. When I held the box containing his ashes in my hands, I was awed by the sudden lightness of my father. I brushed at my tears and as I did, my fingers grazed the familiar streaks of the scar formed so long ago.

The scar on my cheek and the rock in Dad's box connected. They reminded me that my flesh may be vulnerable, but strength could always be drawn from the things of the earth. Even from things that had passed from earth into heaven.

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